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SONG XXXIX.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO, JOHN.

AIR.-JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

I.
John ANDERSON my jo, John,

When we were first acquent ;
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John,

Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

II.
John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither ;
And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither.

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo *.

* In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetry Ori. ginal and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO,

IMPROVED,

By ROBERT BURNS.

I. John ANDERSON, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en, Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should you do so, Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

II. John Anderson, my joe, John, whan nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was inan; And you amang them a’ John, sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my joe.

John Anderson, my joe, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and

neat ;

Tho' some folk say ye're auld, Joho, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ay the same to me, John Anderson, my joe.

IV.

John Anderson, my joe, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms, And sae are ye in mine, John-I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson,

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me,

John Anderson, my joe, John, what pleasure does it gie, To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up'tween you

and And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my joe.

VI. John Anderson, my joe, John, when we were first acquaint, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent, But now your head's turn’d bald, John, your locks are like

the snow,

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my joe.

HS

VII. John Anderson, my joe, John, frae year to year we're past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our

last :

But let na’ that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our

foe,

While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my joe.

VIII. John Anderson, my joe, John, we clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' ane anither ; Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my joe.

The ingenious Dr CURRIE, Editor of the works of Burns, is decidedly of opinion that this song is by an inferior hand from that of Burns. The stanza with which this song begins,

(says he) is the chorus of the old song under this title ; and “ though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it 6 has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sen.

timent of this improved song. In regard to the five other " additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two

stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader

of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand ; and 66 the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, "nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the produc. « tion of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spuri.

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