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 all your e’en, John, and why should you do so Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man; And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, 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, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, 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, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie, To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last; But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo. 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 we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns. ―――― JANE BARNABY. Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, I’m wearing wan, and old As herds at close of eve, Jane, Are summon’d to the fold, I soon to mine shall be, Jane, My close of life is near, And much I need our Shepherd’s care, Jane Barnaby, my dear. * * * * *