And blear my e’en wi’ greetin’.
Feather beds are saft—
Pentit rooms are bonnie;
But ae kiss o’ my dear love
Better’s far than ony.
O for Friday nicht!—
Friday at the gloamin’;
O for Friday nicht—
Friday’s lang o’ comin’!”
This love-song, which Mr. Chambers gives from recitation, is, thinks Uncle to himself, all but perfect; Burns, who in almost every instance, not only adorned, but transformed and purified whatever of the old he touched, breathing into it his own tenderness and strength, fails here, as may be seen in reading his version.