But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear
Be better than the kye.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousan' mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?
We part-but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps, "Till thy bright beams arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day:
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune, "Seventh of November."
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give!
While joys above my mind ean move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues;
How long I have liv'd, but how much liv'd in vain ;
How little of life's scanty span may remain ;
What aspects old time, in his progress, has worn;
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how
pain'd!
This life's not worth having with all it can give, For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.
Tune, "My love is lost to me."
O, were I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sell;
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I coudna sing, I coudna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en-
By heaven and earth I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name,
I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last, weary sand was run;
Till then-and then I love thee.
Tune, "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.”
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild-woods grow,
And mony a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever with my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonnie flower, that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me of my Jean.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE,
The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee*,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes of Ballochmyle.
*Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. professor of moral philosophy in the university of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, for merly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me, nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are nae fou,
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are nae fou, c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three!
We are nae fou, &c.*
Willie, who "brew'd a peek o' maut," was Mr. William Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our
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