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My riches a' 's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are o' my Nannie O.

Our auld gudeman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie O;
But I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh,
An' hae nae care but Nannie O.

Come weel, come wae, I care na by,
I'll take what Heaven will sen' me 0;
Nae ither care in life have I

But live an love my Nannie O.

"In the printed copy of' My Nannie O,"" says Burns to Thomson, "the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it to 'Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.' Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables." The heroine of this song, written when the poet was very young, was a Miss Fleming, daughter of a farmer in the parish of Tarbolton, Ayrshire. Allan Ramsay wrote a song to the same exquisite melody, but it is in no respect equal to Burns.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
BURNS. Air-"Seventh of November."

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet ;
Though 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 can 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 hear

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YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary fou o' care!

Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds,

That wanton through the flowery thorn;
Ye mind me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

"There is an air," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "called "The Caledonian Hunt's delight,' to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,' might, I think, find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his nights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsicord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that in a few days Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to shew you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed that he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music!"

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
While ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' heartsome glee I pu'd a rose,
The sweetest on its thorny tree;
But my fawse love has stown the rose,
And left the thorn behind wi' me.

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

BURNS. Air-" Rothiemurche's rant."*

LASSIE Wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me,
And say thou❜lt be my dearie O?
Lassie wi', &c.

And when the welcome summer shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower,
At sultry noon my dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray

The weary shearers' hameward way,

Through yellow waving fields we'll stray,

And talk o' love, my dearie O.

Lassie wi', &c.

"The air of 'Rothiemurche's rant,'" says Burns, "puts me in raptures. Unless I be pleased with a tune I can never put verses to it.

This piece," he adds, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral; the vernal morning, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in the Museum.' Mr. Thomson replied, "Your verses for the 'Rothiemurche' are so sweetly pastoral that I have sung myself into raptures with it."

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

THE WOODLARK.

BURNS. Air-"Loch Erroch side."

Он, stay, sweet-warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A helpless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

Thou tells o' never-ending care,
O' speechless grief and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair,
Or my poor heart is broken.

"Let me know at your very first leisure," says Burns to Thomson, "how you like this song." Thomson replied, "I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I read your pathetic' Woodlark.""

HIGHLAND MARY.

BURNS. Air-"Katharine Ogie."

YE banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie.

There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early;
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now those rosy lips
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly;
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mould'ring now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

"Highland Mary,'" says the Hon. A. Erskine, in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, is most enchantingly pathetic." Burns says of it himself, in a letter to Mr. Thomson: "The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at first glance that it suits the air The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days [see note to "Mary in Heaven," p. 91]; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still-glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition."

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