We lap and danced the lee lang day,
Till piper lads were wae and weary;
But Charlie gat the spring to pay,
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,

Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.

Tune-"Bhannerach dhon na chri.”

[These verses were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte Hat ilton, sister to the poet's friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan.]

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,

With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn;
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies,

And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose:
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

26

WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY.

Tune-"Duncan Gray."

[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called a lad of grace: another version, and in a happier mood, wan written for Thomson.]

WEARY fa' you, Duncan Gray

Ha, ha, the girdin o't!

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith—
Ha, ha, the girdin o't!

I'se bless wi'
you my hindmost breath—

Ha, ha, the girdin o't!

Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith,

The beast again can bear us baith,

And auld Mess John will mend the skaith,

And clout the bad girdin o't.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Tune-Up wi' the ploughman."

[The old words, of which these in the Museum are an altered and amended version, are In the collection of Herd.]

THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,

His mind is ever true, jo,

His garters knit below his knee,

His bonnet it is blue, jo.

Then up wi' him my ploughman lad,

And hey my merry ploughman!

Of a' the trades that I do ken,

Commend me to the ploughman.

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary;
Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie!

I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay;
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston;
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.

Snaw-white stockins on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A gude blue bonnet on his head-
And O, but he was handsome!

Commend me to the barn-yard,

And the corn-mou, man;
I never gat my coggie fou,
Till I met wi' the ploughman.

Up wi' him my ploughman lad,
And hey my merry ploughman!
Of a' the trades that I do ken,

Commend me to the ploughman.

LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN.

Tune-"Hey tutti, taiti."

[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line of the Stuarts.]

LANDLADY, count the lawin,
The day is near the dawin;
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys,
And I'm but jolly fou.
Hey tutti, taiti,
How tutti, taiti-
Wha's fou now ?

Cog an' ye were ay fou,
Cog an' ye were ay fou,
I wad sit and sing to you
If ye were ay fou.

Weel may ye a' be!
Ill may we never see!

God bless the king, boys,

And the companie!
Hey tutti, taiti,
How tutti, taiti—
Wha's fou now?

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

Tune-"Macgregor of Rura's Lament."

["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister': husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796."]

RAVING winds around her blowing,

Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,

Isabella stray'd deploring

"Farewell hours that late did measure

Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;

Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow!

"O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.
Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing,
Gladly how would I resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee!"

HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

To a Gaelic Air.

[Composed for the Museum: the air of this affecting strain is true Highland: Burns though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.]

How long and dreary is the night

When I am frae my dearie!
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.

When I think on the happy days
I spent wi' you, my dearie,
And now what lands between us lie,

How can I but be eerie!

And now what lands between us lie,
How can I be but eerie !

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary!
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearic
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearie.