LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

Tune-"Rothemurche's Rant."

["Conjugal love," says the poet, "is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul." It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.]

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;
O wilt thou share its joy wi' me,

And say thou'lt be my dearie, O?

And when the welcome simmer shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry moon, my dearie, O.

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way;
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie, O.

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' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?

Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.

Air-" Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

[This song was written in November, 1794: Thomson pronounced it excellent.]

FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows

Around Eliza's dwelling!

O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes

Within my bosom swelling:
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain,

And yet in secret languish,

To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover;
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.

I know thou doom'st me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer-
For pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,
"Till fears no more had sav'd me:
The unwary sailor thus aghast,

The wheeling torrent viewing;

'Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.

O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY.

Tune-"The Sow's Tail."

["This morning" (19th November, 1794), "though a keen blowing frost," Burns writes te Thomson, "in my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."]

HE.

O PHILLY, happy be that day,

When roving through the gather'd hay,
My youthfu' heart was stown away,

And by thy charms, my Philly.

SHE.

O Willy, ay I bless the grove

Where first I own'd my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above,
To be my ain dear Willy.

HE.

As songsters of the early year

Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,

So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.

SHE.

As on the brier the budding rose

Still richer breathes and fairer blows,

So in my tender bosom grows

The love I bear my Willy.

HE.

The milder sun and bluer sky

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy,

Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye

As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.

The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring,
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring,

As meeting o' my Willy.