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THERE's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather ;
Can match the lads o' Gala water.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Abune them a' I lo'e him better ;
The bonnie lad o' Gala water.
Although his daddic was nae laird,
And though I hae nae mickle tocher;
We'll tent our flocks on Gala water.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ;
Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure !
Braw, braw lads of Gala water,
Braw, braw lads of Gala water;
And follow my love through the water.
O'er yon moss amang the heather,
And follow my love through the water.
MY NANNIE'S AWA.
BURNS. Air-“ There'll never be peace until Jamie comes hame."
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
BURNS. Air-“Wandering Willie." HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bringst me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting ;
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my ee; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
wild horrors a lover alarms ! Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie,
Oh, still flow between us, thou wide roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trow it;
As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bringst me my Willie the same.
Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee;
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me.
How your dread howlings a lover alarms !
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
Flow still between us, thou dark heaving main;
ain! Burns, with his usual judgment, adopted some of these alterations, and rejected
MY NANNIE O.
BEHIND yon hills where Stinchar flows
Mang moors an' mosses many 0,
And I'll awa to Nannie 0.
The westlan wind blaws loud an' shrill,
The night's baith mirk and rainy 0;
An' ower the hills to Nannie 0.
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye 0;
That wad beguile my Nannie 0.
As spotless as she's bonnie 0;
Nae purer is than Nannie.O.
I'm welcome aye to Nannie 0.
My riches a' 's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie 0);
ne'er troubles me,
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie 0;
An' hae nae care but Nannie 0.
Come weel, come wae, I care na by,
I'll take what Heaven will sen' me 0);
But live an' love my Nannie 0.
“In the printed copy of 'My Nannie 0,'” 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,
The blissful day we twa did meet;
Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet.
And crosses o'er the sultry line ;
Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine.
Or nature aught of pleasure give;
For thee and thee alone I live!
Comes in between to make us part;
It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair !
And I sae weary fou o' care !
That wanton through the flowery thorn ;
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 show 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!"