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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 ;

fawse love has stown the rose,
And left the thorn behind wi' me.

But my


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 0 ?
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 0 ?

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 0.
Lassie wi',

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray
The weary shearers' hameward way,
Through yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o’ love, my dearie 0.

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 0.
Lassie wi',



BURNS. Air_"Loch Erroch side."

Oh, 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.

you like

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

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YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie.

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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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She talk'd, she smild, my heart she wiled,

She charm’d my soul I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed,

She'll aiblins listen to my vow ;
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.


BURNS. Air—“My wife's a wanton wee thing."

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The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

“ There is a peculiar rhythmus,” says Burns, in a letter to Thomson,“ in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under most insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, “My wife's a winsome wee thing,' if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it; and though, on further study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink.”


BURNS. Air—"The Highland watch's farewell."

My heart is sair, I darena tell,

My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake o' somebody.

Och-hon for somebody!

Och-hey for somebody!
I could range the world around

For the sake o' somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody;
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.

Och-hon for somebody!

Och-hey for somebody!
I wad do—what wad I not,

For the sake o’somebody!

Altered and much improved from an older song of the same title.

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