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THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITI-
MATE CHILD.252

THOU'S Welcome, wean! mishanter fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy.

Shall ever danton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tit-ta, or daddy.

Wee image of my bonnie Betty,
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee,
Wi' as gude will,

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.

What though they ca' me fornicator,
And tease my name in kintra clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckles matter
To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the world asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't-
The better half o't.

And if thon be what I would hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spared:

Through all thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
And think't weel wared.

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, and merit,
And thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins;

"Twill please me mair to hear and see't,
Than stockit mailins.

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LINES ON STIRLING.

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW IN WINGATE'S INN THERE.
HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotia's weel ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands.
Their sceptre's sway'd by foreign hands.
The Stuarts' native race is gone!

A race outlandish fills their throne-
An idiot race, to honour lost:

Who know them best, despise them most.

Burns, who was then a zealous Jacobite, being reproved by a friend for the above lines, replied, "I shall reprove myself;" and immediately wrote the following lines on the same pane:

THE REPROOF.

RASH mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,

Says that the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel?

REPLY TO A GENTLEMAN,

WHO ASKED IF HE WOULD LIKE TO BE A SOLDIER'

1 MURDER hate, by flood or field,
Though glory's name may screen us;
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,
Life-giving wars of Venus,

The dieties that I adore,

Are social peace and plenty;

I'm better pleased to make one more,
Than be the death o'twenty

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I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise

That broke my rest,

But how a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

ON ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.

To Riddel, much lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear:

Reader, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.

ON A PERSON NICKNAMED MARQUIS, WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE AN EPITAPH FOR HIM.

HERE lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd:

If ever he rise, it will be to be d-d.

ON SIR DAVID MAXWELL,

OF CARDONESS.

BLESS the Redeemer, Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone,
But body too, must rise:
For had he said, "The soul alone
From death I will deliver;'
Alas, alas. O Cardoness!

Then thou hadst slept for ever!

ON A SUICIDE.

EARTH'D up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble-
Poor silly wretch, he's d-d himsel',
To save the Lord the trouble.

OH, SAW YE MY DEARIE? Tune-" Eppie Macnab." Он, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? Oh, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M Nab? She's down in the yard, she's kissing the laird, She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie M Nab! Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie M Nab; Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M Nab? She lets thee to wot, that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her own Jock Rab Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M Nab! As light as the air, and fanse as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab.

MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A
HECKLE.

Tune-"Lord Breadalbane's March."
OH, merry hae I been teethin' a heckle,
And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon;
Oh, merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle,
And kissin' my Katie when a' was done.
Oh, a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer,
And a' the lang day I whistle and sing,
A' the lang day I cuddle my kimmer,

And a' the lang night am as happy's a king.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens,

And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katic,

And come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee Katie! And blest be the day I did it again.

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISH'D. Tune-"Awa', Whigs, awa'."

CHORUS.

AWA', Whigs, awa'!
Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Ye're but a pack of traitor louns,
Ye'll do no good at a'.

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
Our bonnie bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust-
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't,
And write their name in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

Our sad decay in Church and State
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we hae done wi' thriving.
Grim Vengeance long has taen a nap,
But we may see him wauken;
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

OH, GUDE ALE COMES. Он, gude ale comes and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon I had sax owsen in a pleugh, They drew a' weel eneugh; I sell'd them a' just ane by ane, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. Gude ale keeps me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand i' the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. Oh, gude ale comes and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

JAMIE, COME TRY ME. Tune-"Jamie, come try me."

CHORUS.

JAMIE, come try me,
Jamie, come try me;
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.

If thou should ask my love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.

If thou should kiss me, love
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,
Jamie, come try me.

THERE'S NEWS, LASSES, NEWS.

THERE'S news, lasses, news,

Guid news I've to tell, There's a boatfu' o' lads Come to our town to sell.

The wean wants a cradle,

And the cradle wants a cod:
And I'll no gang to my bed
Until I get a nod.

Father, quo' she, mither, quo' she,
Do what ye can,

I'll no gang to my bed,
Till I get a man.

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BEYOND thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And oh, to be lying beyond thee;
Oh, sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep
That's laid in the bed beyond thee!

Sweet closes the eve on Craigieburn-wood,
And blithely awankens the morrow;
But the pride of the spring in the Craigieburn-
wood

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.

I canna tell, I maunna tell,

I darena for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

I see thee gracefu' straight, and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie;
But oh, what will my torments be,
If thou refuse thy Johnnie!
To see thee in anither's arms,
In love to lie and languish,
"Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say thou lo'es nane before me;
And a' my days o' life to come
I'll gratefully adore thee.

MY HEART WAS ANCE.
Tune-"To the Weavers gin ye go."
My heart was ance as blythe and free
As simmer days are lang,
But a bonnie, westlin' weaver lad
Has gart pic change my sang

CHORUS.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maid, To the weavers gin ye go;

I rede you right, gang ne'er at night
To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaidin' wab;
But the weary, weary warpin' o't
Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie, westlin' weaver lad,
Sat working at his loom:
He took my heart as wi' a net,
In every knot and thrum.
I sat besides my warpin'-wheel,
And aye I ca'd it roun':
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun'.

The moon was sinking in the west
Wi' visage pale and wan,

As my bonnie westlin' weaver lad
Convey'd me through the glen.

But what was said, or what was done
Shame fa' me gin I tell ;

But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel's mysel'.

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THE tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a',
The tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a';
The blankets were thin and the sheets they were
sma',

The tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a',
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
Gic me the groat again, canny young man,
Gie me the groat again, canny young man;
The day it is short, and the night it is lang,
The dearest siller that ever I wan!

There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane,
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane';
There's some that are dowie, I trow wad be fain
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again.

MY JEAN!

Tune-"The Northern Lass."
THOUGH cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,

Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;

Yet dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.
Tune "Highlander's Lament."

My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu' stately strode he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.

CHORUS.

O for him back again!

O for him back again! I wad gie a Knockhaspie's lana, For Highland Harry back again. When a' the lave gac to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen; I set me down and greet my fill, And aye I wish him back again.

Oh, were some villains hangit high, And ilka body had their ain! Then I might see the joyfu' sight, My Highland Harry back again.

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.
Tune-"Banks of Banna."
YESTEREEN, I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss,
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah;
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna!
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,
While dying raptures, in her arms,
I give and take with Anna!
Awa', thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa', thou pale Diana!
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray
When I'm to meet my Anna!
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,
Sun, morn, and stars withdraw a';
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi' my Anna!

WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY.
Tune-"Duncan Gray."

WEARY fa' you, Duncan Gray-
Ha, ha, the girdin' o't!
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray-
Ha, ha, the girdin' o't!

When a the lave gae to their play,
Then I maun sit the lee-lang day,
And jog the cradle wi' my tac,
And a' for the girdin' o't.

Bonnie was the Lammas moon-
Ha, ha, the girdin' o't!
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon-

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't!

The girdin' brak, the beast cam down,

I tint my curch, and baith my shoon;
Ah! Duncan, ye're an unco loon-
Wae on the bad girdin' o't!

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

I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath-
Ha, ha, the girdin' o't!

Duncan, 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

MY HOGGIE.

Tume-"What will I do gin my Hoggie die ?"

WHAT Will I do gin my hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie ?
My only beast, I had nae mae,
And vow, but I was voggie!

The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld,
Me and my faithfu' doggie;
We heard nought but the roaring linn,
Amang the braes sae scroggie.

But the howlet cried frae the castle wa'
The blitter frae the boggie,
The tod replied upon the hill-
I trembled for my hoggie.

When day did daw, and cocks did craw,
The morning it was foggy:
An unco tyke lap o'er the dyke,
And maist has killed my hoggie.

AE FOND KISS.255
Tune-" Rory Dall's Port."
AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the Star of Hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
And to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

HAD I THE WYTE!

Tune-"Had I the wyte!-she bode me." HAD I the wyte, had I the wyte,

Had I the wyte?-she bade me; She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, And up the loan she shaw'd me; And when I wadna venture in,

A coward loon she ca'd me;

Had Kirk and State been in the gate,
I'd lighted when she bade me

Sae craftily she took me ben,
And bade me make nae clatter;
"For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman
Is out and owre the water:'
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace
When I did kiss and dwat her,
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say I was the fauter.

Could I for shame, could I for shame,
Could I for shame refuse her?
And wadna manhood been to blame,
Had I unkindly used her?

He claw'd her wi' the riplin'-kame,
And blue and bluidy bruised her;
When sic a husband was frae hame,
What wife but had excused her?

I dighted aye her e'en sae blue,
And bann'd the cruel randy;
And, weel I wat, her willing mou'
Was e'en like sugar-candy.
A gloamin'-shot it was I trow,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I came through the Tysday's dew,
To wanton Willie's brandy.

THE BAIRNS GAT OUT.
Tune-"The Deuks dang o'er my Daddie."
THE bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,
The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O!
The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirie auld wife,
He was but a paidlin' body, O!

He paidles out, and he paidles in,
And he paidles late and early, O!

This seven lang years I hae laien by his side,
And he's but a fusionless carlie, Ŏ!

Oh, hand your tongue, my feirie auld wife,

Oh, hud your tongue now, Nansie, 0:
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wadna been sae donsie, O!

I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose,
And cuddled me late and early, O!
But downa do's come o'er me now,
And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER.

Tune-Cock up your beaver." WHEN first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town,

He had a blue bonnet

That wanted the crown;
But now he has gotten
A hat and a feather-
Hey, brave Johnnie lad
Cock up your beaver!
Cock up your beaver,
And cock it fu' sprush,
We'll over the border

And gie them a brush;

There's somebody there

We'll teach better behaviour

Hey brave Johnnie lad,

Cock up your beaver.

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

Tune-"Lass, an' I come near thee."
WHA is that at my bower-door?
Oh, wha is that but Findlay.
Then gae your gate, ye'se no be here!
Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay.
What mak ye, sae like a thief?

O come and see, quo' Findlay;
Before the morn ye'll work mischief;
Indeed, will I, quo' Findlay

t I rise and let ye in?
Let me in, quo' Findlay;
Ye'll keep me waukin' wi' your din;
Indeed will I, quo Findlay.
In my bower if you should stay?
Let me stay quo' Findlay;

I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Here this night if ye remain;
I'll remain, quo' Findlay:

I dread ye'll learn the gate again;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
What may pass within this bower-
Let it pass, quo' Findlay;

Ye maun conceal till your last hour;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay!

THE RANTIN' DOG THE DADDIE O'T.
Tune-"East Nook o' Fife."

On, wha my baby clouts will buy?
Oh, wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie:

The rantin' dog the daddie o't.
Oh, wha will own he did the fau't?
Oh, wha will buy the groanin' maut?
Oh, wha will tell me how to ca't?

The rantin' dog the daddie o't.
When I mount the creepie chair,
Wha will sit besides me there?
Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair-
The rantin' dog the daddie o't.
Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will inak me fidgin' fain?
Wha will kiss me o'er again?

The rantin' dog the daddie o't.

A FRAGMENT. Tune-"John Anderson, my jo." ONE night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder Upon an auld tree root; Auld Ayr ran by before me, And bicker'd to the seas; A cushat crooded o'er me, That echoed through the bracs.

OH, LEAVE NOVELS!
Tune-Mauchline Belles."

Oн, leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel:
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgie!.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part-
Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;

The frank address and politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPEHOUSE,256

TO ROBERT BURNS.

February, 1778.

MY canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,
I hafflins doubt it is na truc, man,
That ye between the stilts were bred.
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed;
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar-school or college,
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
Ware better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs, wha sup sour-milk and parritch,
And bummil through the Single Carritch.
Wha ever heard the ploughman speak
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,

As get a single line of Virgil.

And then sae slee ye crack your jokes

On Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox:

Our great men a' sac weel descrive,

And how to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them,
And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,

Ye are a funny blade, I swear:
And though the cauld I ill can bide,
Yet twenty miles, and mair, I'd ride,
O'er moss, and muir, and never grumble,
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble,
To crack a winter night wi' thee,
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.
A guid saut herring and a cake,
Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make:
I'd rather scour your reaming yill,
Or cat o' cheese and bread my fill,
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,
And ferlie at their wit and wine.
Oh, gif I kenn'd but where ye baide,
I'd send to you a marled plaid;

"Twad haud your shouthers warm and braw,
And douse at kirk or market shaw;
For south as weel as north, my lad,

A honest Scotsmen lo'e the mand.
Right wae that we're sac far frac ither;
Yet proud I am to ca'ye brither.

Your most obedient, E. S.

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