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21.

MY JEAN.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;

But, day and night, my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

- ROBERT BURNS.

22.

MARY MORISON.

TUNE" Bide ye yet."

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor;

How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw;
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

23.

HIGHLAND MARY.

YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped 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 locked 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 kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

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24.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

TUNE-"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface.

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined am'rous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but th'impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ROBERT BURNS.

25.

THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A

SONNET.

SHALL I, wasting in despaire

Dye, because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care
Cause another's rosie are?

Be she fairer than the Day
Or the flowry Meads in May,
If she thinke not well of me,
What care I how faire she be?

Shall my seely heart be pin'd
Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed Nature
Joyned with a lovely feature?
Be she Meeker, Kinder than
Turtle-dove or Pellican:

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's Vertues move
Me to perish for her Love?
Or her wel deservings knowne
Make me quite forget mine own?

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