The Banks of Mith. TUNE-"Robie donna Gorach." THE Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me, Where Cummins ance had high command: When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here? How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton through the broom! Though wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonny banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days! It is na, Jean, thy bonny Face. TUNE-"The Maid's Complaint.” "These verses," says Cunningham, "were originally in English: Burns bestowed a Scottish dress upon them, and made them utter sentiments connected with his own affections." IT is na, Jean, thy bonny face To praise, to love, I find; Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, At least to see thee blest. Content am I, if Heaven shall give But happiness to thee: And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die. Simmer's a pleasant Time. TUNE-" Aye Waukin, O." SIMMER's a pleasant time, Flowers of every colour; The water rins o'er the heugh, And I long for my true lover. Aye waukin, O, Waukin still and wearie : Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I'm eerie; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleepin'; I think on my bonny lad, And I blear my een w' greetin'. Yon wild Mossy Mountains. TUNE-"Yon wild mossy Mountains." "This song," says the poet, "alludes to a part of my private history which it is of no consequence to the world to know." YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys through the heather to feed, And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed; Where the grouse lead their coveys through the heather to feed, And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, She is not the fairest, although she is fair; To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, |