While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrow to forego,
Oh why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art:

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountain dry.

The little floweret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
(Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot
Nae ruder visit knows,)

Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,

And now beneath the withering blast
My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock' warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckts I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

Oh had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagued my foes,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whase doom is, "Hope nae mair!"

What tongue his woes can tell?

Within whase bosom, save despair,

Nae kinder spirits dwell.

1 Meandering.-2 Lark.-3 Heeded.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.

The chorus of this song is old. "The music," says Burns, in his Remarks cr Scottish Songs and Ballads (Reliques), “is in the true Scotch taste."

We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine, midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear,

Nocht' of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca' the yowes, &c.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die-but canna part,

My bonnie dearie.

Ca' the yowes, &c.

While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee,
Ye shall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ewes.-2 Small hillocks.-3 Thrush.-4 The river Clouden, a tributary

stream to the Nith.-5 Folding.-6 Go.-7 Naught.-8 Sky.

BONNIE MARY.

In the notes to "Johnson's Museum," Burns claims all this song as his composi tion, except the first four lines. It is written to the old melody, "The Silver Tas sie." The air is Oswald's.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie;'
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier of Leith;

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law-
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody.
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar,
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?
"I like the music of the 'Sutor's Dochter'; your verses to it are
pretty."-Thomson to Burns.

TUNE-The Sutor's Dochter.

WILT thou be my dearie?

When sorrow rings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of my soul,
And that's the love I bear thee-
I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo'es me;
Or, if thou wilt na be my ain,

Say na thou 'lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,

1 Cup,

Thou for thine may choose me-
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.

WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O 'T.

First published in the Reliques, from a copy communicated to the editor by Mrs. Burns.

TUNE-When more is meant than meets the ear.

FIRST When Maggie was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air:
Now we're married-spier nae mair1—
Whistle owre the lave o 't."
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child-
Wiser men than me 's beguiled-
Whistle owre the lave o 't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I care na by how few may see-
Whistle owre the lave o 't.
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see 't-
Whistle owre the lave o't.

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

The idea of this song is taken from the "Auld Man's best Argument" of Allan Ramsay, beginning

"Oh wha's that at my chamber door?

Fair widow, are ye waukin' ?"

WHA is that at my bower door?
Oh wha is it but Findlay?

Then gae your gate, ye 'se nae be here:
Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay.

1 Ask no more.-2 Over the rest of it.-3 Way.

What make ye sae like a thief?
Oh come and see, quo' Findlay:
Before the morn ye'll work mischief;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

If I rise and let you in-
Let me in, quo' Findlay:

Ye'll keep me waukin" wi' your din ;2
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
In my bower if ye 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 gate3 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.

HONEST POVERTY.

"A great critic (Dr. Aiken) on song says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed to be, I think, two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." In this manner Burns speaks of this witty, clever, masculine song.

TUNE-For a' that and a' that.

Is there, for honest poverty,

Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd' for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden' gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

1 Awake.-2 Noise.-3 Road.-4 Gold.-5 Humble.