For her I'll dare the billow's roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw,
Around my Highland Lassie, O!

Within the glen, &c.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band!
"Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my Highland Lassie, O!

Within the glen, &c.

Farewell, the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell, the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O'153

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY.
4th November, 1793.

OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd;
"What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow.
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once he mighty civil;
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!

That brilliant gift will so enrich me,

Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me:" Tis done!" says Jove: so end my story,

And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

ADDRESS TO A LADY,

Он, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert was a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there;

Or were I monarch'o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign;

The brightest jewel in my crown,

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

MISS JESSY LEWARS, OF DUMFRIES: WITH BOOKS
WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.
THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's prayer;
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution, still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare:
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-
DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH
SING IN A MORNING-WALK.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.

O. let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided:
'Till slap come in an unco loon,

And wi' a rung decide it.

Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united:
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted,
"Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't;

Our father's bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

"Fall de rall, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who d set the mob aboon the throne,

May they be damned together! Who will not sing "God save the King," Shall hang as high's the steeple! But, while we sing "God save the King," We'll ne'er forget the People.

POEM ON LIFE,
ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,
DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
And potion glasses.

O, what a canty world were it,
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it:
And fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve;
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne wha would starve ?)
Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still, Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches like baudrons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on-
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick, it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider's snare
O hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the fly, aft bizzes by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure!

Soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murdering wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,
I quat my pen;

The Lord preserve us frae the devil!
Amen! amen!

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.
My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle;
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;

While raving mad. I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools-
Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, TOOTH-ACHE, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
"Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick. Gie a' the faes o' SCOTLAND'S weel

A towmond's Tooth-ache!

SONG. Tune-"Morag."

O, WHA is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a'keeping.
O, sweat is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-buds steeping.
CHORUS.

O, that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O, that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie,
In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast sae warming:
Had ne'er sic powers alarming,
O, that's, &c.

If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her by thee is slighted:
And thou art all delighted:
O, that's, &c.

If thou hast met this fatr one;
When frae her thou hast parted,
If every other fair one,

But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken hearted:
O, that's, &c

SONG

JOCKIE'S ta'en the parting kiss,
O'er the mountain he is gane;
And with him is a my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain! When the shades of evening creep

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blythe his waukening be! He will think on her he loves, Fondly he'll repeat her name; For where'er he distant roves, Jockie's heart is still at hame.

SONG.

MY Peggy's face, my Peggy's form
The frost of Hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind:
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.
The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarmis-
These are all immortal charms.

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, Igo, and ago,

Which will oblige your humble debtor Iram, coram, dago.

So may you have auld stanes in store,
Igo, and ago,

The very stans that Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may be get in glad possession,
Igo, and ago,

The coins o' Satan's coronation!
Iram, coram, dago.

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY.

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bird that feigns;
Friends of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

AN honest man here lies at rest,
As ever God with his image blest,
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

O THOU who kindly dost provide
For ev'ry creature's want!

We bless thee, God of nature wide,
For all thy goodness lent;

And if it please thee, heavenly guide,
May never worse be sent ;

But whether granted or denied,
Lord bless us with content!

Amen!

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

ON SENSIBILITY.

SENSIBILITY how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming
Thou hast also known too well!

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray

Let the blast sleep o'er the valley,
See it postrate on the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow:

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

A VERSE.

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE
MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT A
PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD BEEN
HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED.

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er;
A time that surely shall come;
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more,
Than just a Highland welcome.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
Tnis sweet wee wite o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't:
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

HIGHLAND MARY.
Tune-Katharine Ogie."

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 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 in fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves 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!

pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
Iaft hae kissed so fondly!

And closed for aye, the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
The heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.

AULD ROB MORRIS. THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld

men:

Ile has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,

And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,

And dear to my heart as the light to my my e'e.

But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard:

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me

nane;

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my
breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!

Oh, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo.

Ha, ha, the wooing o't
On blythe Yule night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 157
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may go to-France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, &c.

Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And Oh, her een they spak such things!
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan was a lad o' grace.
Ha, ha, &c.
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't."

SONG.

Tune-"I had a horse."

O POORTITH Cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a I could forgive,

An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie.

O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sac sweet a flower as love,
Depend on fortune's shining?
This warld's wealth when I think on
It's pride, and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie, on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't,
O why, &c

THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I love him better And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Gala water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindness, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That cost contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

LORD GREGORY.

O MIRK, mirk, is this midnight hour, And loud the tempests roar;

A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;

At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,
By bonnie Irwin side,

Where first I own'd that virgin love
I lang, lang had denied?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for aye be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It never mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast-

Thou dart of heav'n that flashes by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victims see!

But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to Heaven and me!

MARY MORISON.
Tune-"Bide ye yet."

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,

That makes the miser's treasure poor:

How blythely 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 you 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 nae gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!
WITH ALTERATIONS.

"OH, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh! open the door to me, Oh!

Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh! open the door to me, Oh!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh;

The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, Oh!

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his
side,

Never to rise again, Oh!