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Up in the morning early.

The chorus of this song is old; but the two stanzas are Burns's.

CHORUS.

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early ;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Cauld-blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly ;
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A’ day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

musing on the Roaring Dcean.

TUNE—“ Druimion Dubh."

Musing on the roaring ocean,

Which divides my love and me; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,

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Hope and Fear's alternate billow

Yielding late to Nature's law ; Whispering spirits round my pillow

Talk of him that's far awa'!

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,

Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,

Gaudy Day to you is dear.

Gentle Night, do thou befriend me;

Downy Sleep, the curtain draw; Spirits kind, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa!

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ay peart's in the yighlands.

Tune—Faille na Miosg."

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

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Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods ;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

The Banks of Nith.

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?

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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 !

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