Thou mad'st to me and I to thee,
In register yet clear?

Is faith and truth so violate
To th' immortal gods divine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frosty cares,
That makes thy spirits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth
That's stolen thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
Him, so much once was thine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne?

Is't worldly cares, so desperate,
That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,
Thou surely should be mine;
If this were true, we should renew
Kind old long syne.

But since that nothing can prevail,
And all hope is in vain,

From these dejected eyes of mine?
Still showers of tears shall rain:
And though thou hast me now forgot,
Yet I'll continue thine,

And ne'er forget for to reflect
On old long syne.

If e'er I have a house, my dear,
That truly is call'd mine,

And can afford but country cheer,
Or ought that's good therein;

Though thou were rebel to the king,
And beat with wind and rain,
Assure thyself of welcome, love,
For old long syne.

SECOND PART.

My soul is ravish'd with delight
When you I think upon;

All griefs and sorrows take the flight,
And hastily are gone;

The fair resemblance of your face

So fills this breast of mine,
No fate nor force can it displace,
For old long syne.

Since thoughts of you do banish grief,
When I'm from you removed;
And if in them I find relief,

When with sad cares I'm moved,
How doth your presence me affect

With ecstasies divine, Especially when I reflect

On old long syne.

Since thou hast robb'd me of my heart,
By those resistless powers
Which Madam Nature doth impart
To those fair eyes of yours,

With honour it doth not consist
To hold a slave in pyne;

Pray let your rigour, then, desist,

For old long syne.

'Tis not my freedom I do crave,

By deprecating pains;

Sure, liberty he would not have
Who glories in his chains:

But this I wish-the gods would move
That noble soul of thine
To pity, if thou canst not love,
For old long syne.*

CROMLET'S LILT.

TUNE-Robin Adair.

SINCE all thy vows, false maid,
Are blown to air,
And my poor heart betray'd
To sad despair;
Into some wilderness
My grief I will express,

And thy hard-heartedness,

Oh, cruel fair!

Have I not graven our loves
On every tree

In yonder spreading grove,
Though false thou be?

Was not a solemn oath

Plighted betwixt us both,

Thou thy faith, I my troth,

Constant to be?

Some gloomy place I'll find,
Some doleful shade,

From Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, Part III., 1711.

This

is, therefore, the oldest known set of verses to the popular air of "Auld Lang Syne."

Where neither sun nor wind
E'er entrance had.

Into that hollow cave

There will I sigh and rave,
Because thou dost behave
So faithlessly.

Wild fruit shall be my meat,
I'll drink the spring;

Cold earth shall be my seat;

For covering,

I'll have the starry sky
My head to canopy,
Until my soul on high
Shall spread its wing.

I'll have no funeral fire,
No tears, nor sighs ;
No grave do I require,
Nor obsequies:

The courteous red-breast, he
With leaves will cover me,

And sing my elegy

With doleful voice.

And when a ghost I am,

I'll visit thee,

Oh, thou deceitful dame,
Whose cruelty

Has kill'd the kindest heart

That e'er felt Cupid's dart,
And never can desert
From loving thee! *

The story which gave rise to this song is related by Burns. The heroine was one of the thirty-one children of Stirling of Ardoch, in Perthshire, a gentleman who seems to have lived in the reign of James the Sixth. On account of her great beauty, she was usually called Fair Helen of Ardoch. She was beloved by the eldest son of Chisholm of Cromlix, & family of the neighbourhood, which was so respectable as to have given more

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

BURNS.

TUNE-She's fair and fause.

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart,
I loo'd her mickle and lang;
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.

A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass

gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove;
A woman has❜t by kind:

O woman, lovely woman fair!

An angel's form's faun to thy share,

'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee mair, I mean an angel mind.

than one bishop to Dumblane. During the foreign travels of this young gentleman, a person whom he had appointed to manage his correspondence with Fair Helen, conceived a strong passion for her, and resolved to supplant his friend. By prepossessing her with stories to the disadvantage of young Cromlix, and suppressing his letters, he succeeded in incensing both against each other. All connexion between them was consequently broken off, and the traitor soon after succeeded in procuring from her a consent to accept of himself for a husband. At the moment, however, when she was put into the bridal bed, conscience prevented the consummation of her lover's villainy. She started from his embraces, exclaiming that she had heard Cromlix's voice, crying, "Helen, Helen, mind me;" and no force or arguments could prevail upon her to resume her place. The injured Cromlix soon after came home, procured her marriage to be disannulled, and married her himself.

The song was published in the Tea-Table Miscellany (1724), with the signature letter X, which seems to mark all the songs in that collection supposed by the editor to be of English origin.