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And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward dig the Indian mine.
Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And ev'ry day have joys divine,

Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.*

WERE NA MY HEART LICHT I WAD DEE.

LADY GRIZZEL BAILLIE.†

TUNE-Were na my heart licht.

THERE was anes a may, and she loo'd na men:
They biggit her a bouir doun i' yon glen;
But now she cries Dule and well-a-day !
Come doun the green gate, and come here away.
But now she cries, &c.

When bonnie young Jamie cam ower the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and monie braw things;
And were na my heart licht I wad dee.

He becht me, &c.

He had a wee titty that loo'd na me,
Because I was twice as bonnie as she;

She raised such a pother 'twixt him and his mother,
That were na my heart licht I wad dee.

She raised, &c.

*This song was written in praise of Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one fine evening to meet this young lady, when walking through the beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, which lie at the distance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline. Struck with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble lyric; which he soon after sent to her, enclosed in a letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment as itself. He was somewhat mortified to find, that either maidenly modesty, or pride of superior station, prevented her from acknowledging the receipt of his compliment.

f Daughter of the patriotic Patrick, first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George Baillie, Esq. of Jerviswood; a lady of singular talent and strength of mind, and adorned with all the domestic virtues. Her Memoirs, written by her daughter, Lady Murray of Stanhope, and lately published, form one of the most delightful volumes of the kind in the English language. She died, a widow, in 1746.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam, and lay down to dee.
She main'd, and she graned, out o' dolour and pain,
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again.
She main'd, &c.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said, what had he to do wi' the like of me?
Albeit I was bonnie, I was na for Johnnie:
And were na my heart licht I wad dee.
Albeit I was bonnie, &c.

They said I had neither cow nor caff,
Nor dribbles o' drink rins through the draff,
Nor pickles o' meal rins through the mill-ee;
And were na my heart licht I wad dee.
Nor pickles, &c.

His titty she was baith wylie and slee,
She spied me as I cam ower the lea;
And then she ran in, and made a loud din ;
Believe your ain een an ye trow na me.
And then she ran in, &c.

His bonnet stood aye fou round on his brow; His auld ane look'd aye as well as some's new; But now he lets 't wear ony gate it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. But now he, &c.

And now he gaes daundrin about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes :
The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his ee;
And were na my heart licht I wad dee.
The live-lang nicht, &c.

Were I young for thee as I hae been,

We should ha' been gallopin down on yon green,

And linkin it on yon lilie-white lea;
And wow gin I were but young for thee!
And linkin it, &c.*

* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1721.

AULD ROB MORRIS,

BURNS.

TUNE-Auld Rob Morris.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows and wale o' auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, and 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 licht o' my ee.

But, oh, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my deid.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The nicht comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane, like a nicht-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in
my breist.

Oh, had she but been of a lower degree,
I then micht hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

THE LAST TIME I CAM OWER THE MUIR.

RAMSAY.

TUNE-The last time I cam ower the Muir.

THE last time I cam ower the muir,
I left my love behind me:
Ye powers, what pains do I endure
When soft ideas mind me!

Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreats for wooing.

We stray'd beside yon wand'ring stream,
And talk'd with hearts o'erflowing;
Until the sun's last setting beam
Was in the ocean glowing.
I pitied all beneath the skies,

Even kings, when she was nigh me;

In raptures I beheld her eyes,
Which could but ill deny me.

Should I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me,
Or cast upon some foreign shore,
Where dangers may surround me;
Yet hopes again to see my love,
To feast on glowing kisses,
Shall make my cares at distance move,
In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter;

Since she excels in ev'ry grace,
In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow,
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The neist time I gang ower the muir,
She shall a lover find me;

And that faith is firm and pure,

my

Though I left her behind me;
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom;

There, while my being does remain,

My love more fresh shall blossom.*

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. It is known, however, that Ramsay wrote the song as a substitute for an older one, of which he retained only the first line.

T

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

BURNS.

TUNE-Grant's Strathspey.

THERE'S nought but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, 0 ;
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O:
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent
Were spent amang the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O;
And warly cares, and warly men,
May a' gang tapsalteirie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warld e'er saw,
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O!

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest works she classes, O;
Her 'prentice-hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.*

There is an old rude song to this air, having the same owerword. I subjoin, by way of curiosity, a German translation of this favourite Scottish song, which has been handed to me by a friend.

DIE WEIBERCHEN.

SCHOTTISCHES LIED.

Es ist nur Sorge überall

In jeder Stund' der Irdischen;

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