Walaways, John Ochiltree !

For mony a time I tell'd to thee
Thou rade sae fast by sea and land,
And wadna keep a bridle-hand;
Thou'd tyne thy beast, thysell wad die,
My silly auld John Ochiltree.

Come to my arms, my bonnie thing,
And cheer me up to hear thee sing;
And tell me ower a' we hae done,
For thochts maun now my life sustain.*

*

*

*

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

BURNS.

TUNE-O'er the hills and far away.

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad?
How can I the thought forego,
He's on the seas to meet his foe!
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are with him that's far away.
On the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day,
Are with him that's far away.
aye

When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,

Haply in this scorching sun

My sailor's thund'ring at his gun:

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724, where it is marked with the

letter Z, indicating that it was then a song of unknown antiquity.

Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away!

At the starless midnight hour,

When winter rules with boundless power,

As the storms the forests tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,

Listening to the doubling roar,

Surging on the rocky shore,

All I can

n-I weep and pray

For his weal that's far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet.

Then may heaven with prosperous gales
Fill my sailor's welcome sails,

To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that's far

away.

THE BANKS OF CREE.

BURNS.

TUNE-The Banks of Cree.

HERE is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;

The village bell has toll'd the hour,
O, what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call,
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark to the
His little faithful mate to cheer,

grove,

At once 'tis music-and 'tis love.

And art thou come, and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.*

THE BONNIE BREIST-KNOTS.

TUNE-Bonnie Breist-Knots.

HEY the bonnie, how the bonnie,
Hey the bonnie breist-knots!
Tight and bonnie were they a',

When they got on their breist-knots.

There was a bridal in this town,
And till't the lasses a' were boun',
Wi' mankie facings on their gowns,
And some o' them had breist-knots.

At nine o'clock the lads convene
Some clad in blue, some clad in green,
Wi' glancin' buckles in their shoon,
And flowers. upon their waistcoats.

Forth cam the wives a' wi' a phrase,
And wished the lassie happy days;
And meikle thocht they o' her claes,
And 'specially the breist-knots.+

*Written, as the bard acknowledges, to suit an air which his friend, Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, had composed, and which, in compliment to a very beautiful river in Galloway, her ladyship had called "the Banks of Cree."

† Abridged from Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. III. 1790.

HERE'S TO THE KING, SIR.

[JACOBITE SONG.

TUNE-Hey, tuttie, taitie.

HERE'S to the king, sir!
Ye ken wha I mean, sir;
And to every honest man,
That will do't again.

Fill fill your bumpers high;
Drain drain your glasses dry;
Out upon them, fy! oh fy!
That winna do't again.

Here's to the chieftains

Of the gallant Highland clans!
They hae done it mair nor ance,
And will do't again.

When you hear the trumpet sound
Tuttie, taitie, to the drums;

Up wi' swords and down your guns,
And to the loons again.

Here's to the King o' Swede!
Fresh laurels crown his head!
Shame fa' every sneaking blade,
That winna do't again!

But to mak a' things right, now,
He that drinks maun fight, too,
To show his heart's upright, too,
And that he'll do't again!

I DO CONFESS THOU'RT SMOOTH

AND FAIR.

SIR ROBERT AYTOUN,

Secretary to the Queen of James VI.

I Do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee;
Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak had power to move thee: But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind,
That kisses every thing it meets.
And since thou can with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands,
Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells!
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile;
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside,

And I will sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one

Hath brought thee to be loved by none.*

This song is generally printed with the name of Sir Robert Aytoun as author; but it is a suspicious circumstance that, in Watson's Collection (1706-11), where several poems by Sir Robert are printed with his name in a cluster, this is inserted at a different part of the work, without his name.

L