THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA.

BURNS.

TUNE-O'er the hills and far awa.

O, How can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo❜e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa?

It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my ee
To think on him that's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown'd me a';
But I hae ane will take my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.

A pair o' gloves he gae to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.

The weary winter soon will pass,

And spring will cleed the birken shaw;

And my sweet babie will be born,

And he'll come hame that's far awa.

* Excepting the first stanza, which formed the commencement of an old song.

O, LOGAN, SWEETLY DIDST THOU

GLIDE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Logan Water.

O, LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne hae ower us run,
Like Logan to the summer sun :
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month of May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers:
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his sang her cares beguile :
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O, wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make many a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your
heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!

BOTHWELL BANK.

JOHN PINKERTON.

TUNE-Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair.
On the blythe Beltane, as I went
By mysell attour the green bent,
Whereby the glancin' waves of Clyde,
Throch sauchs and hangin' hazels glide;
There, sadly sittin' on a brae,

I heard a damsel speak her wae.

"Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair,
But, oh, thou maks my heart fu' sair!
For a' beneth thy holts sae grene
My luve and I wad sit at e'en;
While primroses and daisies, mixt
Wi' blue bells, in my locks he fixt.

"But he left me ae drearie day,
And haply now lies in the clay;
Without ae sich his death to roun,
Without ae flowir his grave to croun!
Oh, Bothwell Bank, thou blumest fair,
But, oh, thou maks my heart fu' sair."*

In proof of the antiquity of at least the air to which this song is sung, and of its beautiful owerword, or burden, a story has been quoted from a work entitled "Verstegan's Restitution of Decayed Intelligence," which was printed at Amsterdam in the year 1605. In journeying through Palestine, at some period even then remote, a Scotsman saw a female at the door of a house lulling her child to the air of Bothwell Bank. Surprise and rapture took simultaneous possession of his breast, and he immediately accosted the fair singer. She turned out to be a native of Scotland, who, having wandered thither, was married to a Turk of rank, and who still, though far removed from her native land, frequently reverted to it in thought, and occasionally called up its image by chanting the ditties in which its banks and braes, its woods and streams, were so freshly

THE MILLER.

SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENNYCUICK.

TUNE-Merry may the Maid be.

O, MERRY may the maid be
That marries the miller!
For, foul day or fair day,

He's aye bringing till her.
H'as aye a penny in his pouch,
For dinner or for supper;

Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheese,
An' lumps o' yellow butter.

Behind the door stand bags o' meal,
And in the ark is plenty,

And good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And mony a sweeter dainty.
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
Are standing in the byre;
Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou,
Is playing round the fire.

Good signs are these, my mither says,
And bids me take the miller;
A miller's wife's a merry wife,
And he's aye bringing till her.
For meal or maut she'll never want,

Till wood and water's scanty;

and so endearingly delineated. She introduced the traveller to her husband, whose influence in the country was eventually of much service to him; an advantage which he could never have enjoyed, had not Bothwell Bank bloomed fair to a poet's eye, and been the scene of some passion not less tender than unfortunate.

The bank itself, which has thus attracted so much honourable notice, is a beautifully wooded piece of ground, descending in a steep semicircular sweep from the foundations of Bothwell Castle (Lanarkshire) to the brink of the Clyde, which is there a river of noble breadth. Being situated at the distance of about eight or nine miles above Glasgow, it is a frequent summer Sunday resort for the lads and lasses of that city, the most cottonspinning of whom cannot help enjoying the loveliness of the scene, set off as it is, in so peculiar a manner, by poetical association. It is the property of Lord Douglas; forming, indeed, part of the finely wooded park which surrounds his lordship's seat of Bothwell.

As lang as cocks and cackling hens,
She'll aye hae eggs in plenty.

In winter time, when wind and sleet
Shake ha-house, barn, and byre,
He sits aside a clean hearth-stane,
Before a rousing fire ;

O'er foaming ale he tells his tale;
And aye, to show he's happy,
He claps his weans, and dawtes his wife
Wi' kisses warm and sappy.*

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.
TUNE-Kenmure's on and awa.

O, KENMURE's on and awa, Willie,
O, Kenmure's on and awa;

And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie,

Success to Kenmure's band!
There's no a heart that fears a Whig,
That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie,

Here's Kenmure's health in wine!

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude,
Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie,

O, Kenmure's lads are men!

Their hearts and swords are metal true;

And that their faes shall ken.

*For another poetical effort of this accomplished baronet, see Traditions of Edinburgh, vol. I. article "House of the Earl of Eglintoune." This song first appeared in Yair's Charmer, 1751.