She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o 't,
The warstle and the care o 't;
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

LXXI.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin sun till dine :

But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie 's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

LXXII.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS

MISTRESS.

TUNE-Deil tak the Wars.

SLEEP'ST thou, or wakest thou, fairest creature? Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy:
Now thro' the leafy woods,
And by the reeking floods,

Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray
The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lavrock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;

Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,

The murky shades o' care

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky:

But when in beauty's light
She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

LXXIII.

STAY, MY CHARMER.

TUNE-An Gille dubh ciar dhubh.

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!

Well you know how much you grieve me;

Cruel charmer, can you go?

Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!

LXXIV.

CASTLE GORDON.

These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond.

STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains!
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands:
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by Castle Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood;
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle Gordon.

LXXV.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

TUNE-Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff.

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,
Nae lavrock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the ee.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye 'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile.

Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!