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But if he hae the name o' gear,
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, , Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae, c.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?
We part-but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes !
'Till thy bright beams arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day:
My worship to its ray?
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune, “ Seventh of November."
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toild,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give ! While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
Comes in between to make us part;
THE LAZY MIST.
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
This life's not worth having with all it can give, For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.
Tune, “ My love is lost to me."
O, were I on Parnassus' hill!
To sing how dear I love thee.
And write how dear I love thee.
Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
How much, how dear, I love thee.
By heaven and earth I love thee !
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
I only live to love thee.
I LOVE MY JEAN.
Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
The lassie I lo'e best :
And mony a hill between;
Is ever with my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her charm the air :
By fountain, shaw, or green,
But minds me of my Jean.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE,
The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee*, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes of Ballochmyle.
* Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. professor of moral philosophy in the university of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of John Whitefoort, of Alexander, Esq.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring 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!
WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we; And iony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!
We are nae fou, &'c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are nae fou, d*c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wba first beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three !
We are nae fou, &c.*
* Willie, who “brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. William Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our