Written in a Copy of Thomson's Melodies, pre-
sented to a Lady

Written in an Envelope enclosing a Letter to
Captain Grose .

Written on the Blank-leaf of his Poems

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December.

As I was a-wandering ae midsummer e'enin'

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms

332

FIRST LINES OF SONGS.

VOL.

PAGE

By Allan stream I chanced to rove
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Ca' the yowes to the knowes
Clarinda, mistress of my soul

Come, let me take thee to my breast
Coming through the rye, poor body
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair
Could aught of song declare my pains

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw.
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo

Fairest maid on Devon banks

Fair the face of orient day

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and

ye skies

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows.

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong
First when Maggy was my care.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore
Heard ye o' the tree of France? .
Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie
Here is the glen, and here the bower

293

149

109

200

170

37

215

179

285

292

145

130

266

276

182

282

160

277

295

162

73

123

50

118

Here's to thy health, my bonny lass

How can my poor heart be glad

How long and dreary is the night

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding

Husband, husband, cease your strife

I am a bard of no regard

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars

I am my mammy's ae bairn

I bought my wife a stane o' lint

I coft a stane o' haslock woo'

I do confess thou art sae fair

I dreamed I lay where flowers were springing

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap

iii. 111

iii. 127

iii.

179

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen

I hae a wife o' my ain

ii. 219

ii. 159

I'll aye ca' in by yon town

I'll kiss thee yet, yet

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles
In simmer, when the hay was mawn

In Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men
I once was a maid, though I cannot tell when
sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth

Is there, for honest poverty

It is na, Jean, thy bonny face

iii. 278

It was a' for our rightfu' king

iii. 308

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral