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Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him ;

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; I flatter my fancy I may get anither,

My heart it shall never be broken for ane.


Tune" The Maid's complaint."

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,

Nor shape that I admire,
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace

Might weel awake desire.
Something, in ilka part o' thee,

To praise, to love, I find ;
But dear as is thy form to me,

Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae,

Nor stronger in my breast,
Than if I canna mak thee sae,

At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if heaven shall give

But happiness to thee:
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,

For thee I'd bear to die.

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Upon these verses, which were originally English, Burns only bestowed a Scottish dress, imbuing it at the same time with a portion of his own individual feelings.-M.


Tune" Jacky Latin."

O gat ye me, O gat ye me,

O gat ye me wi' naething?
Rock and reel and spinning wheel,

A mickle quarter basin.
Bye attour, my gutcher has

A hiech house and a laigh ane,
A' forbye my bonnie sel',

The toss of Ecclefechan,

O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing,

O haud your tongue and jauner ;
I held the gate till you I met,

Syne I began to wander :
I tint my whistle and my sang,

I tint my peace and pleasure;

your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,
Wad airt me to my treasure.

* To those curious in snatches of our ancient Caledonian Muse, it may not be unacceptable to present them with the original words of the air to which Burns has attached the above words :

Bonnie Jockie, braw Jockie,

Bonnie Jockie Latin,
His skin was like the silk sae fine,

And mine was like the satin.
Bonnie Jockie, braw Jockie,

Bonnie Jockie Latin,
Because she wudna gie'm a kiss,
His heart was at the breakin'.

Bonnie Jockie, &c.
Jockie Latin's gotten a wife,

He kentna how to guide her;
He put a saddle on her back,
And bade the devil ride her.
Bonnie Jockie, &c.



Tune—“Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes."


Ca' the ewes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,

My bonnie dearie !

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,

And he ca'd me his dearie.

Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide,
Beneath the hazels spreading wide ?

The moon it shines fu' clearly.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a' the day to sit in dool,

And naebody to see me.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep,

And ye sall be my dearie.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,

* This old song was considerably altered and improved by Burns for the Museum. The last stanza is entirely his.-M.

And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I sall be



While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae lie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.

Ca' the ewes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,

My bonnie dearie !


Tune" Lord Breadalbane's March.”

O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle,

And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon ; 0 merry

hae I been cloutin' a kettle, And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. O a' the lang day I ca’ at my hammer,

And a' the lang day I whistle and sing, A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,

And a' the lang night as happy's a king.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,

O’marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens,

And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,

And come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie!

And blest be the day I did it again.


Tune-" Carron Side."

FRAE the friends and land I love

Driv'u by fortune's felly spite,
Frae my best belov'd I rove,

Never mair to taste delight;
Never mair maun hope to find

Ease frae toil, relief frae care ;
When remembrance wracks the mind,

Pleasures but unveil despair.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,

Desert ilka blooming shore,
Till the fates, nae mair severe,

Friendship, love, and peace restore ;
Till Revenge, wi' laurell’d head,

Bring our banish'd hame again ;
And ilk loyal bonnie lad

Cross the seas and win his ain.


Tune" Awa, Whigs, awa.”


Awa, Whigs, awa!

Awa, Whigs, awa!
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,

Ye'll do nae good at a'.

* Though Burns, in his notes on the Museum, only claims the last four lines of this Jacobite song, there can be little doubt that he wrote the whole of it.-M. + This Jacobite song owes some of its

touches to the pen of Burns.-M.

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