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Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion.

IOI

MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY

FASHION.

TUNE—“De'il tak’ the wars."

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion,

Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compar'd with real passion,

Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures ?

What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:

The polish'd jewel's blaze
May draw the wond'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,

In simplicity's array,
Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is,

Shrinking from the gaze of day,-
Oh then, the heart alarming,

And all resistless charming,
In Love's delightful fetters shechains the willing soul;

Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny

His worshipp'd deity,
And feel through ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll.

YON WILD, MOSSY MOUNTAINS.

TUNE—“Yon wild, mossy mountains." [“This tune is by Oswald: the song alludes to a part of my private history which it is of no consequence to the world to know.”—Burns.] Yon wild, mossy mountains, sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather

to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his

reed. Where the grouse lead their coveys through the

heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on

his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me ha’e the charms o'yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my

dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my

dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o’er us unheeded flee the swift hours o'

love.

Yon wild, mossy Mountains

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For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o'

love.

She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair;
O’nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.

Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs! And when wit and refinement ha’e polish'd her

darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement ha'e polished her

darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling

e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; And the heart beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her

arms, Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! And the heart beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her

arms, Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.

TUNE—“My love is lost to me.”

(“This air is Oswald's: the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns."-Burns.)

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill !
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel;
On Corsincon I'll glow'r an' spell,

An' write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-

By heaven an' earth I love thee !

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
An'
aye

I muse an’ sing thy name -
I only live to love thee.

The Chevalier's Lament.

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Tho' I were doom'd to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;

Till then and then I love thee.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

TUNE—“Captain O’Kean."

[“As I was riding through a tract of melancholy joyless moors, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, and Captain O'Kean coming at length into my head I tried these words to it.”Burns to Cleghorn.] The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,

The murmuring streamlet winds clearthro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale;

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly

singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,

A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find

none.

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