Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens on his e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gi'es to me.

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

TUNE-"She's fair and fause."

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart,
I lo'ed her meikle an' lang;

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam' in wi' routh o' gear,
And I ha'e tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,

Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,
A woman has 't by kind.

O woman, lovely woman fair!

An angel form's fa'n to thy share,

"Twad been owre meikle to 've gi'en thee mair

I mean an angel mind.

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Sic a Wife as Willie had.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

TUNE-"The eight men of Moidart.”

WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,

The spot they called it Linkum-doddie; Willie was a wabster gude,

Could stown a clew wi' ony body. He had a wife was dour、 an' din,

Oh, Tinkler Madgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi'e a button for her.

She has an e'e-she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin' beard about her mou',

Her nose an' chin they threaten ither— Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi'e a button for her.

She's bough-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd,
Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter;

She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi'e a button for her.

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin';
But Willie's wife is na sic trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi'e a button for her.

ON CESSNOCK BANKS.

TUNE-"If he be a butcher neat and trim," or "The cardin' o't."

[Recovered from the recitation of a lady in Glasgow, and first published by Cromek.]

ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass,
Could I describe her shape an' mien,
The graces of her weel-faur'd face,

An' the glancin' of her sparklin' een!
She's fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

She's stately, like yon youthful ash
That grows the cowslip braes between,
An' shoots its head above each bush;

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

On Cessnock Banks.

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn,

With flow'rs so white an' leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her looks are like the sportive lamb
When flow'ry May adorns the scene,
That wantons round its bleating dam;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her hair is like the curling mist

That shades the mountain-side at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When shining sunbeams intervene,
An' gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her voice is like the evening thrush
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her lips are like the cherries ripe

That sunny walls from Boreas screenThey tempt the taste an' charm the sight; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,

With fleeces newly washen clean,

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That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze

That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her sparklin' een.

OH, LUVE WILL VENTURE IN.

TUNE-"The posie."

OH, luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; Oh, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, among the woods sae green

An' a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
An' I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear;
For she's the pink o' womankind, an' blooms
without a peer-

An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.