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But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry:
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.


TUNE "I do confess thou art sae fair."

["This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Aytoun, private secretary to Mary and Anne, Queens of Scotland."-Burns.]

I DO Confess thou art sae fair,

I wad been owre the lugs in love,

Had I na found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak thy heart could move.

I do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,

Thy favours are the silly wind

That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,

Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue

When pu'd and worn a common toy! Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,

Like ony common weed and vile.

The Dumfries Volunteers.



TUNE-" Push about the jorum."

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
An' volunteers on shore, sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
An' Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
Fall de rall, &c.

Oh, let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap, come in an unco loon,
An' wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,

Among oursel's united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk an' state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in 't;
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon

Shall ever ca' a nail in 't.

Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
An' wha wad dare to spoil it?
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.
Fall de rall, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
An' the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damn'd together.

Who will not sing, "God save the King,"
Will hang as high 's the steeple;

But while we sing, "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget the People.
Fall de rall, &c.


TUNE-"The sutor's dochter."

WILT thou be my dearie?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of my soul,
That's the love I bear thee!

I swear an' vow that only thou

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The Winter of Life.

Lassie, say thou lo’es me;

Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
Say na thou 'lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,

Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.


TUNE-"Gil Morice."

BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoic'd the day;

Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay;

But now our joys are fled,

On winter blasts awa'!

Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;

My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Sinks in Time's wintry rage.


Oh, age has weary days,

An' nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why comes thou not again?


TUNE-"Banks of Banna."

["I think this is the best love song I ever composed.”—Burns.]

YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,

A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, tak' the east an' west,
Frae Indus to Savannah !

Gi'e me within my straining grasp

The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,

An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give an' take with Anna!

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