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Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
Who will not sing, "God save the King,"
But while we sing, "God save the King,"
WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?
TUNE-"The sutor's dochter."
WILT thou be my dearie?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
By the treasure of my soul,
I swear an' vow that only thou
The Winter of Life.
Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
Thou for thine may choose me,
THE WINTER OF LIFE.
BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
But now our joys are fled,
On winter blasts awa'!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Oh, age has weary days,
An' nights o' sleepless pain!
YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O' WINE.
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;
Ye monarchs, tak' the east an' west,
Gi'e me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
My Lady's gown, there's gairs upon't.
Awa', thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa', thou pale Diana!
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS
My lady's gown, there's gairs upon 't,
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane,
My lady's white, my lady's red,
Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss,
Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs,
My lady's dink, my lady's drest,
TUNE-"Could aught of: song.
COULD aught of song declare my pains,
They who but feign a wounded heart,
May teach the lyre to languish;
But what avails the pride of art
When wastes the soul with anguish?