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The child wha boasts o' warld's walth
Is aften laird o' meikle care;
But Mary she is a' my ain-

Ah! fortune canna gi'e me mair.
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks
Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,
An' catch her ilka glance o' love,
The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!



TUNE-"The mill, mill, O."

["Burns, I have been informed, was one summer evening at the inn at Brownhill with a couple of friends, when a poor wayworn soldier passed the window of a sudden, it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures; after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his 'garland and singing robes about him,' and the result was the admirable song which he sent you for 'The mill, mill, O."-Correspondent of Mr. George Thomson.]

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
An' gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

An' mony a widow mourning,

I left the lines an' tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor but honest sodger.

The Soldier's return.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
An' for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, an' trysting thorn,
'Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid

Down by her mother's dwelling! An' turn'd me round to hide the flood

That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I,

"Sweet lass,

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,

Oh, happy, happy may he be

That's dearest to thy bosom !

My purse is light, I've far to gang,
An' fain wad be thy lodger;

I've serv'd my king an' country lang-
Tak' pity on a sodger!"

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

An' lovelier was than ever;


Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot an' hamely fare
Ye freely shall partake o 't:
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose—
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, an' cried,
"Art thou my ain dear Willie ?"
"By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; an' thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

"The wars are o'er, an' I'm come hame,
An' find thee still true-hearted!
Tho' poor in gear, we 're rich in love,
An' mair we'se ne'er be parted."
Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;

An' come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou 'rt welcome to it dearly."

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.

Meg o' the Mill.

The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay

In day an' hour of danger.



TUNE-"O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack."

Oн, ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She's gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,

And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady;
The laird was a widdiefu' bleerit knurl;—
She's left the gude fellow and ta'en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal an' loving;
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

Oh, wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing !
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen !
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' !


"OH! open the door, some pity to show,
Oh! open the door to me, oh!

Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh! open the door to me, oh!

"Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh!

"The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, An' time is setting with me, oh!

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh!"

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh!

"My true love!" she cried, an' sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh!


TUNE-"Bonnie Dundee."

TRUE-HEARTED was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, An' fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr,

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