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PHILLIS THE FAIR.

TUNE-"Robin Adair."

While larks with little wing

Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring,

Forth I did fare; Gay the sun's golden eye, Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry,

Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song

Glad did I share; While yon wild flowers among,

Chance led me there. Sweet to the opening day, Rose-buds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom ! did I say,

Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk

Doves cooing were;
I mark'd the cruel hawk

Caught in a snare;
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,

Phillis the fair.

Adown winding Nith I did wander.

177

ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER.

Tune-“The mucking o' Geordie's byre.”

ADOwn winding Nith I did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander,

Of Phillis to muse an' to sing.

CHORUS

Awa’ wi' your belles an' your beauties,

They never wi' her can compare :
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,

Has met wi' the queen o’the fair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,

So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis !

For she is simplicity's child.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,

Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest : How fair an' how pure is the lily,

But fairer an' purer her breast.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,

Its dewdrop o' diamond her eye.

Her voice is the song of the morning,

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,

On music, an' pleasure, an' love.

But, beauty, how frail an' how fleeting

The bloom of a fine summer's day! While worth in the mind o'

my

Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.

0

BY ALLAN STREAM ICHANC’D TO ROVE.

TUNE“ Allan Water."

[“I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand; when turning up ‘Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c., as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure."-Burns to Thomson.]

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;* The winds were whispering thro' the grove,

The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen’d to a lover's sang,

An' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; An' aye

the wild-wood echoes rangOh, dearly do I love thee, Annie !

*

“A mountain, west of Strathallan, 3,009 feet high."-Burus. + “Or, 'Oh, my love Annie's very bonnie.'”-Burns.

Come, let me take thee to my Breast.

179

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place, an' time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, “ I'm thine for ever!” While mony a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,

The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her shortening day

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?

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COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY

BREAST.

TUNE-"Cauld kail."

COME, let me take thee to my breast,

An' pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
An' I shall spurn as vilest dust

The world's wealth an' grandeur:

An' do I hear my Jeanie own

That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone,

That I may live to love her.

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Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,

I clasp my countless treasure;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share

Than sic a moment's pleasure:
An' by thy een sae bonnie blue,

I swear I'm thine for ever!
An' on thy lips I seal my vow,

An' break it shall I never !

HAD I A CAVE.

TUNE-"Robin Adair.”

[“You will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows."-Burns to G. Thomson, August, 1793. ]

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;

There would I weep my woes,
There seek my

lost

repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more !

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