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CA' THE EWES.

TUNE-"Ca' the ewes to the knowes."

CHORUS

CA’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rows,

My bonnie dearie.

Hark the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang,

My bonnie dearie.

We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro’ the hazels spreading wide,
O’er the waves that sweetly glide

To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Whare at moonshine, midnight hours, O’er the dewy bending flowers,

Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear Nocht of ill may come thee near,

My bonnie dearie.

Thine am 1, my faithful Fair.

187

Fair and lovely as thou art
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die—but canna part,

My bonnie dearie.

While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,

Ye shall be my dearie.

THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR.

TUNE—“Liggeram Cosh” [“The quaker's wife”).

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Take these

Rich with balmy treasure:
Turn thine

of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

eyes

away

What is life when wanting love?

Night without a morning :
Love's the cloudless summer sun

Nature gay adorning.

SHE SAYS SHE LO’ES ME BEST OF A'.

TUNE—“Onagh's waterfall.”

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SAE flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling, sae wiling,

Wad mak’ a wretch forget his woe: What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto those rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,

When first her bonnie face I saw, An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm,

She says she lo’es me best of a',

Like harmony her motion;

Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form an' graceful air;

Saw ye my Phely ?

189

Ilk feature-auld Nature

Declar'd that she could do nae mair. Hers are the willing chains o’ love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm,

She says she lo’es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gi’e me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming

Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang: There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, An' hear my vows o' truth an' love,

An' say thou lo’es me best of a'.

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Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely?
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,

She winna come hame to her Willie.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely!
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,

An' for ever disowns thee, her Willy.

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o'thy Willy.

LET NOT WOMAN E’ER COMPLAIN.

TUNE-"Duncan Gray.”.

[“ These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my

native tongue.

I have been at 'Duncan Gray' to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance.”-Burns to Thomson.]

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove:

Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove?

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