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As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear

An' charming is my Philly.


As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes an' fairer blows,

So in my tender bosom grows

The love I bear my Willy.


The milder sun an' bluer sky

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye

As is a sight o' Philly.


The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flow'ry spring,
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring
As meeting o' my Willy.


The bee that thro' the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o' Philly.



The woodbine in the dewy weet,

When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet

As is a kiss o' Willy.


Let fortune's wheel at random rin,
An' fools may tine an' knaves may win;
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane,
An' that's my ain dear Philly.


What's a' the joys that gowd can gie?
I care nae wealth a single flie;
The lad I love's the lad for me,
An' that's my ain dear Willy.


TUNE-"The Caledonian Hunt's delight."

WHY, why tell thy lover

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?


Oh, why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers,

Chloris, Chloris all the theme,

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream ?



TUNE-"Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows,

Around Eliza's dwelling!
O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling:
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain,

And yet in secret languish,

To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,

Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover:
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.

I know thou doom'st me to despair,

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, oh! Eliza, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me!

Here is the Glen.


The music of thy voice I heard,

Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,
Till fears no more had sav'd me.
Th' unwary sailor, thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing,
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.


TUNE "The banks of Cree."

["I got an air pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 'The banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."-Burns to Thomson.]

HERE is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;

The village bell has toll'd the hour,
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
"Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark in the grove,

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His little faithful mate to cheer;
At once 'tis music and 'tis love.

And art thou come?—and art thou true?
Oh, welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.


TUNE-"Neil Gow's lament."

["The air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine.”— Burns.]

THERE's a youth in this city, it were a great pity

That he frae our lasses should wander awa'; For he's bonnie an' braw, weel favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.

His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue;

His fecket is white as the new driven snaw; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin'; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted, and braw;

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