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As songsters of the early year
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
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
Upon the lips o' Philly.
The woodbine in the dewy weet,
As is a kiss o' Willy.
Let fortune's wheel at random rin,
An' that's my ain dear Philly.
What 's a' the joys that gowd can gie?
An' that's my ain dear Willy.
TUNE—“The Caledonian Hunt's delight.”
Why, why tell thy lover
Bliss he never must enjoy?
And give all his hopes the lie?
Oh, why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,
Wake thy lover from his dream ?
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM THAT
TUNE—“Nancy's to the greenwood gane."
FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows,
Around Eliza's dwelling !
Within my bosom swelling:
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:
Betray the hapless lover.
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
For pity's sake forgive me!
Here is the Glen.
The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
Till fears no more had sav'd me.
The wheeling torrent viewing,
In overwhelming ruin.
[“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;
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,
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!
Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
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