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TUNE-" The Northern Lass.”
[This beautiful fragment is an early composition.]
THOUGH cruel fate should bid us part,
As far's the Pole and Line, Her dear idea round
heart Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains frown and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
I still would love my Jean.
Oh, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? Oh, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money,
TUNE—“John Anderson, my jo.”
ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
Upon an auld tree-root.
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
An' bickered to the seas,
That echoed through the trees.
Oh, leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your veins, and fire your brains,
An' then ye 're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part,
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts o' steel The frank address an' politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
THE MIRK NIGHT O’ DECEMBER.
TUNE—“May, thy morn.”
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet
As the mirk night o’ December,
An' secret was the chamber;
But I will aye remember:
But I will aye remember.
An' here's to them that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum;
May a' that's gude watch o'er them!
Oh, saw ye my Dearie ?
An' here's to thein we darena name,
The dearest o' the quorum :
The dearest o' the quorum.
OH, SAW YE MY DEARIE ?
TUNE—“Eppie Macnab.” [Altered from the old song of “Eppie Macnab,” which had more wit than decency.]
OH, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M Nab?
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab?
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.
Tune—“Miss Admiral Gordon's strathspey.”
“This song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.-N.B. It was in the honeymoon.”—Burns.]
OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
The lassie I lo'e best:
An' mony a hill between;
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flow'rs,
I see her sweet an' fair:
I hear her charm the air:
By fountain, shaw, or green,
But minds me o' my Jean.
Oh, blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees,
Bring hame the laden bees;
That 's aye sae neat an' clean;