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The Banks o' Doon.

41

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang 's the night frae e'en to morn-

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

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TUNE—"Katharine Ogie.”
YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

An' I sae fu' o' care !

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

' That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, an' sae I sang,

An' wistna o' my fate.

Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine, An' ilka bird sang o' its luve;

An' sae did I o'mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Frae aff its thorny tree;
An' my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

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Tune-"Caledonian Hunt's delight.” YE banks an' braes o’ bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh an' fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds,

An' I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o departed joys,

Departed—never to return !

Aft ha’e I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose an’ woodbinė twine; An' ilka bird sang o'its luve,

An' fondly sae did I o' mine.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary?

43

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
An' my fause luver stole my rose,

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?

TUNE—“The ewe-buchts." [“In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl” (Mary Campbell). Burns. ]

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

And leave auld Scotia's shore ?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

Across the Atlantic's roar ?

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange,

And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies

Can never equal thine.

I ha’e sworn by the heavens to my Mary,

I ha'e sworn by the heavens to be true;
And sae may the heavens forget me,

When I forget my vow!

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,

And plight me your lily-white hand;

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,

Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary,

In mutual affection to join, And curst be the cause that shall part us!

The hour and the moment o time !

I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN.

TUNE—“The blue-eyed lassie."
I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd;

She charm’d my soul—I wistna how; An' aye the stound, the deadly wound,

' Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue.

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing.

45

But spare to speak, and spare to speed;

She 'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I 'll lay my dead

To her twa sae bonnie blue.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

TUNE—“My wife's a wanton wee thing.” [“There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity for adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air ‘My wife's a wanton wee thing,' if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it.”—Burns to G. Thomson.]

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I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed a dearer;
And neist

my

heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

Oh leeze me on my wee thing,
My bonnie, blithesome wee thing;
Sae lang 's I ha'e my wee thing,

I ’ll think my lot divine.

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