He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, But owre my left shouther I ga'e him a blink, My wooer he caper'd as he 'd been in drink, I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, He begged, for gudesake, I wad be his wife, So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. Here's a health to them that's awa'. A RED, RED ROSE. TUNE-"Graham's strathspey." OH, my luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly played in tune. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. 67 HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA'. TUNE-"Here's a health to them that's awa." HERE'S a health to them that 's awa', F An' wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, Here's a health to them that's awa', Here's a health to them that's awa'; Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, May liberty meet wi' success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants an' tyranny tine in the mist, An' wander their way to the devil! Here's a health to them that's awa', Here's a health to them that's awa'; Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law; Here's freedom to him that wad read! Here's freedom to him that wad write! There's nane everfear'd that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite. Here's a health to them that's awa', Here's a health to them that's awa'; Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw! Lord Gregory. Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 69 LORD GREGORY. OH, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin love I lang, lang had denied? How aften didst thou pledge an' vow Thou wad for aye be mine; An' my fond heart, itsel' sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, Ye mustering thunders from above MARY MORISON. TUNE-"Bide ye yet," or "The miller." ["One of my juvenile works."-Burns. "Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love songs which he has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison, &c."-Hazlitt.] O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Yestreen when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', |