HOW LANG AN' DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

TUNE-“Cauld kail in Aberdeen.”

How lang an' dreary is the night

When I am frae my dearie;
I restless lie frae e'en to morn,

Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.

For oh, her lanely nights are lang ;

An' oh, her dreams are eerie;
An' oh, her widow'd heart is sair

That's absent frae her dearie.

When I think on the lightsome days

I spent wi' thee, my dearie,
An' now what seas between us roar-

How can I be but eerie ?

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours !

The joyless day how dreary!
It was na sae ye glinted by

When I was wi' my dearie.

For oh, her lanely nights are lang;

An' oh, her dreams are eerie;
An' oh, her widow'd heart is sair

That 's absent frae her dearie.

Poortith cauld.

87

POORTITH CAULD.

TUNE—“I had a horse.”

O POORTITH cauld and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive,

An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.

Oh, why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love

Depend on Fortune's shining ?

This warl's wealth when I think on,

Its pride and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.

Oh, why, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray

How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion.

Oh, why, &c.

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,

And sic a lassie by him ?

a

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am ?

Oh, why, &c.

How blest the humble cottar's fate!

He woos his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.

Oh, why, &c.

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

[“The air,” says Burns, “is the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living-Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause. To tell the truth, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.”]

THICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests, o'er me rave !
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave !

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,

Suit not my distracted mind.

The Braes o Ballochmyle.

89

In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the heavens denied success.

TUNE—“The braes o' Ballochmyle." [“Composed on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate.”—Burns. ]

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,

Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;

Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers,

Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm or flow'ret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!

WANDERING WILLIE.

TUNE—“Here awa', there awa'.”

[Messrs. Erskine and Thomson having suggested some changes in the following song, our Poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of their alterations and rejected others. The last edition is as follows.]

HERE awa’, there awa', wandering Willie,

Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e; Welcome now simmer and welcome my Willie,

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows !

And waft my dear Willie ance mair to my arms!