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Oh, wha can prudence think upon,
How blest the humble cottar's fate!
["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!
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.
The Braes o Ballochmyle.
In the cause of right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
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
THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Shall birdie charm or flow'ret smile;
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,
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!
But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON.
ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu !
Oft have I met your social band,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
May freedom, harmony, and love
And you, farewell! whose merits claim,
One round-I ask it with a tear-
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,
In every glen the mavis sang,
All nature list'ning seem'd the while,