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Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee 1

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free'

Lay the proud usurpers low
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!


Burns gave this song to the public as a production of the olden time;' but it was afterward discovered to be his own.

Auld Lang Syne' owes all its attractions, if it owes rot its origin, to the muse of Burns. So exquisitely has the poet eked out the old with the new, that it would puzzle a very profound antiquary to separate the ancient from the modern.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?


For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans" fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, &c.

We twa hae paidl'to i' the burn,P
Frae mornin' sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar'd,
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, &c.

And here's a hand, my trusty fier,"
And gie's a haud o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, &c.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
As sure as I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, &c.


Dainty Davie' is the title of an old song from which Burns has taken nothing but the name and the measure.

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.


Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.

" Wild daisies. p Rivulet.

o To wade, or walk in the water. Liberal draught.

9 Friend

The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,

To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' nature's rest,
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.


Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Bonnie Davie, daintie Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My air dear dainty Davie.


'September, 1793. I have this moment finished the song for Oran Gaoil, so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!-if not, 'tis also well.'-Burns to Thomson.

Tune.-Oran Gaoil.

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive;

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!

Sever'd from thee can I survive?

But fate has will'd, and we must part.

I'll often greet this surging swell,

Yon distant isle will often hail :

'E'en here I took the last farewell;

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.'

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry

Across the rolling, dashing roar
I'll westward turn my wistful eye :
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be ;
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me?


'I enclose you the music of Fee him Father,' with two verses, which I composed at the time in which Patie Allan's mither died, that was about the back o' midnight, and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautbois and the music.'-Burns to Thomson.

Tune.-Fee him Father.

THOU hast left me ever, Jamie,

Thou hast left me ever,

Thou last left me ever, Jamie,

Thou hast left me ever.

Aften hast thou vow'd that death
Only should us sever,

Now thou 'st left thy lass for ay-
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
I'll see thee never.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken,
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo,

While my heart is breaking,
Soon my weary een I'll close→→
Never mair to waken, Jamie,
Never mair to waken.


Tune.-Saw ye my Father?

WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning
That danced to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild woods among?

w Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, to whom the poet

No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair;
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is it that summer 's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?

No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow :

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo.


In a letter to Mr. Thomson, enclosing this song, Burns quaintly calls it an old Bacchanal.' It is, however, well known to be one of his own.

Tune.-The Collier's Dochter.

DELUDED Swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure,

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,

The breezes idly roaming,

The clouds' uncertain motion,

They are but types of woman.

O! art thou not ashamed,

To doat upon a feature?

thus speaks concerning it. "I have finished my song to Saw ye my Father and in English, as you will see. There is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, but the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is no great matter. Of the poetry, I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."

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