Blithe Was she.

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Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write—but Meg maun see't-

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

(“I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre, with Sir William Murray (father of Sir George Murray, late secretary for the colonies). The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was called, and very justly, the Flower of Strathmore.”—Burns. ]

CHORUS

BLITHE, blithe and merry was she,

Blithe was she butt and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern,

An' blithe in Glenturit glen.

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.

a

a

Her looks were like a flow'r in May,

Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o' Ern

As light's bird upon a thorn.

Her bonnie face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,

An' o'er the lowlands I ha'e been; But Phemie was the blithest lass

That ever trod the dewy green.

MY PEGGY'S FACE.

TUNE—“My Peggy's face.”

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of humankind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly heavenly fair,
Her native grace, so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!

The bonnie wee thing.

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The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms-
These are all immortal charms.

THE BONNIE WEE THING.

TUNE—“Bonnie wee thing.".

(“Composed on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies.”-Burns. ]

BONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.
Wishfully I look an' languish

In that bonnie face o’thine;
An' my heart it stounds wi' anguish,

Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, an' grace, an' love, an' beauty,

In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine!

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

TUNE_“The shepherd's wife.”

(“This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruickshanks, only child to my worthy friend Mr. William Cruickshanks, of the High School, Edinburgh.”—Burns. ]

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,

All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
An' drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest,
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,

Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeanie fair!
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

That tends thy early morning.

Braving angry Winter's Storms.

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So thou, sweet rose-bud, young an' gay,
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day,
An' bless the parent's evening ray

That watch'd thy early morning.

BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.

TUNE—“Neil Gow's lament for Abercairny."

[“This song I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes & Co.'s Bank, Edinburgh."-Burns.]

WHERE, braving angry winter's storms,

The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms

First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who, by some savage stream,

A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,

With art's most polish'd blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,

And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,

When first I felt their pow'r !
The tyrant death, with grim control,

May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul

Must be a stronger death.