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The bonnie wee thing.

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



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!


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. 145

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young an'
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.



STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; Woods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood:

The young Highland Rover.

Life's poor day I'll musing rave,

And find at night a sheltering cave,

Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle-Gordon.



LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover,

Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be his warden, Return him safe to fair Strathspey, An' bonnie Castle-Gordon !

The trees, now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,
The birdies, dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blithely singing,
An' every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When, by his mighty warden,
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey,
An' bonnie Castle-Gordon.


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