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The Banks o' Doon.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn-
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

FIRST VERSION.

TUNE-"Katharine Ogie."

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,

An' I sae fu' o' care!

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, an' sae I sang,
An' wistna o' my fate.

4T

Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine, An' ilka bird sang o' its luve; An' sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree;
An' my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

SECOND VERSION.

TUNE-"Caledonian Hunt's delight.”

YE banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh an' fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An' I sae weary fu' o' care!

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed-never to return!

Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose an' woodbine twine;

An' ilka bird sang o' its luve,

An' fondly sae did I o' mine.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary?

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
An' my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

43

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?

TUNE-"The ewe-buchts."

["In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl" (Mary Campbell).— Burns.]

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across the Atlantic's roar?

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;

But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

I ha'e sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I ha'e sworn by the heavens to be true;
And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,

And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!

I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN.
TUNE-"The blue-eyed lassie."

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd; She charm'd my soul-I wistna how; An' aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue.

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing.

But spare to speak, and spare to speed;

She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

45

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. TUNE-"My wife's a wanton wee thing."

["There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity for adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air 'My wife's a wanton wee thing,' if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it."-Burns to G. Thomson.]

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer;

And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

Oh leeze me on my wee thing,
My bonnie, blithesome wee thing;
Sae lang's I ha'e my wee thing,

I'll think my lot divine.

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