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Now haply down yon gay green shaw,

She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest, ye flow’rs that round her blaw,

Ye catch the glances o' her e’e !

How blest, ye birds that round her sing,

And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blithe in yon town,

And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr! But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charins

O’Paradise could yield me joy; But gi’e me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!

My cave wad be a lover's bower,

Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flow'r,

That I would tent and shelter there.


Oh, sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinking sun 's gane


upon; A fairer than 's in yon town

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

Lassie wi the lint-white Locks.


If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me—spare me Lucy dear!

For while life's dearest blood is warm,

Ae thought from her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest in her form !

She has the truest, kindest heart !


TUNE_"Rothiemurche's rant."

[“This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night are regularly rounded.”—Burns to Thomson.]


LASSIE wi' the lint-white locks,

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks,

Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea,
An' a' is young an' sweet like thee:
Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me,

An' say thou 'lt be my dearie, 0?

An' when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower

At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,

An' talk o’ love, my dearie, O.

An' when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest,
Enclasped to my faithful breast,

I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.

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TUNE-"My jo, Janet." “HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,

Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho’I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.”

“One of two must still obey,

Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man, or woman, say,

My spouse, Nancy?”

My spouse, Nancy.


“ If ’tis still the lordly word,

Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov’reign lord,

And so good-bye allegiance !"

“Sad will I be, so bereft,

Nancy, Nancy,
Yet I'll try to make a shift,

My spouse, Nancy."

“My poor heart then break it must,

My last hour I'm near it; When you lay me in the dust,

Think, think how you will bear it."

“I will hope and trust in heaven,

Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,

My spouse, Nancy."

“Well, sir, from the silent dead,

Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed

Horrid sprites shall haunt you.”

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“I'll wed another like my dear,

Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly for fear,

My spouse, Nancy.”


TUNE-"The lea rig." WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin' time is near, my jo; An' owsen frae the furrow'd field

Return sae dowf an’ weary, 0; Down by the burn, where scented birks

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I 'll meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, an' ne'er be earie, O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,

My ain kind dearie, O.
Altho' the night was ne'er sae wild,

An' I were ne'er sae weary, 0,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

The hunter lo’es the morning sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo: At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gi'e me the hour o'gloamin' gray,

It mak's my heart sae cheery, O, To meet me on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

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