Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;

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

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae 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!

MY WIFE'S A WINSOM WEE THING.

"These lines,' says Burns, are extempore. I might have tried something more profound, yet it might not have suited the lighthorse gallop of the air so well as this random clink.'

SHE is a winsome weeb 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 neiste my heart I 'll wear her,

For fear my jewel tine.d

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife of mine.

a Gay.

Little.

c Nearest.

d Be lost

The warld's wrack, we share o't,
The warstler and the care o't,
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

GALLA WATER.

Written for Thomson's Collection. The air, and several of the lines, are from an old song of the same name.

THERE's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow Braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gaila Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he 'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Galla Water.

Although his daddie was nae laird,

And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tenth our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That cofti contentment, peace, or pleasure:
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

YOUNG JESSIE.

The following song, though excellent, and set to one of the best and sweetest Scottish melodies, has never become popular. The good old ditty 'O whar gat ye that bonnie blue bonnet,' is still sung, and still a favourite.

Tune.-Bonnie Dundee.

TRUE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,

• Vexation.

fWrestling.

A Tend.

g Not much wealth. i Bought,

But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and inaidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie, you seek it in vain;
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie,
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger!
Her modest demeanour 's the jewel of a'.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

Tune.-Robin Adair.

Speaking of this song to Thomson, Burns says, I have tried my hand on "Robin Adair," and you will probably think with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing any thing better to it.

WHILE larks with little wing

Fann'd the pure air,

Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:

Gay the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high
Such thy morn! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song,
Glad did I share ;

While yon wild flowers among,

Chance led me there:

Sweet to the opening day,

Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ;

Such thy bloom! did I say,

Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare:
So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.

HAD I A CAVE, &c.

To the same Tune.

An unfortunate circumstance which happened to his friend Cunningham, suggested this fine pathetic song to the Poet's fancy.

HAD I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,

There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try,
What peace is there!

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

'A favourite air of mine,' says Burns, is the muckin' o' Geordle's Byre, when sung slow, with expression. I have often wished that it had had better poetry: that I have endeavoured to supply as follows.'

Tune.-The muckin' o' Geordic's Byre.

ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

CHORUS.

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare ;
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is simplicity's child.
Awa, &c.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa, &c.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie :
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye.
Awa, &c.

Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains
On music, and pleasure, and love.

Awa, &c.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.

Awa, &c