LXXXIII.

MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE.

Tune-" Lord Breadalbone's March."

it [Part of this song is old: Sir Harris Nicolas says does not appear to be in the Museum: let him look again.]

I.

O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle,
And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon;
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle,
And kissin' my Katie when a' was done.
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer,
An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing,
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,
An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.

II.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,

O' marrying Bess to gie her a slaye: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens,

And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,

An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! And blest be the day I did it again.

But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

LXXXV.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Tune-"Death of Captain Cook."

[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with his eyes fixed on "a bright, particular star," was found by his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared in the Museum.]

I.

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Time but th' impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

LXXXVI.

EPPIE ADAIR. Tune-"My Eppie."

[“This song,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an old strain,corrected by Burns: he communicated it to the Museum.]

I.

AN' O! my Eppie,
My jewel, my Eppie!
Wha wadna be happy

Wi' Eppie Adair?
By love, and by beauty,
By law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
My Eppie Adair !

II.

An' O! my Eppie,
My jewel, my Eppie!
Wha wadna be happy
Wi' Eppie Adair?
A' pleasure exile me,
Dishonour defile me,
If e'er I beguile thee,
My Eppie Adair!

LXXXVII.

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.

Tune-" Cameronian Rant."

[One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the battle of Sheriff-muir: Burns was in nowise pleased with the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved version.]

I.

"O CAM ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man ?"

I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh,

My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

II.

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyll led on his files,
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles :
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords
clash'd,

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, "Till fey men died awa, man.

III.

But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man;
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs
And covenant true blues, man;

In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

IV.

"O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man!"

V.

My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good-will That day their neebors' blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose-they scar'd at blows. And so it goes, you see, man.