GANE is the day, and mirk's the night;
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light;
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blude-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple folk maun fecht and fen;
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
Then, gudewife, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool,

That heals the wounds o' care and dool;

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

Tal lal de ral, &c.

It must be confessed that these lines give no indication of the future genius of Burns; bu he himself seems to have been fond of them, probably from the recollections they excited.

HAD I A CAVE

HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore,

HIGHLAND MARY.

Tune-" Katherine Ogie."

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

Oh, were some villains hangit hie,
And ilka body had their ain,
Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht,
My Highland Harry back again.

Oh, for him back again ! &c.

Sad was the day, and sad the hour,
He left me in his native plain,
And rush'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ;
But, oh! he'll ne'er come back again!
Oh, for him back again ! &c.

Strong was my Harry's arm in war,

Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain; But vengeance marks him for her ainI'll never see him back again.⚫

Oh, for him back again! &c.

The first three verses of this song, excepting the chorus, are by Burns. The air to which it is sung, is the Highlander's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter. ations, sung slowly.

The Castle o' Montgomery!"

Green be your woods, and fair your flow'rs,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there they langest tarry!
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birki
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
As, underneath their fragrant shade,
The golden hours, on angel wings,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder:
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.

HER FLOWING LOCKS:

A FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew,

O, what a feast, her bonnie mou! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.

meet,

Although thou maun never be mine-
Although even hope is denied—
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing

Than aught in the world beside, Jessie!

I mourn through the gay gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie!
I guess by the dear angel smile,

I guess by the love-rolling ee;
But why urge the tender confession,

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie!"

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.
Tune-" John Anderson my jo."

How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice.
Meanwhile the hapless daughter

Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wretched wife.

The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin

A while her pinions tries; 'Till of escape despairing,

No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet.

HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

Tune-" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen How lang and dreary is the night,

When I am frae my dearie:

I restless lie frae e'en to morn,
Though I were ne'er sae weary.

For, oh, her lanely nights are lang, And, oh, her dreams are eerie, And, oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.

Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson, of Dumfries; a true friend and a great favourite of the poet, and, at his death, one of the most ɛympathizing friends of his afflicted widow.