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There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o'truth and love,
And
say

thou loo's me best of a'?

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MY ANNA.

How sweet is the scene at the dawning o' morning!

How fair ilka object that lives in the view ! Dame Nature the valley and hillock adorning;

The primrose and blue-bells yet wet wi' the dew. How sweet in the morning o' life is my

Anna! Her smile like the sun-beam that glents o'er the lee! To wander and leave her, dear lassie, I canna,

Frae love and frae beauty I never can flee.

* The circumstance which impelled Burns to the composition of this

song is unfolded in the following extract from a letter to Mr. THOMPSON. “ Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's Water-fall? The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least, for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of her's shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have me. diocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum ; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above-mentioned, for that work. If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies.” Mr. THOMPSON, it appears, did not admit it into his good company; but in a letter to BURNS he says,—" I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood-notes wild are becoming as enchanting as ever. She says she loo's me best of a', is one of the pleasantest table-songs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the song is going round.”

O! lang hae I loo'd her, and loo her fu' dearly,

And aft hae I preed o' her bonnie sweet mou’; And aft hae I read, in her ee blinkin' clearly,

A language that bade me be constant and true! Then others may doat on their fond warly treasure,

For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea; To love my sweet lassie be mine the dear pleasure,

Wi' her let me live, and wi' her let me die !

YOUNG ALLAN.

The sun in the west fa's to rest in the e'enin';
Ilk morn blinks cheerfu' upon the

green lee; But, ah! on the pillow o' sorrow ay leanin',

Nae mornin' nae e'enin' brings pleasure to me. 0! waefu' the parting, when, smiling at danger,

Young Allan left Scotia to meet wi’ the fae; Cauld, cauld now he lies in a land amang strangers,

Frae friends, and frae Helen for ever away.

As the aik on the mountain resists the blast rairin',

Sae did he the brunt o' the battle sustain, Till treach'ry arrested his courage sae darin',

And laid him pale, lifeless upon the drear plain,
Cauld winter the flower divests o' its cleidin',

In simmer again it blooms bonnie to see;
But naething, alas! can e'er hale my heart bleidin',

Drear winter remaining for ever wi' me.

* We are indebted for this and the preceding Song to RICHARD Gall, author of My only Jo and Dearie, 0, and the Farewell to Ayrshire. See pages 2, and 121.

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.

TUNE-" Druimion Dubh."
Musing on the roaring ocean,

Which divides my love and me;
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,

For his weal where'er he be.
Hope and fear's alternate billow

Yielding late to nature's law;
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow

Talk of him that's far awa.
Ye, whom sorrow never wounded,

Ye, who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,

Gaudy day to you is dear.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me;

Downy sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa.

**

my
LET DRUNKARDS SING.
TUNE-" Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."
Let drunkards sing in praise o' wine,

Their midnight balls an’ social glee;
But Scotia's sons may fidge fu' fain,
While they hae routh o'barley bree.
French brandy is but trash (shame fa't!)

Their foreign rum I downa prie ;
Gie me the sterling pith o' maut,

Aboon them ait bears the gree! * Burns tells us “ he composed these verses out of compliment to a Mrs. M.Lachlan, whose husband was an officer in the East Indies.”

The workman wha has toil'd a' day,

Sits down at night frae labour free: See care is fled-his smile how gay, Whan owre a pint o' barley bree.

French brandy, 8c.
Gif onie ane in barlock-hood,

Shou'd wi' his neibour disagree;
Let them baith gang in jovial mood,
An' settle't owre the barley bree.

French brandy, &c. For barley drink, wad they but think,

Is cheaper than a lawyer's fee; Tho' sairly vext, ay mind the text, “ It's best to tak’ a pint an' gree.”

French brandy, &c.
I've seen a chiel cou'd hardly speak,

Whan ne'er a drap was in his ee:
But he cou'd lecture for a week,
Just gie him ay the barley bree!

French brandy, &c.
Whan I've a baubee in my pouch,

I aften birl it frank an' free;
Then care can never mak me crouch:-
The life o' man is barley bree!

French brandy, 8c.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that:
For a' that, and that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, caʼd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,

Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray.

that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, and a' that.

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