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But ah, waes me! wi’ their sodgʻring sae gaudy, O, The laird's wys't awa my braw Highland laddie, 0; Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, 0, That aye seem't sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, 0.

The blae-berrie banks now are lonesome and drearie, 0,
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearlie, 0,
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, 0,
The wild-melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O.
Oh! love is like the morning, sae gladsome and bonnie, 0,
Till winds fa' a-storming, and clouds low'r sae rainy, 0:
As nature in winter droops withering sae sadly, 0,
Sae lang may I mourn for my dear Highland laddie, 0.

He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggie fen,
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggie glen,
He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild steep sae giddy, 0,
Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O.
Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel my doggie, O,
Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, 0,
Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammie and my daddie, O,
I will lea' you a' for my dear Highland laddie, 0.


The Catrine woods were yellow seen,

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee;
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the ee.
Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle;

the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,

Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas ! for me nae mair,

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! *

Wi' warblin' note an' mellow tongue,

Tears glist'nin' in his een the whyle,
Langsyne the Bard o' Coila sung

The lovely lass o' Ballochmyle.
Sae wake my harp, my early frien',

Sing east and wast, frae sea to sea,
Owre uplan' heath, an' meadow green,

The bonnie lass o' Skelmorlie.

* These verses were composed by Burns on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes had obliged him to sell the estate. It is now the seat of CLAUD ALEXANDER, Esq. son of Claud ALEXANDER, who, after realizing a plentiful fortune in India, upon returning to his native country, purchased this estate, and by a most extensive series of improvement, has rendered it one of the most beautiful and interesting in that part of the country. Its proud precipitous boundary to the eastward, washed by the water of Ayr, now rendered immortal by the poetry of BURNS, overlooks the thriving and populous village of Catrine, the family seat of Professor STUART, but principally the property of the Cotton work company, the resident member of which is ARCHIBALD Bu. CHANAN, Esq. a gentleman by whose unremitting industry, and àcute mechanical genius, the machinery employed in that species of manufacture, has been almost brought to the highest perfection.

O! sweet's the wastlin' sky at e'en,

Bedight wi' streaks o' rosy hue;
An' sweet to see night's silv'ry quee

Illume the vast etherial blue;
But sea, or sky, or earth, or air,

To me sic pleasure canna gie,
As she, sae charmin', sweet an' fair,

The bonnie lass o’ Skelmorlie!

Dear be the scene- --forever dear!

That heard us pledge the mutual vow,
That saw the lang-impended tear

Bedew the gowan on the knowe;
The look o' love that look o'bliss!

I gat, kind fa'in', frae her ee;
An'aye the soul-transportin' kiss,

On thy sweet braes, oh Skelmorlie!

Forever, oh! be blest the hour,

An' mag't to memory dear remain;
Forever, oh! be green the bow'r,

Whare love made Jessie a' mine ain.
But should its pow'rs o' life be ta’en,

Still grow thou bonnie birken tree,
Thou bear'st upon thy bark the name

O’my sweet lass o' Skelmorlie! *

AULD ROB MORRIS. There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows and wale o auld men;

* The foregoing is by the author of Fair Helen (see p. 231). Skelmorlie is an estate belonging to the Earl of Eglinton, beautifully and romantically situated on the banks of Clyde, about 10

miles below Greenock.

He has gowd in his coffers, he has ousen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.
But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smild upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express !


TUNE" Flowers of the Forest.
SWEET is May morning, the heath hills adorning,

Decking with pearl the green flow'ry lea;
Sweet sing the thrushes among the hawthorn bushes,

But sweeter by far was my Jamie to me. Dark, dark and drearie, the moment was eerie,

When the grim tyrant, by fatal decree, Snatch'd aff my treasure, my whole care and pleasure, Wha now sleeps in death 'neath the dark rolling sea. Lanely I wander whare burnies meander,

Blythely the birds sing on ilka green tree; Nature looks cheerie—but waes me, I'm wearie:

Joy fled wi' him wha sleeps cauld in the sea. Nae mair in the gloamin' I'll gaylie be roamin',

To meet wi' my darling beneath the haw tree, Where kindly he'd press me, and fondly caress me

My heart's still wi' him, tho' he's cauld in the sea. Vain are life's pleasures, its beauties and treasures

Sweet spring the gowans adorning the lea: Winter comes blasting, no longer they're lasting,

But nipt in the bloom like my Jamie frae me. Waukin' or sleeping I'm mournin' and weeping ;

Thinking on Jamie tears gush frae my ee; Pleasure forsakes me, and sorrow o'ertakes me;

Death now alone my consoler must be. *


We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Whare the bushes form a cozie den, on yon burn side:

Tho'the broomy knowes be green,

Yet there we may be seen, But we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn


* The above verses are by a Mr. Andrew G. Bain of Edinburgh, and were composed on the death of a young gentleman, a friend of the author's, who was unfortunately lost on the coast of Ireland, on the 30th of January, 1816.

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