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When tedding out the hay,

Bareheaded on the green,
Love 'midst her locks did play,

And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms white, round, and smooth ;

Breasts in their rising dawn;
To age it would give youth,

To press them with his han'.
Through all my spirits ran

An extacy of bliss,
When I such sweetness fand

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
Her sweets she did impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smild:
Her looks they were so mild,

Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguild;

I wish'd her for my bride.

Oh! had I a' that wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill,
Insur'd long life and health,

And pleasure at my will;
I'd promise, and fulfil,

That none but bonnie she,
The lass of Patie's mill,

Should share the same with me.

* BURńs, in one of his letters, remarks, that “ The Lass of Patie's Mill is one of Ramsay's best songs.-In Sir John SinCLAIR's Statistical volumes, are two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of


TUNERBanks of the Devon.” My lassie is lovely as May-day, adorning

Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;
Tho' sweet is the vi’let, new blown i' the morning,

As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' ee.
O say, what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?

Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?
Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,

And bonnie her face as the red rose can be.

See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild wood,

Hedg'd round wi' sweet briar and green willow tree; 'Twas yonder I spent the first days of my childhood,

And first felt the power o' a love-rollin' ee. Though soon frae my hame and my lassie I wander'd,

Though lang I've been tossing on fortune's rough sea, Ay dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;

Ay dear was the blink o' her blue rollin' ee. O for the evening, and O for the hour,

When down by yon greenwood she promis'd to be; When quick as the summer dew dries on the flower,

A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.

this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir WiLLIAM CUNNINGHAM, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe.

ALLAN Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still called “ Patie's Mill,” where a bonnie

tedding hay, bareheaded on the green.” My Lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.”

lass was


Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasure;

Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie; As high is my bliss, and as sweet is my pleasure,

In the heart-melting blink o'my lassie's blue ec.


O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and vallies gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs,
The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs.
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And ev’ning's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile.
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights, and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes,

O, wae upon you, men o'state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!

mak monie a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! *

O WHARE gat ye that hauvermeal bannock?

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?

* This song is highly characteristic of the mind of Burns, both on account of the fine rural imagery it contains, and the noble burst of indignant resentment, with which it finishes, against those who make a trade of einbroiling mankind, and of spreading, by means of war, misery and desolation over the face of society. The temper in which it was composed is thus described, by the Poet himself, in the letter which accompanied it to the Editor of the Musical work in which it made its first appearance." Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air of Logan Water ; and it occurred to me that its querulous melody had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer; and overwhelmed with private distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit.”

I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,

Atween Saint Johnstoun and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that ga'e me't!

Aft has he doudld me upon his knee; May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,

And send him safe hame to his baby and me. My blessings upon that sweet wee lippie,

My blessings upon that bonnie ee-bree! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's


the dearer and dearer to me. But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie bank,

Where Tay rins wimplin bye sae clear, And I'll clead thee in the tartan sae fine,

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,

Her lips like roses, wat wi’ dew,
Her heaving bosom lily white;

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk’d, she smild, my heart she wild,

She charm’d my soul, I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed,

She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

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