WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,

He is a gallant weaver.

Oh I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied merings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I'll add my hand,

And give it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees delight in opening flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver.*

THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE.

THIS air is the Gardeners' March. The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine.

WHEN TOSY May comes in wi' flowers,

To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours,

The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

The crystal waters gently fa';

The merry birds are lovers a' ;
The scented breezes round him blaw,
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare ;
Then thro' the dews he maun repair,
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

In some editions sailor is substituted for weaver.

When day expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest; He flies to her arms he lo'es best, The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST.

Tune-"Banks of Ayr."

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain.
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her ripening corn,
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:"
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billows' roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scene where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell my friends, farewell my foes,
My peace with these, my love with those;
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.*

THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING.

Tune--" I red you beware at the hunting."

THE heather was blooming, the meadows were

mawn,

Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen; At length they discovered ahonnie moor-hen.

Burns wrote this song, while convoying his chest so far on the road from Ayrshire to Greenock, where he intended to embark in a few days for Jamaica. He designed it, he says, as his farewell dirge to his native country.

Ired you beware at the hunting, young men ; I red you beware at the hunting, young men; Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,

But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,

Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;'
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And O! as she wantoned gay on the wing.
I red, &c.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill;
In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill;
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the
brae

His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where
she lay.
I red, &c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill;
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight
I red, &c.

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O.

THIS was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all in the world.

NAE gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair,
Sall ever be my Muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty shew;
Gie me my Highland lassie, O.

Within the glen sae bushy, 0,
Aboon the plain sae rashy, 0,
I set me down wi' right good will,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

O were yon hills and vallies mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;'
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll lo'e my land lassie, O.

Within the glen, &c.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow
My faithful Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.

For her I'll dare the billow's roar ;
For her I'll trace a distant shore;

That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By secret truth and honour's band!
"Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen, sae bushy, O,
Farewell the plain, sae rashy, O,
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA.

Tune-" O'er the hills and far awa."

O, How can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Ls o'er the hills and far awa?

It's no the frosty winter wind,

It's no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my ee

To think on him that's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door,

My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will take my part,

The bonnie lad that's far awa.

A pair o' gloves he gae to me,

And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa.

The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw;
And my sweet babie will be born,

And he'll come hame that's far awa.

THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.

Tune-"The Lass of Ballochmyle." TWAS even, the dewy fields were green, On ilka blade the pearls hang; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang;

All nature list ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy;
When, musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanced to spy:
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like Nature's vernal smile;

The lily's hue, and rose's dye, Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle.

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving through the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild
But woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foil'd,
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Oh, had she been a country maid,

And I the happy country swain, Though shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain! Through weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward dig the Indian mine, Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine,

Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED
TO ME†

WHEN Januar winds were blawin' cauld,
Unto the north I bent my way,
The mirksome nicht did me enfauld,
I kend na where to lodge till day;
But by good luck a lass I met,

Just in the middle of my care,
And kindly she did me invite

To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And thank'd her for her courtesie;
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

And bade her make the bed to me.

This song was written in praise of Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one fine evening to meet this young lady, when walking through the beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, which lie at the dis tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. Struck with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble lyric; which he soon after sent to her, enclosed in a letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and as poetical as itself. He was somewhat mortified to find, that either maidenly modest, or pride of supe rior station, prevented her from acknowledging the re ceipt of his compliment: Indeed it is no where record ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest sense of it; as to her the pearls seem to have been li terally thrown away.

There is an older and coarser song, containing the same incidents, and said to have been occasioned by an adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the Presbyterian army, 1650-51. The affair happened at the house of Port-Lethem, in Aberdeenshire, and it was a daughter of the laird that made the bed to the king.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE

TO HIS MISTRESS.

Tune-" Deil tak the wars."

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarelyMy blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley!

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy:

Now through the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods;

Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower:

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

She

That shone that hour sae clearly! shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley.

aye

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear
I hae been merry drinking;

I hae been joyfu' gathering gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Though they were doubled fairly,

;

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning

Banishes ilka darksome shade,

Ainang the rigs o' barley.

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

Tune-" The Mill, Mill, O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning,

And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd,

That had been blear'd wi' mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger; My humble knapsack a' my wealth; A poor but honest sodger.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy oft I courted.
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling?
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my ee was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang ' Tak pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,

And lovelier grew than ever; Quoth she, A sodger ance I loved, Forget him will I never.