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TUNE-Bide ye yet.'
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor;
How blithely wad I bide the stoure1,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw;
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
MY NANIE, 0.
3ehind yon hills where Lugar flows 'Mang moors an' mosses many, C The wintry sun the day has closed, And I'll awa to Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill:
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O!
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.
My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be?
I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, 0:
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O. Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weal, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, O; Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT.
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, 01
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, ↓ !
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot' she coost2 a hitch3,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc" he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it.
hoof. cast. $ loop. + wrestled. 'A neibor herd-callan about three-fourths as wise as other folk.
He gaped wide, but naething spak.
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hiil,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'1!
'Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' ay was guid to me an' mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.
‘O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel :
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay, an' ripps o' corn.
'An' may they never learn the gaets
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come thro' the sheers;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet 10 for them when they're dead.
'My poor toop 11-lamb, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins 12 in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name;
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like other menseless', graceless brutes.
'An' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop3 an' mell',
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!
'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:
An' when you think upo' your Mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell my Master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather"
This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
An' closed her een amang the dead!
FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD
I am nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?'
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.