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LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.

TUNE "MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRING O'ER ME.

LOUIS, what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar loons to me,
I reign in Jeanie's1 bosom.

Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me:
Kings and nations, swith awal2
Reif randies, I disown ye!

307

BONNIE BELL.

THE smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly Winter grimly flies:
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;

Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning,
The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell;
All creatures joy in the sun's returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,
And yellow Autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,
Till smiling Spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old Time and Nature their changes tell;
But never ranging, still unchanging,
I adore my bonnie Bell.

Mrs. Burns.

• Get away.

• Sturdy beggars.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.

TUNE "THE HIGHLAND WATCH'S FAREWELL,

My heart is sair, I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night,
For the sake o' somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!

I could range the world around,
For the sake o' somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody!
Oh-hon! for somebody!

Oh-hey! for somebody!

I wad do what wad I not?
For the sake o' somebody!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December,
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.
And dear, &c.

And here's to them that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum;

And here's to them that wish us weel;-
May a' that's guid watch o'er them;

And here's to them we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

And here's to, &c.

A RED, REd rose.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her e'e:
Drumossie Moor, Drumossie day,'
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

A RED, RED ROSE.

TUNE-" WISHAW'S FAVOURITE."

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

'The battle of Culloden, on Drumossie Moor.

309

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN?

TUNE "THE BONNIE LASS IN YON TOWN."

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's' in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest, ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

How blest, ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year;
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear!

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O, sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon;

A fairer than's in yon town,

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

1 Mrs. Oswald, of Auchincruive, whose beauty and accomplish ments so dazzled Burns, that he resolved to "say n thing at all" about her, "in despair of saying anything adequate."

A VISION.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,

Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest is her form,-

She has the truest, kindest heart.'

311

A VISION.

TUNE' CUMNOCK PSALMS."

As I stood by yon roofless tower,'
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air;
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care;
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its haz'lly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa',
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roarings swell and fa.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me;

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain
The sacred posy-Libertie!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might rouse the slumbering dead to hear;

But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sank wi' joy his former day,

He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play;
I winna venture 't in my rhymes.

1 These lines are in the form of an address from the husband to his wife.

The tower belonged to the ruins of Lincluden Abbey, near Dum fries, a most poetical scene, and often visited by Burns.

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