The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, For a' my desire is Hay's bonnie lassie. [From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. It is said to be by Ramsay.] THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. ALLAN RAMSAY. Born 1686.-Died 1757. The lass of Patie's mill, In spite of all my skill, She stole my heart away. Her arms white, round, and smooth; To age it would give youth, Through all my spirits ran When I such sweetness fand Without the help of art, Like flow'rs which grace the wild, O! had I a' the wealth Hopetoun's high mountains fill, And pleasure at my will; I'd promise, and fulfil, That none but bonnie she, Should share the same with me. [Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, informed Burns on the authority of the Earl of Loudon, that Ramsay was struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl, at a place called Patie's Mill, near New-mills; and under the influence of her charms composed the above song. Published for the first time in the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.] THE BRAES OF BRANKSOME. ALLAN RAMSAY, As I came in by Teviot-side, And by the braes of Branksome, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome; Her skin was safter than the down, Her hair a shining wavy brown; In straightness nane surpass'd her; Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, Her clear een were surprising, And beautifully turn'd her neck, Ae little coat, and bodice white, A thousand beauties of desert Before had scarce alarm'd me, I had nae heart to do her harm, Since heaven had dealt to me a routh, There plighting her my faith and trouth, [First appeared under the name of "The Generous Gentleman," in Allan Ramsay's collection, accompanied by instructions to sing it to the tune of "The Bonnie Lass of Branksome."] LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND. ALLAN RAMSAY. Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, Or black or fair, it makesna whether. Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. I hate with poortith, though bonny, to meddle, They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle. There's meikle good love in bands and bags, Have tint the art of gaining affection: And castles, and riggs, and muirs and meadows, And naithing can catch our modern sparks, But well-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. LOCHABER NO MORE. ALLAN RAMSAY. Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, |