That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she has twa glancin' roguish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her roguish een.

MARY!

Tune-"Blue Bonnets."

[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song "A Prayer for Mary;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.]

POWERS celestial! whose protection

Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless.
Fair and faultless as your own,

Let my Mary's kindred spirit

Draw your choicest influence down.

Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Soothe her bosom into rest:
Guardian angels! O protect her,

When in distant lands I roam;

To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.

THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.

Tune-"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."

[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells her in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popular song. He chanced to meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander, perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of the muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time: it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber -as it deserves to be.]

"TWAS even the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang,
The zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:

In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,

And sweet is night in autumn mild;
When roving thro' 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

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain,

Thro' 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 slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine:
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek 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

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

THE GLOOMY NIGHT.

Tune-"Roslin Castle."

["I had taken," says Burns, "the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia

"The gloomy night is gathering fast.'"]

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 rip'ning 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 billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore;
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear!

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierc'd 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 scenes 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!

O WHAR DID YE GET.

Tune-" Bonnie Dundee."

[This is one of the first songs which Burns communicated to Johnson's Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly old and partly new: the second is wholly by his hand.]

O WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock?

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?

I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.

O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't!

Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee;

May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,
And send him safe hame to his babie and me!

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie,

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie!

Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me!

But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,
Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

[Most of this song is by Burns: his fancy was filled with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them ever ready at the call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.]

I MARRIED with a scolding wife

The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years

A man and wife together;

At length from me her course she steer'd,
I know not whither:

And gone

Would I could guess, I do profess,

I speak, and do not flatter,

Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,

A handsome grave does hide her;

But sure her soul is not in hell,

The deil could ne'er abide her.

I rather think she is aloft,

And imitating thunder;

For why, methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.