Whae'er ye be that woman love,

To this be never blind,

Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,

A woman has't by kind.

O woman, lovely woman fair!

An angel form's fa'n to thy share,

'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair-
I mean an angel mind.

THE EXCISEMAN.

Tune-"The Deil cam' fiddling through the town."

[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the excisemen of the Dumfries district.]

THE deil cam' fiddling through the town,

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman,

And ilka wife cries-" Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o' the prize, man!"
The deil's awa, the deil's awa,

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman;
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,

He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman!

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;

But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land
Was-the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman.
The deil's awa, the deil's awa,

31

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman:
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,

He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

Tune-"Lass of Inverness."

[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden, in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose on his fancy: the first four lines are partly old.]

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas!
And ay the saut tear blin's 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 mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee

A RED, RED ROSE.

Tune-"Graham's Strathspey."

[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments of this song in certain street ballads: it resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a dropripe damson.]

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 a-while!
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.

Tune-"Louis, what reck I by thee."

[The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.]

LOUIS, what reck I by thee,

Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar loons to me-
I reign in Jeannie's bosom.

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

HAD I THE WYTE.

Tune-"Had I the wyte she bade me."

[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit of

ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.]

HAD I the wyte, had I the wyte,

Had I the wyte she bade me;

She watch'd me by the hie-gate side,
And up the loan she shaw'd me;
And when I wadna venture in,
A coward loon she ca'd me;

Had kirk and state been in the gate,

I lighted when she bade me.

Sae craftilie she took me ben,

And bade me make na clatter;
"For our ramgunshoch, glum gudeman
Is out and owre the water:"

Whae'er shall I wanted grace

say

When I did kiss and dawte her,
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say I was the fautor.

Could I for shame, could I for shame,
Could I for shame refused her?
And wadna manhood been to blame,
Had I unkindly used her?

He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame,
And blue and bluidy bruised her;
When sic a husband was frae hame,
What wife but had excused her?

I dighted ay her een sae blue,
And bann'd the cruel randy;
And weel I wat her willing mou'
Was e'en like sugar-candy.
A gloamin-shot it was I wot,

I lighted on the Monday;

But I cam through the Tysday's dew,
To wanton Willie's brandy.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

Tune-"Coming though, the rye.”

[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from the old chant, and 5tted

it for the Museum, where it was first printed.]

COMING through the rye, poor body,

Coming through the rye,

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye.

Jenny's a' wat, poor body,

Jenny's seldom dry;

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body-
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body-
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body-
Need the warld ken?

Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN.

Tune-"The Carlin o' the Glen."

dent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part only is thought to be his.]

YOUNG Jamie, pride of a' the plain,

Sae gallant and sae gay a swain;
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove,
And reign'd resistless king of love:
But now wi' sighs and starting tears,
He strays amang the woods and briers;
Or in the glens and rocky caves
His sad complaining dowie raves.

I wha sae late did range and rove,
And chang'd with every moon my love,
I little thought the time was near,
Repentance I should buy sae dear:
The slighted maids my torment see,
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree;
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair,
Forbids me e'er to see her mair!