John Anderson.

TUNE-John Anderson my jo. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

To Mary in Brauen. (337) TUNE-Death of Captain Cook. THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn. Oh Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

The Day Returns. (338) TUNE-Seventh of November. THE day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line;

breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace,

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning

green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every sprayTill too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear,

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Heav'n gave me more-it made thee mine While day and night can bring delight,

Or nature aught of pleasure give, While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart!

Oh, Willie Brew'd. (339)

TUNE.-Willie brew'd a Peck o' Mult. OH, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to pree: Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are nae fou', we're no that fou',
But just a drappie in our ee;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;

breast?

And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wile us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! Wha first shall rise to gang awa',

A cuckold, coward loon is he! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three!

Sgard a Warfu' Gate Vestreen. (340)

TUNE-The Blue-eyed Lass.

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
"Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew,
IIer heaving bosom, lily-white-

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd;
She charm'd my soul-I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue

The Banks of Mith.

TUNE-Robie donna Gorach.

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command; When shall I see that honour'd land,

That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!

Aly heart is a-breaking, Dear Tittie!

TUNE-Tam Glen.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie! Some counsel unto me come len',

To anger them a' is the pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow
In poortith I might make a fen';
What care I in riches to wallow,

If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller,

"Guid day to you, brute!" he comes ben; He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me,

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
Oh wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the valentine's dealing,

My heart to my mou' gied a sten ;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written-Tam Glen.
The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;
His likeness cam up the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
Come counsel, dear Tittie! don't tarry-
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen

grey;

And as he was singing, the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in
the yerd.
[dame-
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burthen that bows me down,
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the

same

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

Meikle thinks my Love.
TUNE-My Tocher's the Jewel.

OH meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee;
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin',

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

I do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind,
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,

Amang its native briers sae coy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pou'd and worn a common toy!
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile! Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like ony common weed and vile.

Bunting Song.

TUNE-I red you beware at the hunting.

THE heather was blooming, the meadows

were mawn,

Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn. Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a

glen,

[hen. At length they discover'd a bonnie moorI red you beware at the hunting, young [men;

men;

I red you beware at the hunting young Tak some on the wing, and some as they

spring,

But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,

Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring,

And oh as she wantoned gay on the wing. I red you beware, &c.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill,

In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae

His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay.

I red you beware, &c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I red you beware, &c.

What ran a Young Lassie. TUNE-What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man.

WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, [man P What can a young lassie do wi' an auld