Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee 1 Wha for Scotland's king and law By oppression's woes and pains But they shall be-shall be free' Lay the proud usurpers low Forward! let us do, or die! AULD LANG SYNE Burns gave this song to the public as a production of the olden time;' but it was afterward discovered to be his own. Auld Lang Syne' owes all its attractions, if it owes rot its origin, to the muse of Burns. So exquisitely has the poet eked out the old with the new, that it would puzzle a very profound antiquary to separate the ancient from the modern. SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, For auld lang syne, &c. We twa hae paidl'to i' the burn,P But seas between us braid hae roar'd, For auld lang syne, &c. And here's a hand, my trusty fier," And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne, &c. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, &c. DAINTY DAVIE. Dainty Davie' is the title of an old song from which Burns has taken nothing but the name and the measure. Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, " Wild daisies. p Rivulet. o To wade, or walk in the water. Liberal draught. 9 Friend The crystal waters round us fa', When purple morning starts the hare To meet my faithfu' Davie. When day, expiring in the west, CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT ARRIVE. 'September, 1793. I have this moment finished the song for Oran Gaoil, so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!-if not, 'tis also well.'-Burns to Thomson. Tune.-Oran Gaoil. BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! Sever'd from thee can I survive? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : 'E'en here I took the last farewell; There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.' Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry Across the rolling, dashing roar THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 'I enclose you the music of Fee him Father,' with two verses, which I composed at the time in which Patie Allan's mither died, that was about the back o' midnight, and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautbois and the music.'-Burns to Thomson. Tune.-Fee him Father. THOU hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, Thou last left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Now thou 'st left thy lass for ay- Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, While my heart is breaking, FAIR JENNY." Tune.-Saw ye my Father? WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning w Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, to whom the poet No more a-winding the course of yon river, Is it that summer 's forsaken our valleys, No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, DELUDED SWAIN, &c. In a letter to Mr. Thomson, enclosing this song, Burns quaintly calls it an old Bacchanal.' It is, however, well known to be one of his own. Tune.-The Collier's Dochter. DELUDED Swain, the pleasure Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds' uncertain motion, They are but types of woman. O! art thou not ashamed, To doat upon a feature? thus speaks concerning it. "I have finished my song to Saw ye my Father and in English, as you will see. There is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, but the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is no great matter. Of the poetry, I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence." |