The Works of Robert Burns

Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in | He begged, for gudesake! I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;

hand we'll go,

And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John An- Sae, e'en to preserve the puir body in life,

derson, my jo.

I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin'?

And how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled
feet?*

Gude sauf us! how he fell a-swearin', aswearin',

Gude sauf us! how he fell a-swearin'.

In Scotland, when a cast-off lover pays his addresses to a new mistress, that new mistress is said to have got the auld shoon (old shoes) of the former one. Here the metaphor is inade to carry an extremely ingenious sarcasm at the clumsiness of the new mistress's person.

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-637row,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.
Tune-" Rothiemurchus' Rant."

Lassie wi' the lint white locks,

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tend the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

Now Nature cleads the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee,
O, wilt thou share its joys wi' me,

And say thou'lt be my dearie, O?
Lassie wi', &c.

And when the welcome simmer shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower,
At sultry noon, my dearie, O.
Lassie wi', &c.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way,
Through yellow-waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie, O.

Lassie, wi', &c.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest,
Enclasped to my faithful breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.
Lassie, wi', &c.

LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS
Tune-"O lay the loof in mine, lass."
O LAY thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine, lass;
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.

A slave to love's unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me muckle wae;
But now he is my deadly fae,

Unless thou be my ain.

There's mony a lass has broke my rest,
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best;
But thou art queen within my breast,
For ever to remain.

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan Betray the hopeless lover.

I know my doom must be despair,

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ;
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me.

The music of thy tongue I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'a,
'Till fears no more had saved me.
The unwary sailor thus aghast,

The wheeling torrent viewing; 'Mid circling horrors yields at last To overwhelming ruin.

To thee my fancy took its wing

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Though this was fair, and that was braw, And you the toast o' a' the town,

I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison.

O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thocht ungentle canna be
The thocht of Mary Morison.

MARK YONDER POMP.

Tune-" Deil tak' the wars."

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion,
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compared with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are their showy treasures?
What are their noisy pleasures?
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art.
The polish'd jewel's blaze,
May draw the wond'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright,
The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array;

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.

O then the heart alarming,

And all resistless charming,

MEG O' THE MILL.

Tune-"O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack."
O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten,
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving:
The laird did address her wi' matter mair mo-

ving;

A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin'!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle.

In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

ling soul!

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Books

The Works of Robert Burns: Containing His Life