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The cowte wad let naebody steer him,

He was aye sae wanton and skeigh; The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them,

And gart a' the fair stand abeigh. Wi' sneering behind and before him ;

For sic is the mettle o' brutes ; Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,

Was fain to gang hame in his boots. Now it was late in the ev'ning,

And bughting time was drawing near; The lasses had stenched their greening

Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,

And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,

But deil a lad bade them come in. Gude guide's! saw ye ever the like o't?

See yonder's a bonny black swan; It glowrs as it wad fain be at us;

What's yon that it hauds in its han'?
Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie,

They're a' but a rickle o' sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,

And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick. Quo' Maggie, Come buy us our fairing,

To Wattie, wha sleely could tell,
I think thou'rt the flow'r o' the clachan,

In troth now I'se gie you mysel'.
But wha wad e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er he had

oled the lint? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,

Though she did baith scailie and squint.


What! is there ill news, ye're so sad,

Robin Gray, That thy blue bonnet's pulld o'er thy brow?

O! sad news! sad! sad!

Poor Robin is dead,
And the plowman weeps over his plow,

Well a well a day.
And the plowman weeps over his plow.
Is his pipe mute for aye, and for aye,

Robin Gray,
No more shall we 'tend to his song?

Ay, cold as a clod

Beneath the green sod,
Poor Robin they've laid all along,

Well a well a day,
Poor Robin they've laid all along.
Adieu then, the forest and hill,

Robin Gray,
And farewell the vallies and grove!

Why the forest and hill,

And the vallies ring still, Still echo his ditties of love,

Well a well a day, Still echo his ditties of love.

The sad sound of echo I'll shun,

Robin Gray,
Its dying notes live on my mind;


then as you roam From your forefathers' home, Leave your country's feeling behind.

Well a well a day,
Leave your country's feeling behind.


Still the blackbird will sing on the thorn,

Robin Gray,
And the lark early carol on high,

But the lowly lodg’d swain,

As he scatters his grain,
Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh,

Well a well a day,
Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh.

Soft lies on his bosom the turf,

Robin Gray,
Rest his ashes unmingled and pure!

May the tomb of his urn

Caledonia adorn,
And his much-lov'd remains aye secure!

Well a well a day!
And his much-lov'd remains aye secure.


WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,

Under the willow.
Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,

Never, O never.
Eleu loro, 8c. Never, O never.
Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle,

With groans of the dying.
Eleu loro, fc. There shall he be lying.
Her wings shall the eagle flap,

O’er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it,

Never, O never.
Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never.

LONG I've been an orphan poor,
Craving pity at your door:
Spent and weary, down I lie,
And with cold and hunger die.

Daughters of charity, sons of humanity,
O pity, O pity, the poor beggar boy.

No care nurs'd my growing years,-
No friend wip'd the flowing tears;
Father, mother, all are gone,
Left a beggar boy forlorn!

Daughters of charity, &c.
Charity, Charity, celestial maid !
Dart a sunbeam in the shade;
Light an outcast such as me,
A wand'ring son of misery!

Daughters of charity, &c. *


* The force of the appeals to our sensibility contained in this little piece, may, perhaps, be most strikingly illustrated by the following most remarkable philippic of Burns against poverty. “O Poverty! thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german hell! where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little little aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in suffering silence his remark neglected, and his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot at tempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to want ; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice

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