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THE old song, with this title, has more wit than decency.


This tune is also known by the name of Lass an I come near thee. The words are mine.

Wha is that at my bower door?

O wha is it but Findlay ;
Then gae your gate ye’se nae be here!

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay.
What mak ye sae like a thief?

O come and see, quo' Findlay ;-
Before the morn ye'll work mischief ;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Gif I rise and let you in?

Let me in, quo' Findlay ;-
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

In my bower if ye should stay?

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ;-
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Here this night if ye remain ?

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ;-
I dread ye'll learn the gate again;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ;
What may pass within this bower;

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ;-
Ye maun conceal 'till your last hour;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay !*

• Mr. Gilbert Burns told the Editor that this song was suggested to his brother by the • Auld Man's Address to the Widow, printed in Rumsay's Tea Table Miscellany, which the Poet first heard sung before he had seen that Collection, by a Jean Wilson, a silly old widow-woman, then living at Tarbolton, remarkable for the simplicity and naïveté of her character, and for singing old Scotch songs with a peculiar energy and earnestness of manner. Having outlived her family, she still retained the form of family worship: and before she sung a hymn, she would gravely give out the first line of the verse as if she had a numerous au · dience, to the great diversion of her listening neighbours.


This tune is the same with, Haud awa frae me, Donald.


This song was composed by Miss Cranston.* It wanted four lines to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the four first of the last stanza.

The tears I shed must ever fall;

I weep not for an absent swain,
For time can past delights recal,

And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er,
And these they lov'd their steps shall tread,

And death shall join to part no more.

* This lady is now married to Professor Dugald Stewart, of Edinburgh.

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Though boundless oceans roll between,

If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads the scene,

Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
Ev'n when by death's cold hand remov'd,

We mourn the tenant of the tomb; To think that ev'n in death he loy'd

Can cheer the terrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter is the tear

Of her who slighted love bewails,
No hopes her gloomy prospect cheer,

No pleasing melancholy hails.
Her's are the pangs of wounded pride,

Of blasted hope, and wither'd joy:
The prop she lean'd on pierc'd her side,

The flame she fed burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The scenes once ting'd in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon meets the view,

And turns the thought to agony. Ev'n conscious virtue cannot cure

The pang to ev'ry feeling dụe ; Ungen'rous youth, thy boast how poor,

To steal a heart, and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest—and broke my

heart! Hope from its only anchor torn,

Neglected and neglecting all,
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall.


COMPOSED on my little idol, The charming, lovely Davies."

Bonie wee thing, canie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing was thou mine;
I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish,

In that bonie face of thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,

Lest my wee thing be na mine.

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