AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE* DOAT.

TUNE JOCKEY'S GREY BREEKS.'

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS.+

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me, the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.

*Menie is the common abbreviation of Marianne. R. B. + This chorus part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. R. B. Allan Cunningham says, Burns adopted the chorus, because it contained the name of Marianne, of which lady, however, nothing is known.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

Come Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.

HIGHLAND MARY.†

TUNE-KATHARINE OGIE.'

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom !

'Highland Mary" was Mary Campbell, of whom a notice will be found under his beautiful lines to " Mary in Heaven," and the song My Highland Lassie." On the 15th November, 1792, Burns sent this song to Mr. Thomson in the following letter:

"I agree with you, that the song 'Katharine Ogie' is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it; but the awkward sound Ogie,' recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition."

The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But Oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

AULD LANG SYNE.*

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?1
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,2
And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,3

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,*
For auld lang syne.

VAR. thought upon.

2 Let's hae a waught o' Malaga,

For auld lang syne.

4 Let's hae a waught o' Malaga.

..

* Burns sent this beautiful song to Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1788, saying: 'Is not the Scotch phrase, 'Auld lang' syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs-I shall give you the verses on the other sheet-Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired Poet, who composed this glorious fragment."

In September, 1793, Burns wrote to Thomson, "One song more, and I have done: Auld lang syne.' The air is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor