SONG XL.

MY HEART IS A BREAKING, &c.

AIR. TAM GLEN.

I.

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len', anger them a' is a pity,

Το

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

66

ous origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh 66 stanza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof "sufficient. Many are the instances in which our bard has "adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be "produced, in which to preserve the rhyme, he has given a "feeble thought, in false grammar. These additional stanzas 66 are not however without merit, and they may serve to pro"long the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, "from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with "moral sentiments that are singularly interesting."

II.

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen.

III.

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, "Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

IV.

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

V.

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten:
But, if its ordain'd I maun take him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen.

IV.

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane w hout failing,
And thrice it was written Tam Glen.

VII.

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen.

VIII.

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ;
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

SONG XLI.

O MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE, &c.

AIR. MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

I.

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee:
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,
He can na hae luve to
for me.

spare

II.

Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny,

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.