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ROBERT BURNS

ELIZA.

Tune-" Gilderoy."

[My late excellent friend, John Galt, informed me that the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Barbour.]

FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,

And from my native shore;
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans roaring wide
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee!

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!
The latest throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,

That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh!

THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE.

Tune-" Shawnboy."

["This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was master of the Lodge." These interesting words are on the original, in the poet's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.]

YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,

To follow the noble vocation;

Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another

To sit in that honoured station.

I've little to say, but only to pray,

As praying's the ton of your fashion;

A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,
'Tis seldom her favourite passion.

F

Ye

powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border;

Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,

Whose sovereign statute is order;

Within this dear mansion may wayward contention

Or withered envy ne'er enter;

May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.

MENIE.

Tune-"Johnny's grey breeks."

[Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account: It first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.]

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

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

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.

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.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blest but I.

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

I meet him on the dewy hill.

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.

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 1 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.

THE FAREWELL TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON.

Tune-" Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'."

[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James's Lodge of Tarbolton, when his ches was on the way to Greenock: men are yet living who had the honour of hearing himthe concluding verse affected the whole lodge.]

ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu!
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,
Companions of my social joy!
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light:

And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'.

May freedom, harmony, and love
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious Architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

And

you farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round-I ask it with a tear,-
To him, the Bard that's far awa'.

ON CESSNOCK BANKS.

Tane-" If he be a butcher neat and trim.”

[There are many variations of this song, which was first printed by Cromek from the oral communication of a Glasgow lady, on whose charms the poet, in early life, com posed it.]

ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;

Could I describe her shape and mien;
Our lasses a' she far excels,

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

She's sweeter than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish ecn.

She's stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her looks are like the vernal May,

When evening Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray—
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her hair is like the curling mist

That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,

When gleaming sunbeams intervene, And gild the distant mountain's brow;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flow'ry scene,

Just opening on its thorny stem;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her teeth are like the nightly snow
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,

That sunny walls from Boreas screenThey tempt the taste and charm the sight An' she has twa sparkling roguish een

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,

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