THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.

Tune "O mount and go."

[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, with the same title: it was com municated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum.]

CHORUS.

O mount and go,

Mount and make you ready;

O mount and go,

And be the Captain's Lady.

WHEN the drums do beat,

And the cannons rattle,
Thou shall sit in state,

And see thy love in battle.

When the vanquish'd foe

Sues for peace and quiet,

To the shades we'll go,

And in love enjoy it.

O mount and go,

Mount and make you ready;

O mount and go,

And be the Captain's Lady.

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

Tune-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."

[Burns wrote this charming song in honour of Jean Armour: he archly says in his notes, "P. S. it was during the honey-moon." Other versions are abroad; this one is from the manuscripts of the poet.]

Or a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild-woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between ;

But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees,
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me

That's aye sae neat and clean;
Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
Sae charming is my Jean.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes
Hae passed atween us twa!

How fond to meet, how wae to part,

That night she gaed awa!

The

powers aboon can only ken,

To whom the heart is seen,

That nane can be sae dear to me

As my sweet lovely Jean!

FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE.

Tune-"Whistle o'er the lave o't."

[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.]

FIRST when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier nae mair—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.-

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child;
Wiser men than me's beguil'd-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love, and how we 'gree,
I care na by how few may see;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.-
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.

Tune-" My love is lost to me."

[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of swald's.]

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill !

Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse's well;
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel':
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay,
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day

I coudna sing, I coudna say,

Mow much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-
By heaven and earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;

["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.]

THERE'S a youth in this city,

It were a great pity

That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa:
For he's bonnie an' braw,
Weel-favour'd an' a',

And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.

His coat is the hue

Of his bonnet sae blue;

His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,

And his shoon like the slae,

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.

For beauty and fortune

The laddie's been courtin';

Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw;

But chiefly the siller,

That

gars him gang till her,

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.

There's Meg wi' the mailen

That fain wad a haen him;

And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha';
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy

Maist fetters his fancy

But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Tune-"Failte na Miosg."

[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, "The first half stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.]

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth:
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below:
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

JOHN ANDERSON.

Tune-"John Anderson, my jo."

[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayr shire bard; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.

"John Anderson, my jo, John,

When nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,

Her master-piece was man;

And you among them a', John,

Sae trig frae tap to toe,

She proved to be nae journey work,
John Anderson, my jo.]

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;