"E'en here I took the last farewell;
There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.”

Along the solitary shore

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,

I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me?

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER.

Tune-" Fee him, father."

["I do not give these verses," says Burns to Thomson, "for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which Patie Allan's mither died, about the back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, except the hautbois and the muse." To the poet's intercourse with musicians we owe some fine songs.]

THOU hast left me ever, Jamie !

Thou hast left me ever;
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie!

Thou hast left me ever.

Aften hast thou vow'd that death

Only should us sever;

Now thou's left thy lass for ay-
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
I'll see thee never!

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie!
Thou hast me forsaken;
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie!
Thou hast me forsaken.

Thou canst love anither jo,

While my heart is breaking:
Soon my weary een I'll close,
Never mair to waken, Jamie,
Ne'er mair to waken!

AULD LANG SYNE.

["Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceed ingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my Boul: 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." "The following song," says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, "an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than "minstrel Burns."]

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,

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

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

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

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu't the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,

Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roar'd,

Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,

FAIR JEANY.

Tune-"Saw ye my father?"

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. "Of the poetry," he says, "I speak with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."

WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild woods among?

No more a-winding the course of

yon river,

And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?

No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow:

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.

[To the air of the "Colller's Dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]

DELUDED Swain, the pleasure

The fickle fair can give thee,

Is but a fairy treasure—

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,

The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds uncertain motion-
They are but types of woman.

O art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.

Go find an honest fellow;

Good claret set before thee:

Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.

NANCY.

[This song was inspired by the charms of Clarinda. In one of the poet's manuscripts the song commences thus:

Thine am I, my lovely Kate,

Well thou mayest discover;

Every pulse along my veins

Tell the ardent lover.

This change was tried out of compliment, it is believed, to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyrical verse than Kate.]

THINE am I, my faithful fair,

Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,

Ev'ry roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,

There to throb and languish :

Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away those rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure:

Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love?
Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.

HUSBAND, HUSBAND.

Tune-"Jo Janet."

["My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the poet's eye when he com. posed this song, as surely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old minstrels were in his mind. He desires Thomson briefly to tell him how he likes these verses: the response of the musician was, "Inimitable."]

HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,

Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho' I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.
"One of two must still obey,

Nancy, Nancy;

Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy?"

If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I'll desert my sov'reign lord,

And so, good bye, allegiance!

"Sad will I be, so bereft,

Nancy, Nancy;

Yet I'll try to make a shift,
My spouse, Nancy."

My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it:

When you lay me in the dust,

Think, think, how you will bear it.

"I will hope and trust in heaven,

Nancy, Nancy;

Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse, Nancy."