What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art;
The polish'd jewel's blaze

May draw the wondering gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array,

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day;

Oh then, the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,

In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!

Ambition would disown

The world's imperial crown,

Ev'n Avarice would deny

His worshipp'd deity,

And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR.

"I have written this song," says Burns in one of his letters, “in the course of an hour; so much for the speed of my Pegasus, but what say you to his bottom ?"

TUNE-Let me in this ae night.

FORLORN, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here:
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
Oh wert thou, love, but near me,
But near, near, near me:
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love!
Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy,
And shelter, shade, nor home, have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
Oh wert, &c.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
Oh wert, &c.

But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
Oh let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
Oh wert, &c.

1

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER.

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

WHY, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?

Oh why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme;

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,

Wake thy lover from his dream?

HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE I LO’E DEAR.

This song was written for Mr. Thomson's Collection. The three first verses were sent in a letter to that gentleman, a few days before the Poet's death, which took place on the 21st July, 1796; the fourth verse was afterwards found among his manuscripts; so that this beautiful song, written under much distress of body and trouble of mind, was, in all probability, the last finished offspring of his muse.

TUNE-Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney.

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as the parting tear-Jessy!

ALTHO' thou maun never be mine,

Altho' even hope is denied:

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lock'd in thy arms-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.

I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling ee;
But why urge the tender confession
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS.

This song was written at Brow, on the Solway Firth, a few days before the Poet's death.

TUNE-Rothermurchie's Rant.

Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,

And smile as thou wert wont to do?

FULL Well thou know'st I love thee dear,
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear?
Oh, did not Love exclaim, "Forbear,
Nor use a faithful lover so?"
Fairest maid, &c.

Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, oh, let me share!
And by thy beauteous self I swear,
No love but thine my heart shall know!
Fairest maid, &c.

41

STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME.

"The peculiar rhythm of this fine Gaelic air, and the consequent difficulty of making verses to suit it, must excuse the shortness of this song."-Morrison.

TUNE-An Gille dubh ciar dhubh.

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me;

Well you know how much you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.

Written in compliment to Miss Hamilton, the sister of the Poet's early friend and patron, G. Hamilton, Esq.

TUNE-Druimion dubh.

MUSING on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me,
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal, where'er he be.

Hope and fear's alternate billow,
Yielding late to nature's law;
Whispering spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa!

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is dear.

Gentle night, do thou befriend me:
Downy sleep, the curtain draw;

Spirits kind, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa!

THE LAZY MIST, ETC.

This is an early production. It was originally written for the Museum, but since considerably altered.

IRISH AIR-Coolun.

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year!
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues!
How long I have lived-but how much lived in vain!
How little of life's scanty span may remain!
What aspects, old Time in his progress has worn!
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn!
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how
pain'd!

This life's not worth having with all it can give,
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

This clever, sensible song is also an early production, and was likewise written for the Museum.

Oн meikle' thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,2

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 spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve 's an airl-penny,5
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin',"

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.

1 Much.- Know very well.-3 Money.-4 Honey.- Earnest-money.• Cunning.