When in my arms, wi' a thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O;
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic' a moment's pleasure, O!
I'll kiss thee, &c.

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine forever, O;—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
I'll kiss thee, &c.

ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES A LASS.

Recovered from the recitation of a lady in Glasgow, and first published by Cromek.

TUNE-If he be a butcher neat and trim.

ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass-
Could I describe her shape and mien;
The graces of her weel-fared face,

And the glancin' of her sparklin' een.'

She's fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

She's stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between,
And shoots its head above each bush;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

She's spotless as the flowering thorn,
With flowers so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her looks are like the sportive lamb,
When flowery May adorns the scene,
That wantons round its bleating dam;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

1 Such.-2 Eyes.

Her hair is like the curling mist

That shades the mountain-side at e'en,
When flower-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her forehead's like the showery bow,
When shining sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her voice is like the evening thrush
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her lips are like the cherries ripe

That sunny walls from Boreas screen,
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching Beauty's fabled Queen,
But the mind that shines in every grace,
An' chiefly in her sparklin' een.

WAE IS MY HEART.

First published in the "Reliques."

WAE' is my heart, and the tear's in my ee;2
Lang, lang joy 's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

1 Woe.-2 Eye.

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved;
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.

Oh if I were, where happy I hae been,
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green;
For there he is wandering and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee.

THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN.

At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns being called upon for a song, handed these verses extempore to the President, written on the back of a letter.

THE Deil came fiddling thro' the town,

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman;
And ilka wife cried, "Auld Mahoun,'
We wish you luck o' the prize, man.

"We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And monie thanks to the muckle black Deil,
That danced awa wi' the Exciseman.

"There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan',
Was-the Deil 's awa wi' the Exciseman.
"We'll mak our maut," &c.

I RED2 YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTING.
First published in the "Reliques," from a manuscript in the possession of the
Poet's intimate friend, Mr. Cunningham.

THE heather was blooming, the meadows were maun,3
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen;
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen.

1 A name given to the Devil.-2 Counsel, caution.-3 Mown.- Went.

I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,
Her colors betray'd her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring,
And oh! as she wantonéd gay on the wing,
I red, &c.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;

He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae—
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay.
I red, &c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill;
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.—
I red, &c.

AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUMMING BEES.
From the Poet's memorandum-book; first published in the "Reliques,'
TUNE-The King of France, he rade a race.

AMANG the trees where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,

And to her pipe was singing, O.

'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels,
She dirl'd' them aff, fu' clearly, O;
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels,3
That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's,
They made our lugs' grow eerie,® O;
The hungry bike' did scrape and pike
Till we were wae and weary, 0:

A Highland war-song, adapted to the bagpipe.-2 Struck slightly, yet quick.-3 Screams.-4 Drove.-5 Topsy-turvy.-6 Hen-crowing. Ears.9 Frightened.-9 Bee-hive.

But a royal ghaist wha ance was cased
A prisoner aughteen years awa,
He fired a fiddler in the North

That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

From the Poet's Common-place Book, published by Cromek.
TUNE-John Anderson, my jo.

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat' crooded o'er me,
That echoed thro' the braes.

The following is also an extract from the same Common-place Book of Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c., by Robert Burness (for so Burns in early life spelt his name), first published by Cromek.

TUNE-Daintie Davie.

THERE was a lad was born at Kyle,'
But what na day o' what na style-
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin':
Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin,

The dove, or wild pigeon.-2 A district of Ayrshire.