Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Maggie's was a piteous cafe, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan cou'dna be her death,

Swelling pity fmoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and

canty baith!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

Air.-DUNCAN GRAY.

L

ET not woman e'er complain
Of inconftancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain,

Fickle man is apt to rove:
Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;

Ladies, would it not be ftrange

Man fhould then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow;
Sun and moon but fet to rife;

Round and round the seasons

go:

Why then ask of filly Man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be conftant while we can-
You can be no more, you know.

O POORTITH CAULD, AND RESTLESS LOVE.

Air.---I HAD A HORSE, I HAD nae mair.

O

POORTITH cauld, and reftless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;

Yet poortith a' I could forgive,

An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.
O why should Fate fic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why fae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on Fortune's shining?
Е

This warld's wealth when I think on,

Its pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie, fie on filly coward man,

That he should be the flave o't.

O why, &c.

Her een fae bonie blue betray,
How the repays my paffion;
But prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O why, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And fic a laffie by him;

O wha can prudence think upon,

And fae in love as I am?

O why, &c.

How bleft the humble cotter's fate,
He woos his fimple dearie :

The filly bogles, Wealth and State,

Can never make them eerie.

O why, &c.

THE LAZY MIST HANGS, &c.

Air.-HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE Love.

Τ

HE lazy mift hangs from the brow of
the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap-

pear,

As autumn to winter refigns the pale year.

The forests are leaflefs, 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 liv'd,-but how much liv'd

in vain ;

How little of life's fcanty fpan may remain;
What aspects old Time in his progress has

worn;

What ties cruel Fate in my bofom has torn,

1

How foolish, or worse, 'till our fummit is

gain'd!

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!

Life is not worth having with all it can give, For fomething beyond it poor man sure must live.

In reference to the Authorship of the above fong, there has been fome difpute. We have collated and printed from the first Edition of "Thomson's Scotish Airs" all the fongs of Burns which there appear. In an after Edition of "The Airs," however, it is stated that Dr. Blacklock is the Author of this fong, and it is therein added, "This Song is given by Dr. Currie as one of Burns', and his name was accordingly prefixed to it in a former Edition of this work. It appears, however, from the Reliques of Burns,' page 248, that it was written by Dr. Blacklock" But we find that previous to the fong being in "Thomfon's Scotish Airs," it had appeared in "Johnfon's Scots Musical Museum," page 241, as Burns'. Hence, we have no hesitation in acceding the Authorship to him.

The following fong, "John Anderson, my jo," we give as it appeared in "Thomfon's Scotifh Airs," although, as noted, it is not entirely written by Burns.