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O TELL nae me of wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,

This ae, ae, ae night ;
And ance for a this ae night,

I winna let you in jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nought to what


she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.

'I tell you now, fc.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed;
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.

I tell you now, &c.
The bird that charm’d his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting, woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo.

I tell you now, 8c. *

* Let me in this ae night was one of the many airs for which Mr. THOMPSON, when carrying on his Musical Work, wished to receive words from BURNS, the old ones being considered so indifferent as to be utterly unworthy of a place. Accordingly the song here given was produced; but it would appear that it gave the Poet much more trouble than many of his other pieces, as he began it over and over again, at long intervals, before he accomplished the task to his own satisfaction. At one period of his

The lasses fain wad hae frae me,
A sang to keep them a' in glee,
While ne'er a ane I hae to gie,

But only Daintie Davie.
I learn'd it early in my youth,
When barley bannocks caus'd a drouth;
Whar cronies met to weet their mouth,
Our sang was Daintie Davie.

0, Daintie Davie is the thing ;
I never kent a cantie spring,
That e'er deserv'd the highland fling,

Sae weel as Daintie Davie.
When friends an' fo’k at bridals meet,
Their drouthie mou's and craigs to weet,
The story canna be complete

Without they've Daintie Davie.
Sae lasses tune your spinnets weel,
An' lilt it up wi' a' your skill,
There's nae strathspey nor highland reel,
Comes up to Daintie Davie.

0, Daintie Davie, fc. correspondence with Mr. THOMPSON, he thus writes :—" I have begun anew, Let me in this ae night. Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus ? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not al. together like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouëment to be successful or otherwise? should she . let him in,' or not?” The last query Mr. THOMPSON seems to have answered in the negative, as the lassie continues unrelenting to the end. Mr. Thompson's approbation was afterwards expressed to the Bard in the following manner: have displayed great address in this song. Her answer is excel. lent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise would have attached to his intreaties. I like the song, as now stands, very much.”

" You

Tho' bardies a', in former times,
Hae stain’d my sang, wae-worth their rhymes !
They had but little mense, wi' crimes,

To blast my Daintie Davie.
The rankest weeds the garden spoil,
When labour tak's the play a while;
The lamp gaes out for want o' oil,
And sae it far'd wi' Davie.

0, Daintie Davie, &c.

There's ne'er a bar but what's complete,
While ilka note is ay so sweet,
That auld an' young get to their feet,

When they hear Daintie Davie.
Until the latest hour of time,
When music a' her pow'r shall tine,
Each hill, an' dale, an' grove, shall ring
Wi' bonnie Daintie Davie.

0, Daintie Davie, &c.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 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. 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 vallies 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.


TUNE-" Balinamona Ora.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o'beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
0, gie me the lass that has acres o'charms,
0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ;

The nice yellow guineas for me.
Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.

Then hey, &c. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings, wi’ Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them--the mair they're carest.

Then hey, &c.

* This is one of the few songs written by our Bard during the last six months of his short, but distinguished, appearance on the stage of life. When he agreed to furnish Mr. THOMPSON with verses for several Scottish airs, it appears he at the same time undertook to supply words for a certain number of Irish tunes. In the letter which accompanied this song, he says,—“ The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding

verses for.


You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that play'd the fiddle weel,
I wat he was a canty chiel,

And dearly loo'd the whisky, 0.
And ay since he wore tartan hose,
He dearly loo'd the Athol brose;
And wae was he, you may suppose,

To play fareweel to whisky, 0.

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my bluid grows unco cauld;
I think 'twad mak me blythe and bauld,

A wee drap Highland whisky, 0.
And yet the doctors a' agree
That whisky's no the drink for me;
Saul ! quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee,

Shou'd they part me and whisky, 0.
Tho' I can get baith wine and ale,
And find my head and fingers hale,
I'll be content, tho' legs shou'd fail,

To play fareweel to whisky, O.
But still i think on auld langsyne,
When Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their min',

Forbid, like Highland whisky, O.

I have already, you know, equipt three of them with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement.” In his reply, Mr. Thompson observes,—“ Your Hey for a lass wi' a tocher is a most excellent song, and with you the subject is something new indeed. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire, into an amateur of acres, and guineas.”

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