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I dearly like the west,
The lass that I loo best:
Wi' monie a hill between,
Is ever wi' my Jean.
Sae lovely, sweet, and fair;
Wi' music charm the air : There's not a bonnie flow'r that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green, Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
The lasses busk them braw;
My Jeanie dings them a';
The fairest o' the town;
and gay confess it sae, Tho' drest in russet gown. The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam,
Mair harmless canna be;
Except her love for me:
Is like her shining een;
Wi' my sweet lovely Jean?
O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees;
Bring hame the laden bees,
That's ay sae neat and clean;
Sae lovely is my Jean.
Hae past atween us twa !
That day she gade awa!
To whom the heart is seen,
As my sweet lovely Jean ! *
I LOO'D NEAR A LADDIE BUT ANE.
He loo'd ne'er a lassie but me;
And his ain I'm willing to be:
And a pair o' mittens o' green;
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
* Burns says he “composed this song out of compliment to Mrs. BURNS;” but he adds the following—“ N. B. It was during the Honey Moon.” It appears, however, that the first two verses only are the production of BURNS. By whom the rest were comnosed is unknown to the Editor of this work.
Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land, and their lordlie degree; I carena for ought but my dear,
For he's ilka thing lordlie to me: His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa! I listen +poor fool! and I greet,
Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!
Dear lassie, he cries wi' a jeer,
Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we've little to brag o’-ne'er fear;
What's gowd to a heart that is wae ? Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he's dwining wi' care; Now we, tho' we've naithing but health,
Are cantie and leel evermair,
O Marion ! the heart that is true
Has something mair costly than gear;
Ilk morn it has naething to fear,
And tremble for fear ought ye tyne; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!
He ends wi' a kiss and a smile
Waes me! can I tak it amiss! My laddie's unpractis'd in guile,
He's free ay to daut and to kiss ! Ye lassies wha loo to torment
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks I hae gien my consent,
And this night I am Jamie's for life.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair ! But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon,
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the ev’ning each leaf to renew. 0 spare
the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill, hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England, triumphant, display her proud rose; A fairer than either adorns the green vallies,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. *
For what's been done before them.
To drop their whigmegmorum.
* This is undoubtedly one of Burns's best songs. He has himself given the following account of it. “ These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss CHARLOTTE HAMILTON, who is now married to James M.KITRICK ADAIR, Esq. Physi. cian. She is sister to my worthy friend GAVIN HAMILTON, of Mauchline ; and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in ClackmanAanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon.
Let whig and tory all agree
The Reel of Tullochgorum.
In conscience I abhor him:
To mak a cheerfu' quorum;
The Reel of Tullochgorum.
For hauf a hunder score o'm. They're dowff and dowie at the best, Dowff and dowie, dowff and dowie, They're dowff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum : They're dowff and dowie at the best, Their allegro's, and a' the rest, They canna please a Highland taste,
Compar'd wi’ Tullochgorum. Let warldly minds themselves oppress, Wi' fear o' want, and double cess, And silly sauls themselves distress,
Wi' keeping up decorum. Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum ?