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Whereas, in BURNS' original MS., sent by him to THOMSON, the third and fourth lines ran

"Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning;"

An exquisitely tender and truthful couplet, worthy of his best moments of inspiration, and which reading has since been universally adopted.

On the other hand, the alteration as in the song, Farewell, thou fair Day, &c., “the bright setting sun" being substituted in some Editions for "the broad setting sun," as originally written, is bad; but this, and many such changes, are just other reasons for us sincerely wishing that BURNS' Works had been kept, untouched, as he left them.

Without pretending to be critical, we may be allowed to remark that the quality of several of the Songs is so low that we can hardly fancy them written by BURNS: hence, had we been left entirely to the free exercise of our judgment, the present volume would have been smaller; but as we pledged ourselves, in our Prospectus, to give "The most complete and perfect Copy of the Poems and Songs of Robert Burns ever issued from any Press," and as even the questionable or doubtful pieces had certainly passed through his hands-been

polished or enlarged by him-and as they had formerly been given in various Editions as productions of our Author, we did not feel ourselves warranted to leave them out. We have, therefore, partly at the expense of our own convictions, given the whole, and redeemed our pledge.

We cannot close this Preface better than by appending BURNS' own words, which we found when collating the Afton Lodge MSS., and which, in so far as we know, have hitherto been unpublished.

KILMARNOCK, DECEMBER, 1869.

JAMES M'KIE.

Many verses, on which an author would by no means rest his reputation in print, may yet amuse an idle moment in manuscript; and many Poems, from the locality of the subject, may be uninteresting or unintelligible to those who are strangers to that locality. Most of, if not all the following Poems are in one or other of these predicaments, and the author begs whoever into whose hands they may fall, that they will do him the justice not to publish what he himself thought proper to suppress." "R. B."

Blythe ha'e I been on yon hill
And O for ane and twenty, Tam
Thine am I, my faithful fair
Blythe was fhe, etc.

Husband, husband, cease your strife
Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair
My heart is a-breaking, dear Titty
O wat ye wha that lo’es me
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
Now rofy May comes in wi' flowers
It was the charming month of May
Canft thou leave me thus, my Katy
O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty

Robert Bruce's Address to his Army at Bannockburn
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies
Wilt thou be my dearie

By Allan ftream I chanc'd to rove

Farewell, thou ftream that winding flows

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

Thou haft left me ever

Now Spring has clad the grove in green
Had I a cave on fome wild distant shore
Come, let me take thee to my breaft
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad
Their groves o' fweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon
Farewell, dear mistress of my foul

The fmall birds rejoice on the green leaves returning
Slow fpreads the gloom my foul defires

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays
Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms

Where are the joys I have met in the morning
Behold, my love, how green the groves
My Mary's face, my Mary's form

'Twas even;-or, the Lafs o' Ballochmyle

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III

Laffie wi' the lintwhite locks
Faireft maid on Devon banks

O Tibbie! I hae feen the day

Senfibility, how charming

Bonie laffie, will ye go

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong

What can a young

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon

But lately feen, in gladfome green

laffie do wi' an auld man

The Catrine woods were yellow feen

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Hark! the mavis' evening sang (First fett)

First when Maggy was my care

Thickest night furround my dwelling

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut

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There liv'd ance a carle in Kellyburn-Braes

Sae flaxen were her ringlets

Willie Waftle's wife

When o'er the hill the Eastern Star

The lovely lafs o' Inverness

Oh, how can I be blythe and glad

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