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CCX.

AULD LANG SYNE.

["Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment."

"The following song," says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, "an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than " minstrel Burns."]

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CCXI.

FAIR JEANY.

Tune-"Saw ye my Father?"

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. "Of the poetry," he says, "I speak with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."]

I.

WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring
At evening the wild woods among?

II.

No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

III.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,

And grim, surly winter is near?

No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses Proclaim it the pride of the year.

IV.

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,

Yet long, long too well have I known, All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.

V.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor hope dare a comfort bestow:

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

CCXII.

DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.

[To the air of the "Collier's dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]

I.

DELUDED Swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee,

Is but a fairy treasure

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

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