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TUNE" Gloomy Winter's now awa.
GLOOMY winter's come again;
Heavy fa's the sleet and rain;
Flaky snaw decks white the plain,

Whare Nature bloom'd sae cheerie, O.
Hoary frost o'erspreads the dell,
Glazing firm each crystal rill;
They mind me o' thy fickle sel',

My fair yet faithless Mary, 0.
I lanely tread each trackless way,
Whare wi' thee, Mary, I did stray;
My heart's oppress'd wi' grief and wae,

Thou'rt false, and a' looks drearie, 0.

The snaw-clad hills o'ertap the cluds,
The hares rin tim'rous thro' the wuds,
The trees, forsaken by their buds,

Are emblems o' my Mary, 0.
A' around deserted looks,
Tangles fringe the barren rocks,
While bairnies by the ingle nooks,

Tell tales that mak them eerie, O.
Storms may rage, and tempests roar,
Restless billows beat the shore,
Joy on earth I'll find no more,

Unless I'm blest wi' Mary, 0. *

* We have heard this beautiful counterpart to Gloomy winter's now awa, attributed to the pen of Mr. James AITCHISON, Printer in Edinburgh. Whether this be the fact or not, we shall not pretend to determine; but may remark, that its poetical me. rits are such as need not make the Author blush to acknowledge it.

She's fair and fause that causes my smart,

I loo'd her meikle and lang;
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,

And I may e'en gae hang.
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,

Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,

To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie'tis tho' fickle she prove,

A woman has't by kind:
O woman lovely, woman fair !
An angel form's faun to thy share,
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair,

I mean an angel mind.

She took me in, she set me down,

She hecht to keep me lawin-free;
But, wylie Carlin that she was!
She gart me birl my bawbie.
Blythe, blythe, blythe was she,

Blythe was she butt an ben ;
Weel she lo'ed a Hawick gill,

And leugh to see a tappit hen.

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When we had three times toom'd the stowp,

And the niest chappin new begun,
Wha started in to heeze our hope,
But Andrew wi' his cutty gun.

Blythe, blythe, fc.
The Carlin brought her kebbuck ben,

And girdle-cakes weel toasted brown;
Weel did the cannie kimmer ken,
It gart the swats gae glibber down.

Blythe, blythe, fc.
We ca'd the bicker aft about,

Till dawin we ne'er jeed our bum;
And ay the cleanest drinker out
Was Andrew wi' his cutty gun.

Blythe, blythe, 8c.
He did like onie mavis sing,

While she below his oxter sat;
He ca'd her ay his bonnie thing,
And monie a sappy kiss she gat.

Blythe, blythe, 8c.
I hae been east, I hae been west,

I hae been far ayont the sun,
But the cleverest lad that e'er I saw
Was Andrew wi' his cutty gun.

Blythe, blythe, 8c.

O BESSY BELL and Mary Gray,

They were twa bonnie lasses;
They bigg'd a house on yon burn brae,
And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes.

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Now Bessy's hair's like a lint-tap;

She smiles like a May morning,
When Phæbus starts frae Thetis lap,

The hills with rays adorning:
White is her neck, saft is her hand,

Her waist and feet's fu' genty;
With ilka grace she can command;

Her lips, O wow! they're daintie.
And Mary's locks are like a craw,

Her een like diamonds glances;
She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw,

She kills whene'er she dances :
Blythe as a kid, with wit at will,

She blooming, tight, and tall is,
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still,

O Jove, she's like thy Pallas.
Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,

Ye unco sair oppress us;
Our fancies jee between you twae,

Ye are sic bonnie lasses :
Waes me! for baith I canna get,

To ane by law we're stented;
Then I'll draw cuts, and tak my fate,

And be with ane contented. *

* The first stanza of this song is supposed to be part of the original, which it is to be regretted Ramsay altered, substituting his own verses in its stead, it being highly probable that the present song is much inferior to the old one, which was founded on the following story :-“ The celebrated Bessy Bell and MARY Grax are buried near Lyndoch' (the seat of the hero of Ba

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rossa, Lord Lyndoch). The common tradition is, that the father of the former was laird of Kinvaid, in the neighbourhood of Lyndoch, and the father of the latter laird of Lyndoch; that these two young ladies were both very handsome, and a most intimate friendship subsisted between them; that while Miss BELL was on a visit to Miss Gray, the plague broke out in the year 1666, in order to avoid which, they built themselves a bower, about three-quarters of a mile west from Lyndoch house, in a very retired and romantic place, called Burn-braes, on the side of Brauchie-burn. Here they lived for some time, but the plague raging with great fury, they caught the infection, it is said, from a young gentleman, who was in love with them both, and here's they died. The burial place lies about half a mile west from the present house of Lyndoch, near a beautiful bank of the Almond." Major BERRY, the late proprietor of Lyndoch, inclosed, with pious care, the spot of ground, and consecrated it to the memory of these famed and amiable friends.

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