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Nae mair, false Jamie, sing nae mair,

And fairly cast your pipe away;
My Jockie wad be troubled sair,

To see his friend his love betray ::
For a' your sangs and verse are vain,

While Jockie's notes do faithfu’ flow;
My heart to him shall true remain;

I'll keep it for my constant jo.

Blaw saft, ye gales, round Jockie's head,

And gar the waves be calm and still;
His hameward sail wi' breezes speed,

And dinna a' my pleasure spill.
What though my Jockie's far away;

Yet he will braw in siller shine;
I'll keep my heart anither day,

Since Jockie may again be mine.



Tune-" Bonnie Dundee."
KEEN blaws the win' o'er the braes o’ Gleniffer,

The auld castle turrets are cover'd wi' snaw; How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover,

Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw. The wild flow'rs o'simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,

The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,

And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythsome and cheerie,

Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw;. Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie,

And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.

The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie; They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they

flee; And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my John

nie; 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,

And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded

fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar, on the wint'ry win' swellin';

It's no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my ee; For O gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,

The dark days o' winter were simmer to me.


Tune--" Locherroch Side.
O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for 'me the trembling spray !
A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art:
For surely that wad touch her heart,

Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,

Sic notes o' woe could waukin.
Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O’ speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

TUNE—“ Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon."
The lily of the vale is sweet,

And sweeter still the op'ning rose;
Bat sweeter far my Mary is

Than any blooming flower that blows. Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,

I'll wander oft by Mary's side, And whisper saft the tender tale,

By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

There will we walk at early dawn,

Ere yet the sun begins to shine; At eve oft to the lawn we'll tread,

And mark that splendid orb's decline. The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,

To deck my lovely Mary's hair; And while I live, I vow and swear,

She'll be my chief, my only care.


TUNE_" Here's a health to them that's awa.” Here's a health to ane I loo dear, Here's a health to ane I loo dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear-Jessy! Altho' thou maun never be mine,

Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside-Jessy!

Here's a health, &c.

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o'sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy!

Here's a health, &c.

I guess by the dear angel smile,

I guess by the love-rolling ee;
But, why urge the tender confession,
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy! *

Here's a health, 8c.

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CAPTAIN O’KAINE. Row saftly thou stream, thro' the wild spangled valley,

O green be thy banks, ever bonnie and fair! Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily,

Yet strangers to sorrow, and strangers to care. The wearie day lang, I list to your sang,

And waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane: Each sweet little treasure o' heart-cheering pleasure,

Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O’Kaine.

* BURNS, in a letter to Mr. THOMSON, written a few weeks previous to his death, says, “ I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired-Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney, but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.” In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the first three stanzas only are given, and Mr. THOMSON supposed our poet had never gone farther. A. mong his MSS. however, was found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the last finished offspring of his muse.

Fu' aft on thy banks have we pu'd the wild gowan,

And twisted a ringlet beneath the hawthorn: Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowin';

Sweet days o' delight, which can never return! . Now ever, waes me! the tear fills mine ee,

And sair is my heart wi' the rigour o'pain; Nae prospect returning to gladden life's morning,

For green waves the willow o'er Captain O’Kaine. ;

TUNE_" Whistle o'er the lave o't."
Sing a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gie to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our Marshal's fame,

Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smil'd on Spain,
An' rais'd her stately form again,
Whan the British lion shook his mane

On the mountains o' Vittoria,
Let blust'rin' Suchet crouslie crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back,

He left upon Vittoria.
If e'er they meet their worthy King,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scotch piper play the spring

He blew them at Vittoria.
Gie truth an' honour to the Dane,
Gie German's monarch heart an' brain;
But aye in sic a cause as Spain,

Gie Britons a Vittoria.
The English rose was ne'er sae red,
The shamrock wav'd whare glory led,
And the Scottish thistle rais'd its head,

An'smild upon Vittoria.

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