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And drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,

Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling strings or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

That tents thy early morning.

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray

That watch'd thy early morning*.

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S

STORMS.

Tune, “ N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny."

Where, braving angry winter's storms,

The lofty Ochels rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms

First blest my wondering eyes.
As one who, by some savage stream,

A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd doubly marks it beam

With art's most polish'd blaze.

* This song was written during the winter of 1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of the bard, is the heroine.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,

And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,

When first I felt their pow'r !
The tyrant death with grim controul

May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul

Must be a stronger death.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune, “ Invercald's Reel."

Tibbie, I hae seen the day,

You would na been sae shy ;
For laik o'gear ye lightly me,

But trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ve geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o'clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.

0 Tibbie, I hae, &c.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry,

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But if he hae the name o gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear,
Be better than the kýe.

O Tibbie, I hae, «c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

O Tibbie, I hae, dc.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For thee wi'a' thy thousan' mark;
Ye need na look sae high.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

CLARINDA.

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,

The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole,

So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,

The sun of all his joy?

We part-but by these precious drops,

That fill thy lovely eyes !
No other light shall guide my steps,

"Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix

My worship to its ray?

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune, “ Seventh of November."

The day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line j
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,

Or nature aught of pleasure give! While joys above, my mind can move,

For thee, and thee alone, I live! When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part; The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.

THE LAZY MIST.

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ;
How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain;
How little of life's scanty span may remain ;
What aspects old time, in his progress, has worn;
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how

pain'd! Vol. III.

L

This life's not worth having with all it can give, For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS: HILL

Tune,

My love is lost to ine."

O were I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sell;
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I coudna sing, I coudna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sao clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguisb e'en-

By heaven and earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ;
And aye I muse and sing thy name,

I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the the sun,
Till my last, weary sand was run;
'Till then and then I love thee.

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