THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE. Whan war had broke in on the peace o' auld men, And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon’d again, Twa vet’rans grown grey, wi' their muskets sair foil'd, Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd. The drum it was beating, to fight they incline, But ay they look'd back on the days o' langsyne.

Hech, Davie, man, weel thou remembers the time, When twa brisk young callans, and just in our prime, The prince led us, conquer'd, and shaw'd us the way, And monie a braw chield we turn'd cauld on that day. Still again I wad venture this auld trunk o' mine, Could our gen'ral but lead, or we fight like langsyne.

But garrison duty is a' we can do;
Tho' our arms are worn weak, yet our hearts are still

We card na for dangers by land or by sea,
For time is turn'd coward, and no you and me:
And though at our fate we may sadly repine,
Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.
Whan after our conquests, it joys me to mind,
How thy Jean caress'd thee, and my Meg was kind;
They shar'd o' our danger, though ever sae hard,
Nor car'd we for plunder, when sic our reward.
Ev'n now they're resoly'd baith their hames to resign,
And to share the hard fate they were us’d to langsyne.

Comin' thro' the craigs o' Kyle,

Amang the bonnie blooming heather,

There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keeping a' her ewes thegither.

Oer the muir amang the heather,
O'er the muir amang the heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,

Keeping a' her ewes thegither.
Says I, my dear, whare is thy hame?
. În muir, or dale, pray tell me whither?
Says she, I tent thae fleecy flocks
That feed amang the blooming heather.

Oer the muir, &c.
We laid us down upon a bank,

Sae warm and sunnie was the weather,
She left her flocks at large to rove
Amang the bonnie blooming heather.

O'er the muir, fe.
While thus we lay, she sang a sang,

Till echo ran a mile and farther,
And ay the burden o' the sang,
Was o'er the muir amang the heather.

Oer the muir, &c.
She charm'd my heart, and ay sinsyne

I cou'dna think on onie ither:
By sea and sky! she shall be mine!
The bonnie lass amang the heather.

D'er the muir, 8c. *

* We are probably indebted to Burns for this Song, though he was not the author of it. He tells us “ it is the composition of a Jean GLOVER,-a girl who was not only a prostitute, but also a thief, and who, in one or other character, has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West. She was born, I believe, in Kil. marnock. I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country with a slight-of-hand blackguard."

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She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a':
The day was appointed!-his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa.
He wander'd hame wearie, the night it was drearie,
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw :
The howlet was screamin', while Johnnie cried, Women
Wad marry auld Nick if he'd keep them ay braw.
O the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae braw,
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa;
The hale o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage;
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw.
Auld dotards, be wary! tak tent wha ye marry,
Young wives wi' their coaches they'll whup and they'll
Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youthfu' and

And they'll gie ye a horn on ilk haffet to claw.

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TUNE~" Captain OʻKean.” The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,

The murmuring streamlet runs clear thro’ the vale; The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,

When the lingering moments are number'd by care? No birds sweetly singing, nor flow'rs gaily springing,

Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice?

A king and a father to place on his throne!
His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies,

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn,

My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your faith prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,

Alas! can I make it no better return? *

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• BURNS does not seem to have intended this for a Jacobitical song when he began to compose it. In a letter to one of his friends, inclosing only the first verse, he says " Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy, joyless moors, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to Psalms, and Hymns, and Spiritual Songs, and your favourite air, Captain O’Kean, coming at length in my head, I tried these words to it. I am tolerably pleased with the verses ; but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music.” The Gentleman, in reply, declared himself highly delighted with the words, and the manner in which they fitted the tune; but, at the same time, he expressed a wish to have a verse or two more added in the Jacobite style, and that they should be supposed to be “ sung after the fatal field of Culloden by the unfortunate Charles.” This advice the Poet implicitly followed.

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