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THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flower's decay'd on Catrine lee, *
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e.

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Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And
ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.

But

*Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugal Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whiteford, now of Alexander, Esq.

E.

But here alas! for me nae mair;

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

WILLIE

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see:
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're nae that fou
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king among us three!
We are na fou, &c. *

THE

* Willie, who "brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. William Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our poet, and his friend, Allan Cleghorn. These three honest fellowsall men of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf. (1799.)

E.

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.

I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;

I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en,
Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue.

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"Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her e'en sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,
She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And ay the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue.

But

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