But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,
A' my flowery bliss destroyed.

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
She promised fair, and performed but ill;
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me;
I bear a heart shall support me still.

MY NANNIE, O.

TUNE- My Nannie, O.

BEHIND yon hills where Stinsiar flows,1

'Mang moors and mosses many, O,

The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I'll awa' to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud and shill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal,
And owre the hills to Nannie, O.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young,
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O !

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she 's bonny, O:
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew,

Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

1 In subsequent copies, Burns was induced to substitute for the Stinsiar, which has local verity in its favor, the Lugar, a name thought to be more euphonious, but which is otherwise unsuitable.

A country lad is my degree,

And few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.

My riches a's my penny-fee,
And I maun guide it canny,
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’- - my Nannie, O.

Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep and kye thrive bonny, O;
But I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh,
And has nae care but Nannie, O.

Come weal, come woe, I care nae by,
I'll tak what Heaven will send me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,

But live and love my Nannie, O.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

TUNE- Invercauld's Reel.

TIBBIE, I hae seen the day
Ye wad na been sae shy;

For lack 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;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

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 you like to try.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,

That looks sae proud and high.

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

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

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

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.

THE TORBOLTON LASSES.

IF ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonnie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courting.

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But ablins she may please ye.

If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,

If ye 'll dispense wi' want o' sense
She kens hersel she's bonnie.

As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speer in for bonnie Bessy;
She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bonnie, nane sae guid, In a' King George' dominion;

If

ye should doubt the truth o' this
It's Bessy's ain opinion!

THE RONALDS OF THE BENNALS.

IN Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper young

men,

And proper young lasses and a', man;

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, They carry the gree frae them a', man.

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare 't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man,
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye 've seen As bonnie a lass or as braw, man;

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best, And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man.

If

ye

be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien', A hint o' a rival or twa, man;

The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,

If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;