Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,

The wretch that dares not die !

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.

OH, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mother should baith gae mad,
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me ;
Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs and let naebody see,
And come as ye werena coming to me.

STAY, MY CHARMER.

Tune-" An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!

Well you know how much you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THE Strathallan of the following lines was William, fourth Viscount of the name, who fell at Culloden in 1746. The poet, misinformed in this particular, imagines him to have escaped to some secure place after the battle.

THICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests, o'er me rave!

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress.
Honour's war we strongly wagèd,
But the heavens denied success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us-
But a world without a friend!

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Tune-"Morag."

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;
Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden;
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonny Castle-Gordon!

The trees, now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,
The birdies, dowie1 moaning,
Shall a' be blithely singing,
And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey,
And bonny Castle-Gordon.

I Sadly.

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

Tune-"Macgregor of Ruara's Lament."

"I COMPOSED these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who shot himself out of sheer heartbreak at some mortification he suffered from the deranged state of his finances."

I COMPOSED these verses," says the poet, "out of compliment to a Mrs Maclachlan, whose husband was an officer in the East Indies."

MUSING on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me;
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where'er he be,-

Hope and Fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature's law;
Whispering spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa'.

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy Day to you is dear.

Gentle Night, do thou befriend me;
Downy Sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,—
Talk of him that's far awa'!

BONNY PEGGY ALISON.

Tune-" Braes o' Balquhidder."

THE heroine of this song is thought to have been the "Montgomery's Peggy" of the song of that name, and the subject of several other songs.

I'LL kiss thee yet, yet,

And I'll kiss thee o'er again;

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

My bonny Peggy Alison !

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel1 throne
Are nae sae blest as I am, O!

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

And by thy een, sae bonny blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O !—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it shall I never, O!

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

Tune-"Captain O'Kean."

"YESTERDAY," wrote Burns to his friend Cleghorn, "as I was riding through a tract 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 into 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." In reply Cleghorn suggests, "that you would send me a verse or two more; and, if you have no objection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field of Culloden, by the unfortunate Charles." The poet followed his friend's advice.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds through the vale;

1 New-won.

The hawthorn trees blow, in the dew of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale :
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared, 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 valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched,―forlorn,
My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn;
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial—
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

Tune-"Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."

"I COMPOSED this song," says the poet, "out of compliment to Mrs. Burns, during our honeymoon.'

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonny lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between ;

But day and night, my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonny flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonny bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.

Tune-"My love is lost to me."

THIS was also produced in honour of Mrs. Burns, shortly before she took up her residence at Ellisland as the poet's wife.