HIGHLAND MARY.

HIGHLAND MARY.1

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair
Your waters never drumlie!

your flowers,

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary,

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The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner. You will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days.

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AULD LANG SYNE

AULD LANG SYNE.1

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne?

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered mony a weary foot
Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl't2 i' the burn,

From mornin sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 3
And gie 's a hand o’thine;

And we'll take a right guid Willie-waught,*
For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c,

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

An auld song which Burns improved. The two

after the chorus are his.

2 Dabbled. 3 Friend.

best verses

4 + Draught.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

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FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man's the gow'd1 for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-grey2 and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that:
The honest man tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie,3 ca'd a lord,
Who struts and stares and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,

His riband star and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa'5 that!

For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

I Gold.

2 Coarse woollen cloth. 3 Conceited fellow. 4 Blockhead.

5 Try

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TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a that;

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree1 and a' that;
For a' that and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;

That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

Tune-"The Hopeless Lover."

Now spring has clad the groves in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art :

My life was once that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountain dry.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which save the linnet's flight I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine: till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,

And now beneath the withering blast,

My youth and joy consume.

A RED, RED ROSE.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,
So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whase doom is, "Hope nae mair!
What tongue his woes can tell?
Within whose bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.

A RED, RED ROSE.

Tune-"Wishaw's Favourite.

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

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