In hamely weeds, she far exceeds, Both sage and gay confess it sae, The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't) Except her love for me: The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, Is like her shining e'en In shape and air, nane can compare, Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. ROBERT BURNS. O, were I on Parnassus' hill! To sing how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een— By heaven and earth I love thee! By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Till my last weary sand was run; Till then-and then I'll love thee. ["This song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns."-BURNS. See the beautiful verses, ante p. 61, which the poet certainly had in his eye when he wrote one of the loveliest of his songs.] THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. ROBERT BURNS. I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, But spare to speak, and spare to speed; To her twa een sae bonnie blue. ["The blue-eyed lass' was Jean Jeffrey, one of the daughters of the minister of Lochmaben. The poet on a visit to King Bruce's borough, drank tea, and spent an evening at the manse. The honours of the table were performed by Miss Jeffrey, a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. Next morning the Poet wrote and sent her the song, greatly to her surprise and pleasure. She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York."-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] The Editor has seen the original rough draught of this tender and exquisite lyric in the possession of Miss Jessy Lewars, the only variation was in the line, Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, which he had written, Her cheeks like roses wat wi' dew.] MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL ROBERT BURNS. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and dane'd it round, Oh, what is death but parting breath?— On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again! Untie these bands from off my hands, And there's no a man in all Scotland, I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; It burns my heart I must depart, Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, [The fate of Macpherson is printed in almost every country story book, and the old ballad of Macpherson's farewell is equally well known. (See Burns' Works, vol. 4, p. 64.) In the ballad of Hughie Graham, printed in Johnson, Burns inserted a verse of his own, written and conceived in the spirit of the above grand lyric; the lads and lasses of Stirling are taunting the brave fellow with the name of loun : O loose my right hand free he said, And put my broad-sword in the same, Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham.] TO MARY IN HEAVEN. ROBERT BURNS. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his peebled shore, |