My heart grew light, I ran, I flang

My arms about her lily neck, And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fu’ lang ;

My words they were na mony feck.

I said, my lassie, will ye go

To the highland hills, the Erse to learn ? I'll gi’e thee baith a cow and ewe,

When ye come to the brigg of Earn. At Leith auld meal comes in, ne'er fash,

And herrings at the Broomy Law;
Chear up your heart, my bonny lass,

There's gear to win we never saw.
All day when we have wrought enough,

When winter, frosts, and snaw begin,
Soon as the sun gaes west the loch,

At night when ye sit down to spin, I'll screw my pipes and play a spring :

And thus the weary night will en', Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring

Our pleasant summer back again. Syne when the tress are in their bloom,

And gowans glent o'er ilka fiel', I'll meet my lass amang the brooin,

And lead you to my summer-shiel. Then far frae a' their scornfu' din,

That make the kindly hearts their sport, We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing,

And gar the langest day scem short.

(From the Tca Table Miscellany]

SAW YE JOHNIE COMING,

O saw ye Johnie coming, quo' she,
Saw
ye

Johnie coming ;
O saw ye Johnie coining, quo' she,
Saw

ye

Johnie coming :
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,

And his doggie running, quo' she,
And his doggie running.

O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she,

Fee him, father, fee him;
O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she,

Fee him, father, fee him;
For he is a gallant lad,

And a weel doin';
And a' the wark about the town

Gaes wi’ me when I see him, quo' she,
Gaes wi' me when I see him.

O what will I do wi' him, 'hizzie,'

What will I do wi’ him?
He's ne'er a 'sark' upon his back,

And I hae nane to gi'e him.
I hae twa · sarks' into

my kist, And ane o' them I'll gi’e him And for a merk of mair fee

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she,
Dinna stand wi' him.

;

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she,

Weel do I lo’e him ;
For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she,

Weel do I lo'e him.
O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she,

Fee him, father, fee him ;
He'll haud the pleugh, thrash in the barn,

And crack wi’ me at e’en, quo' she,
And crack wi' me at e'en.

[“ This is a very old and a very admirable song. Burns praises it for the genuine humour of the delineation : it is an unconscious humour, the humour of simplicity, always the richest and happiest.” -ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. First published by Herd in 1769.]

HEY, HOW MY JOHNIE LAD.

Hey, how my Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye shou'd hae been ;
For gin ye’re voice I had na kent,

I'm sure I couldna trust my een :
Sae weels ye might hae courted me,

And sweetly touzled me bedeen :
Hey, how my Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye shou'd hae been.

My father, he was at the moor;

My mither, she was at the mill;
My brother, he was at the plough,

And no ane near our sport to spill :

A lug to listen was na there,

And still less fear o' being seen :
Hey, how my Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye shou'd hae been.

Wad ony lad who lo'ed me weel

Hae left me a' my liefu' lane,
To count the minutes as they crawled,

And think life's sweetest moments gane,
I wonder what was in ye’re head,

I wonder what was in ye’re een :
Hey, how my Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye shou'd hae been.
But I shall seek some other lad,

Whose love is upmost in his mind;
As gleg as light, wha has the sleight

O'kenning when he should be kind,
Then ye may woo wi' blinkin Bess-

For you nae mair I'll sigh and grean :
Hey, how my Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye shou'd hae been.

(From Herd's Collection, 1776, with a few emendations by Mr. Cunningham.]

AN THOU WERT MY AIN THING,

An thou wert my ain thing,
I would love thee, I would love thee;
An thou wert my ain thing,

How dearly would I love thee !

Of race divine thou need’st must be,
Since nothing earthly equals thee:
For Heaven's sake, then, favour me,

Who only live to love thee!

The gods one thing peculiar have,
To ruin none whom they can save :
Then, for their sake, support a slave,

Who only lives to love thee.

To merit I no claim can make,
But that I love, and for your sake
What man can name I'll undertake,

So dearly do I love thee.

My passion, constant as the sun,
Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done
Till fate my thread of life has spun,

Which, breathing out, I'll love thee.

[These very beautiful verses were printed in the Tea Table Mis. cellany—they are old-but the additional stanzas are undoubtedly from the pen of Ramsay :

Like bees that suck the morning dew,
Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue,
Sae wad I dwell upon thy mou,

And gar the gods envy me.

Sae lang's I had the use of light,
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight,
Syne in saft whispers thro' the night,

I'd tell how much I lov'd thee.

How fair and ruddy is my Jean !
She moves a goddess o'er the green !
Were I a king, thou should be queen,

Nane but mysel abune thee.