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The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck dumb wi' amaze, my mind is confounded;
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
For a' my desire is Hay's bonnie lassie.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. It is said to be by Ramsas. ]



Born 1686.-Died 1757.

The lass of Patie's mill,

Sae bonnie blithe, and gay,
In spite of all my skill,
She stole


When tedding out the hay,

Bareheaded on the green,
Love ʼmidst her locks did play,

And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms white, round, and smooth ;

Breasts rising in their dawn;
To age it would give youth,

To press them with his han’.
Through all my spirits ran

An ecstacy of bliss,
When I such sweetness fand

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
Her sweets she did impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smild:
Her looks they were so mild,

Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd ;-
I wish'd her for



O! had I a' the wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill,
Insur'd long life and health,

And pleasure at my will;
I'd promise, and fulfil,

That none but bonnie she,
The lass of Patie's mill,

Should share the same with me.

[Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, informed Burns on the authority of the Earl of Loudon, that Ramsay was struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl, at a place called Patie's Mill, near New.mills; and under the influence of her charms composed the above song. Published for the first time in the Tea Table Miscel. lany, 1724.]



As I came in by Teviot-side,

And by the braes of Branksome,
There first I saw my bonny bride,

Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome;

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Her skin was safter than the down,

And white as alabaster;
Her hair a shining wavy brown;

In straightness nane surpass'd her ;
Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek,

Her clear een were surprising,
And beautifully turn'd her neck,

Her little breasts just rising :
Nae silken hose, with gooshets fine,

Or shoon with glancing laces,
On her bare leg, forbade to shine

Well shapen native graces.
Ae little coat, and bodice white,

Was sum of a’ her claithing ;
Even thae's o'er meikle; mair delyte

She'd given cled wi' naithing :
She lean’d upon a flow'ry brae,

By which a burnie trotted ; On her I glowr'd my soul away,

While on her sweets I doated. A thousand beauties of desert

Before had scarce alarm'd me, Till this dear artless struck

my heart, And, but designing, charm’d me. Hurried by love, close to my breast

I grasp'd this fund of blisses, Who smild, and said, without a priest,

Sir, hope for nought but kisses. I had nae heart to do her harm,

And yet I cou'dna want her; What she demanded, ilka charm

Of her's pled, I shou'd grant her.

Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,

Straight to the kirk I led her,
There plighting her my faith and trouth,

And a young lady made her.

[First appeared under the name of “ The Generous Gentleman," in Allan Ramsay's collection, accompanied by instructions to sing it to the tune of “ The Bonnie Lass of Branksome.”]



Gi’e me a lass with a lump of land,

And we for life shall gang thegither,
Though daft or wise, I'll never demand,

Or black or fair, it makesna whether.
I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade,

And blood alane is na worth a shilling ;
But she that's rich, her market’s made,

For ilka charm about her is killing.
Gi’e me a lass with a lump of land,

And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure;
Gin I had ance her gear in my hand,

Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure.
Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand,

I hate with poortith, though bonny, to meddle,
Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land,

They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle.

There's meikle good love in bands and bags,

And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion ; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,

Have tint the art of gaining affection : Love tips his arrows with and parks,

And castles, and riggs, and muirs and meadows, And uaithing can catch our modern sparks,

But well-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows.



Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I have mony a day been :
To Lochaber no '

more, to Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And not for the dangers attending on weir ;
Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind :
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd,
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd:
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

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