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Haith ye're ill-bred, she'll smiling say,

Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook !
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,

And hide hersel' in some dark nook.
Her laugh will lead you to the place

Where lies the happiness ye want,
And plainly tell you to your face,

Nineteen nae-says are half a grant.

Now to her heaving bosom cling,

And sweetly toolie for a kiss :
Frae her fair finger whup a ring

As taiken of a future bliss.
These bennisons, I'm very sure,

Are a' o' heaven's indulgent grant
Then surly carles whisht, forbear

To plague us wi' your whining cant.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. It is in parts a very elegant and very happy imitation of the ninth ode of the first book of Horace. Lord Woodhouselee has called it one of the happiest efforts of Ram. say's genius.]



The collier has a daughter,

And O she's wondrous bonny;
A laird he was that sought her,

Rich baith in lands and money :

The tutors watch'd the motion

Of this young honest lover;
But love is like the ocean

Wha can its depth discover !
He had the art to please ye,

And was by a' respected ;
His airs sat round him easy,

Genteel but unaffected.
The collier's bonnie lassie,

Fair as the new-blown lily,
Aye sweet, and never saucy,

Secur'd the heart of Willie.

He lovd beyond expression

The charms that were about her,
And panted for possession;

His life was dull without her.
After mature resolving,

Close to his breast he held her ;
In saftest flames dissolving,

He tenderly thus tell’d her:
My bonnie collier's daughter,

Let naething discompose ye,
'Tis no your scanty tocher

Shall ever gar me lose ye:
For I have gear in plenty,

And love says, 'tis my duty
To ware what heaven has lent me,

Upon your wit and beauty.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724--they are modelled from a copy of old verses, for which, see Cunningham's Songs of Scotland, vol. iii. p. 75, and Cromek's Select Songs, vol. i. p. 60.)



How sweetly smells the simmer green !

Sweet taste the peach and cherry :
Painting and order please our e'en,

And claret makes us merry:
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,

And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms, and weaker powers,

Compar'd with those of Chirsty.

When wandering o'er the flowery park,

No natural beauty wanting,
How lightsome 'tis to hear the lark,

And birds in concert chanting !
But if my Chirsty tunes her voice,

I'm rapt in admiration;
My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice,

And drap the hale creation.

Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,

I take the happy omen,
And aften mint to make advance,

Hoping she'll prove a woman ;
But dubious of my ain desert,

My sentiments I smother; With secret sighs I vex my heart,

For fear she love another

Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,

His Chirsty did o’erhear him ;
She doughtna let her lover mourn,

But ere he wist drew near him.
She spake her favour by a look,

Which left nae room to doubt her :
He wisely this white minute took,

And flang his arms about her.

My Chirsty !-witness, bonnie stream,

Sic joy frae tears arising !
I wish this may na be a dream

O love the most surprising !
Time was too precious now for tauk ;

This point of a' his wishes
He wadna wi' set speeches bauk,

But wared it a' on kisses.

[Ramsay commences the Tea Table Miscellany with this song.]



My Patie is a lover gay,

His mind is never muddy,
His breath is sweeter than new hay,

His face is fair and ruddy.
His shape is handsome, middle size;

He's stately in his walking ;
The shining of his een surprise ;

'Tis heaven to hear him talking.

Last night I met him on a bawk,

Where yellow corn was growing ;
There mony a kindly word he spake,

That set my heart a-glowing.
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,

And loo'd me best of ony;
That gars me like to sing sinsyne,

O corn-riggs are bonny !

Let maidens of a silly mind

Refuse what maist they're wanting,
Since we for yielding are design'd,

We chastely should be granting;
Then I'll comply, and


And syne my cockernony
He's free to touzle air or late

Where corn-riggs are bonny.

(From The Gentle Shepherd. “This is a very unequal song.” Burns wrote to George Thomson. “ His mind is never muddy' is a muddy expression indeed.”]



Now Phoebus advances on high,

Nae footsteps of winter are seen,
The birds carol sweet in the sky,

And launbkins dance reels on the green.

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