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Of a' the Airts the Mind can Blaw.

TUNE—“ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.”

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonny lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

But day and night, my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonny flower that springs.
By fountain, shaw, or green,

There's not a bonny bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

To Mary in Heaven.

TUNE-" Death of Captain Cook."

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st 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 will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah little thought we 'twas 'our last!

To Mary in Heaven.

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every sprayTill too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Up in the Morning early.

The chorus of this song is old; but the two stanzas are Burns's.

CHORUS.

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A' day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, I'm sure it's winter fairly.

using on the Roaring Dcean.

TUNE-"Druimion Dubh."

MUSING on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me;
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where'er he be.

[graphic]

Hope and Fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature's law
Whispering spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa'!

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