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you would imagine she coveted the notice of a man, rather than st died the delicacy of her sex. Had a half-witling lord written the poem, her vanity would have been flattered, and she would have acknowledged the compliment. Had Lord Daer written it--would it not have been answered ?

Curst be the verse how sweet soe'er it flow,

That makes a blush on woman's cheek to glow." Barns had frequently seen Miss Alexander at church, and wander. ing among the braes of Ballochmyle; she was a very showy young lady. The poet acknowledged no superior, he held the patent of his honours immediately from Almighty God!)

MARY MORISON.

ROBERT BURNS.

O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string,

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', ".
To thee my fancy took its wing,

39 PTRB ,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; ,, jos
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And

yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',

“ Ye are na Mary Morison.!!! 19:1901 5:22,

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O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whose only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt nae gie,

At least be pity to me shown !
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

[" This song is one of my juvenile works, I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits.”—BURNS.

“ Mary Morison is one of those songs which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind."-HAZLITT.)

THE BANKS O' DOON.

ROBERT BURNS,

Ye banks and braes o' honnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary fu' o' care!
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn :
Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed-never to return!
Oft hae i rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o’mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And
my

fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

(The lady to whose lips these very beautiful lines are given, was a Miss Kennedy of Dalgarrock, a young and beautiful girl that fell a victim to her heartless seducer, M'Douall of Logan. I subjoin the earliest version of this favourite lyric.

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair :
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu’ o'care !

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me oʻ the happy days

When my fause lave was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist da o' my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o its love,

And sae did I oʻmine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause lover staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.]

GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O.

ROBERT BURNS.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, 0 !

Green grow the rashes, 0 !
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that

passes,

0: What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0 ?

The warly race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, 0); An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, 0; An' warly cares, an' warly men,

May a' gue tapsalteerie, 0.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,

Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, 0 :
Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, 0.

(Upon some old fragments, now frequently printed, Burns founded this very charming and popular song.

The sentiment of the last verse though not new, is as Mr. Cun. ningham says, “the richest incense any poet ever offered at the shrine of beauty."]

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