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O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever ;
For Nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he cou'dna scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face,


canna wrang thee."

And say,

The powers aboon will tent thee';

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag, we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonnie.

(“ This rhapsody I composed on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed through Dumfries to England." Burys.

The poet accompanied Miss Baillie (afterwards Mrs. Cuming of Logie) and her father, fifteen miles on their road; “ out of pure devotion to admire the loveliness of the works of God." Returning home he composed the above ballad, making a parody, he wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, upon an old ballad beginning

My bonnie Lizie Baille
I'll rowe thee in my pladie.

“ I am in love," said the poet to another correspondent, “ souse! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean, with the most beantiful, elegant woman in the world.")



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar ·
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air !
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try

What peace is there !

[This “ sublime song," as Mr. Canningham jastly calls it, relatas, Barns tells us, to “an unfortunate part” of his friend Alexander Cunningham's story. The concluding verse when song with great feeling, is awfully grapd.)



There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,

That wander thro’ the blooming heather ;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,

Can match the lads o' Galla water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I loe him better;
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,

The bonnie lad o' Galla water.

Although his daddie was nae laird,

And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Galla water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,

That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !

[The above song Burns wrote for George Thomson's Collection in 1793. The old words as printed by Herd and others, are

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water,
O braw lads of Galla water,

I'll kilt my coats below my knee

up to

And follow my love thro' the water.
Sae fair her hair sae brent her brow,

Sae boony blue her een my dearie,
Sae white her teeth sae sweet her mou',
I aften kiss her till I'm wearie.

The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie.
O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae,

O'er yon moss amang the heather,
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,

And follow my love thro' the water.
Down amang the broom, the broom,

Down amang the broom my dearie,
The lassie lost { her} silken snood,

That gard her greet till she was weary.


That cost her mony a blirt and bleary.

Herd, II. 202. These verses appear to be words of two different songs, 'Galla Water,' and · The Lassie lost her Silken Snood.'

Mr. Robert Chambers has printed other copies of this old song from recitation. See " Scottish Songs," vol. ii. p. 327, p. 665.)




Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,

Now tired with wandering,

Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to iny bosom, my ain only dearie,

[And] Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,

It was na the blast brought the tear,

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer,
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes rest,
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers;

[O] How your dread howling a lover alarms !
Wauken, ye breezes, blow gently, ye billows,

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But if he's forgotten his faithfullest
But oh, if he's faithless, and mindna his Nannie,

O still flow

Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ; May I never see it, may I never trow it,

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.

wild horrors


[" I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the old “ Thro' the Lang Muir," be the best."-BURNS. Letter to Thomson.

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