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Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi, bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi, murdering pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal

Robert Burns.

JOHN ANDERSON.

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven.
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessing on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter doun, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

Robert Burns.

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA.

HERE'S health to them that's awa,
And here's to them that's awa;

And wha winna wish guid ck to our causa,
May never guid luck be their fa" l

It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Robert Burns.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valor, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove.

The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Robert Burns.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

NOW NATURE hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea;

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can_glad the wearied wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice.
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:

The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

Robert Burns.

TO MARY.

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;

But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join ;

And curst be the cause that shall part us i—
The hour and the moments o' time!

Robert Burns.

A RED, RED ROSE.

OH, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
Oh, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry;

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve !
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns.

OF A THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly lo'e the west,

For there the bonnie 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 Jeane.

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 bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

Robert Burns.

A ROSE-BUD.

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stală,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,

The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.

Robert Burns.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

To make a happy fireside clime,
To weans and wife-

That's the true pathos, and sublime
Of human life.

Robert Burns.

LOVE IN HUMBLE LIFE.

O HAPPY love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare-
"If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,

"Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk white thorn that scents the ev'ning

gale!

Robert Burns.

TAM O' SHANTER.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearin' late,
An' folk begin to tak' the gate :
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,

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