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An' merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle,

An' kissin my Katie when a' was done! O a' the lang day I ca’ at my hammer,

An' a' the lang day I whistle an’ sing;
A’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,
An' a' the lang night am as happy's a king.

II.
Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,

O marrying Bess, to gi'e her a slave:
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens,

An' blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,

An' come to my arms an' kiss me again! Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie,

And blest be the day I did it again!

THOU LING'RING STAR.

1. 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. Oh 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?

II.

That sacred hour can I forget;

Can I forget the hallowed grove,

1 One MS. has "heavenly.”

Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love!
Eternity can? not efface

Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace-
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !

III.
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild-woods, thick’ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene: The flow’rs sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray-
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

IV.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,

And fondly broods with miser-care!
Time but th’ 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?

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

CHORUS.
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our e’e!

2 The reading in Currie is "will."

The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we'll taste the barley-bree.

I.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,

An' Rob an' Allan cam' to see: Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na find in Christendie.

II.
Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,

And monie mae we hope to be!

III.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wile us hame,

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

IV.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa',

A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',

He is the King amang us three!

CHORUS
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our e’e!
The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we'll taste the barley-bree.

THE TITHER MORN.

I.
THE tither morn, when I forlorn

Aneath an aik sat moaning,
I did na trow, I'd see my jo,

Beside me gin the gloaming.
But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig,

An' dawtingly did cheer me,
When I, what reck, did least expec'

To see my lad so near me.

II.
His bonnet he, a thought ajee,

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me;
An' I, I wat, wi' fainness grat,

While in his grips he press'd me.
De'il tak' the war! I late an' air,

Ha’e wish'd since Jock departed;
But now as glad I'm wi' my lad,

As short syne broken hearted.

III.
Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen,

When a' were blythe an' merry,
I car’d na by, sae sad was I,

In absence o' my dearie.
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest,

I'm happy wi' my Johnny:
At kirk an' fair, I'se aye be there,

An' be as canty's ony.

Burns, Poems.

8

114 THINE AMI, MY FAITHFUL FAIR.—WILL Ye Go To THE INDIES.

THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR.

I.
THINE am I, my faithful Fair

Thine, my lovely Nancy,'
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
Ev'ry roving fancy!

II.
To thy bosom lay my heart,

There to throb and languish:
Tho' despair had wrung its core,

That would heal its anguish.

III.
Take away these rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure!
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure !

IV.
What is life when wanting love?

Night without a morning!
Love's the cloudless summer sun,

Nature gay adorning!

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES,

,

MY MARY.

I.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

And leave auld Scotia's shore?

1 Burns wished Thomson to alter the 2nd and 4th lines of stanza I thus:

“Well thou mayst discover!

Tells the ardent Lover."

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