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And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

The Twa Dogs.

Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as others see us !
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

And foolish notion.

To a Louse.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,
To step aside is human.'

Address to the Unco Guid.
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

Ibid. Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate Full on thy bloom.”

To a Mountain Daisy. O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I !

Despondency. Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon. Epistle to a Young Friend. I waive the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

Ibid. The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order ;8 But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.

Ibid. An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

Ibid. And may you better reck the rede, 4 Than ever did the adviser!


1 See Pope, page 325.
3 See Burton, page 193.

2 See Young, page 309.
4 See Shakespeare, page 129.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ;
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Flow gently, sweet Afton. Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

Whistle, and I'll come to ye. If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody.”

I hae a Wife o' my Ain. Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne ?

Auld Lang Syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine.

Ibid. Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark ! Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ? Ode on Mrs. Oswald. To make a happy fireside clime

To weans and wife, – That is the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

Epistle lo Dr. Blacklock.

If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede ye tent it;
A chiel's amang ye takin' notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it.

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland. John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent.

John Anderson.

1 See Beaumont and Fletcher, page 198.

2 See Bickerstaff, page 427.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

My Heart's in the Highlands.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonny wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing. The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Highland. Mary. But, oh! fell death's untimely frost That nipt my flower sae early.

Ibid. 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.

Here's a Health to them that's Awa'.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!
Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour.



Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do or die.8


In durance vile 4 here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Epistle from Esopus to Maria.

1 These lines from an old song, entitled “The Strong Walls of Derry," Burns made a basis for his own beautiful ditty.

2 See Heywood, page 9.
8 See Fletcher, page 183.

4 Durance vile. — W. KENRICK (1766): Falstaff's Wedding, act i. sc. 2. BURKE : The Present Discontents.

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.

A Red, Red Rose. Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi' mair.

Contented wi' Little. Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warın.

Tam o Shanter. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises.

Ibid. His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither, They had been fou for weeks thegither.

Ibid. The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious.

Ibid. The landlord's laugh was ready chorus.

Ibid. Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

Ibid. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

Ibid. Nae man can tether time or tide.1

Ibid. That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane. Ibid. Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Ibid. As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.


1 See Heywood, page 10.

But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love forever.

Ae Fond Kiss.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted !

Ibid. To see her is to love her,

And love but her forever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Bonny Lesley. Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care ?

The Banks of Doon.
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

Sweet Sensibility. The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that. For a' that and a' that. A prince can make a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa’ that.8

Ibid. 'T is sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside, – Jessy !

Jessy. Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some would eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Grace before Meat. It was a' for our rightful King We left fair Scotland's strand.

A' for our Rightfu' King. 4 1 To know her was to love her. – Rogers : Jacqueline, stanza 1.

2 I weigh the man, not his title; 't is not the king's stamp can make the metal better. – WYCHERLY: The Plaindealer, act i. sc. 1.

3 See Southerne, page 282.

4 This ballad first appeared in Johnson's " Museum," 1796. Sir Walter Scott was never tired of hearing it sung.


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