MARY MORISON

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,'
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

THO' CRUEL FATE

THO' cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,

Her dear idea round my heart,

Should tenderly entwine.

Tho' mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN

Chorus-I'll ay ca' in by yon town,

And by yon garden-green again;
I'll ay ca' in by yon town,

Anr see my bonie Jean again.1

THERE'S nane shall ken, there's nane can guess
What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass,
And stow'nlins we sall meet again.
I'll ay ca' in, etc.

She'll wander by the aiken tree,

When' trystin' time draws near again;
And when her lovely form I see,

O haith! she's doubly dear again.
I'll ay ca' in, etc.

1 Burns first met Jean Armour at a dance in Mauchline. They were not partners, but she overheard him say, when his dog followed him in the dance, "I wish I could find a lassie as fond of me as my dog."

A short time afterwards Jean, then 18 years of age, was carrying water to bleach her clothes on the bleaching green, and she asked Burns as he was passing, "Have you found a lassie yet to love you as well as your dog?"

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between:

But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

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 bonie flower that springs,

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

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE

IT IS na, Jean, thy bonie face
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.

Something, in ilka part o' thee,
To praise, to love, I find,
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna mak thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I if heaven shall give
But happiness to thee;

And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,

For thee I'd bear to die.

BONIE JEAN

BONIE JEAN

THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a' our fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark,
And ay she sang sae merrilie;

The blythest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;

And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!

As in the bosom of the stream,

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en;