SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains,
Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains :
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure-
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

Sylvander to Clarinda.1

Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of "Clarinda."

WHEN dear Clarinda, matchless fair,

First struck Sylvander's raptur'd view,
He gaz'd, he listened to despair,
Alas! 'twas all he dared to do.

Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes,
Transfixed his bosom thro' and thro';
But still in Friendship's guarded guise,
For more the demon fear'd to do.

That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer'd all perdue;
For frowning Honour kept his post-
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.

1 Clarinda (Mrs M'Lehose) was not a widow, but a grass-widow, and Burns was, legally, a married man. Her story may be seen in the Introduction,

The verses referred to are headed "On Burns saying he 'had nothing else to do.""

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

His pangs the Bard refused to own,
Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew;
But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan―
Who blames what frantic Pain must do ?

That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honour true :
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,
Was what a lover sure might do.

The Muse his ready quill employed,
No nearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd-
"Send word by Charles how you do!"

The chill behest disarm'd his muse,
Till passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,

"Twas, 'cause "he'd nothing else to do."

But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee, that deed I dare to do!

O could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,

If human art and power could do!

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow ;)
And lay no more your chill command,-
I'll write, whatever I've to do.

SYLVANDER.

CLARINDA

Love in the Guise of Friendship.'

YOUR friendship much can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy!

Why urge the only, one request
You know I will deny !

Your thought, if Love must harbour there,

Conceal it in that thought;

Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.

Go on, Sweet Bird, and sooth my Care.2

FOR thee is laughing Nature gay,
For thee she pours the vernal day;
For me in vain is Nature drest,
While Joy's a stranger to my breast.

Clarinda, Mistress of my Soul.$

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

1 A sequel to lines by Mrs M'Lchose. 2 Again, an addition to lines by the same lady.

3 The glimmering planet, if Miss Armour is meant, did "fix" Burns.

In Thomson's collection, after

Burns's death, two lines are altered: the song begins with "Farewell, dear mistress of my heart," and the second line of verse 2 is "Shall your poor wand'rer hie."

I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET

We part-but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes,

No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise!

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

I'm o'er Young to Marry yet.1

Chorus.-I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young,
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy yet.

■ only child.

I AM my mammy's ae bairn,"
Wi' uncob folk I weary, sir;
And lying in a strange bed,

I'm fley'd it mak me eerie,d sir.
I'm o'er young, &c.

Hallowmass is come and gane,

The nights are lang in winter, sir,
And you an' I in ae bed,

In trowth, I dare na venture, sir.
I'm o'er young, &c.

Fu' loud an' shill the frosty wind
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir;
But if ye come this gate again,

I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir.
I'm o'er young, &c.

ь strange.

1 Lines for music, in Johnson's Museum, for which Burns wrote most

of the pieces immediately following.

TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO

To the Weavers gin ye go.1

My heart was ance as blithe and free
As simmer days were lang;
But a bonie, westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.

Chorus.-To the weaver's gina ye go, fair maids,
To the weaver's gin ye go;

I rede you right, gang ne'er at night,
To the weaver's gin ye go.