THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE But what wad ye think?—in a fortnight or less— He up the Gate-slack1 to my black cousin, Bess Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her; But a' the niest week, as I petted wi' care, But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, And how her new shoon fit her auld schachl'td feet,2 But heavens! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow; I think I maun wed him to-morrow. a fair. This is no my Ain Lassie.3 Tune-"This is no my house." Chorus-THIS is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; b stared. 1 Altered to "lang loan" to please Thomson, who also objected to "Dalgarnock" in the next verse as too local. O BONIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place; She's bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, The kind love that's in her e'e. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, This is no my ain, &c. It may escape the courtly sparks, O bonie was yon Rosy Brier.' O BONIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure, amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 1 Thought to be the last of many songs on Chloris, TO ALEXANDER CUNNINGHAM All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and whimpling burn, Song Inscribed to Alexander Cunningham.1 Now spring has clad the grove in green, The trout in yonder wimpling burn And, safe beneath the shady thorn, My life was ance that careless stream, But Love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. That little floweret's peaceful lot, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Was mine, till Love has o'er me past, And now, beneath the withering blast, 1 Dated August 3, 1795, or sent to Mr Cunningham on that date. THE LASSIE O' MY HEART The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, As little reck'd I sorrow's power, O' witching Love, in luckless hour, O had my fate been Greenland snows, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, The wretch whose doom is "hope nae mair" Within whase bosom, save Despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. O that's the Lassie o' my Heart.1 Tune-"Morag." O WAT ye wha that loes me Chorus-O that's the lassie o' my heart, O she's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to If thou shalt meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming, That e'en thy chosen lassie, Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 1 Sent to Mr Cleghorn, in January 1796, after an illness of the Poet's. INSCRIPTION If thou hadst heard her talking, But her, by thee is slighted, If thou hast met this Fair One, But her, thou hast deserted, O that's the lassie o' my heart, Inscription, peer her. Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of—" Chloris."1 "TIs Friendship's pledge, my young, fair Friend, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralising Muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, (A world 'gainst Peace in constant arms) Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lour; (And ne'er Misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) 1 This sets forth the true nature of Burns's affection for Miss Lorimer. |