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Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy Day to you is dear.

Gentle Night, do thou befriend me,
Downy Sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa'!


TUNE - Braes o' Balquhidder.


I'LL kiss thee yet, yet,

And I'll kiss thee o'er again,

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonny Peggy Alison!

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O!
Young kings upon their hansel


Are no sae blest as I am, O!


When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,

I seek nae mair o' heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

And by thy e'en, sae bonny blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!1



FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul,

And Queen of Poetesses,

Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.

And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind,

And pledge me in the generous toast -
"The whole of human kind!"

1 Mr. William Douglas, whose expiscation of the mysterious story of Highland Mary entitles him to be heard with respect on any subject connected with Burns, is strongly of opinion that both Mary Morison and Bonny Peggy Alison refer to Ellison Begbie, the poet's early sweetheart, whose rejection of him just before his going to Irvine caused him so much discomfiture during that period of his life.

"To those who love us!" second fill;

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But not to those whom we love;

Lest we love those who love not us!

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THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,

The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale;

The hawthorn-trees blow in the dew of the


And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green


But what can give pleasure, or what can seem


While the lingering moments are numbered by care?

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly


Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,

A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can

find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn ; My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody


Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!


Written from the farm of Ellisland, upon which Burns entered in June, 1788.

In this strange land, this uncouth clime,

A land unknown to prose or rhyme;

Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles,1

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ;

A land that Prose did never view it,

Except when drunk he stacher't through it; staggered Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,

1 Hackles - an instrument for dressing flax.


Hid in an atmosphere of reek,

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
I hear it for in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins by chapters.
For life and spunk like ither Christians,
I'm dwindled down to mere existence;
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,1
Wi' nae kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes.2
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!


Dowie she saunters down Nithside,

And aye a westlin leuk she throws,


While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose! cover Was it for this, wi' canny care,


Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?

At howes or hillocks never stumbled,

And late or early never grumbled?
Oh, had I power like inclination,
I'd heeze thee up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,
Down the zodiac urge the race,

And cast dirt on his godship's face:



1 Ellisland is near the borders of the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, a portion of the district popularly called Galloway.

2 His mare.

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