DAINTY DAVIE.

'Dainty Davie" is the title of an old song from which Burns has taken
nothing but the name and the measure.

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davy, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' nature's rest,
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Bonnie Davy, daintie Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.

BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT ARRIVE.

"September, 1793. I have this moment finished the song for Oran Gaoil, 30 YOU have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well !-if not, 't is also well."-Burns to Thomson.

TUNE-Oran Gaoil.

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive;

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!

Sever'd from thee, can I survive?

But fate has will'd, and we must part

I'll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail;
"E'en here I took the last farewell;
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar

I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian

grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be;
While through thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me?

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE.

'I inclose you the music of 'Fee him, Father,' with two verses, which I composed at the time in which Patie Allan's mither died, that was about the back o' midnight, and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautboys and the music."-Burns to Thomson.

TUNE-Fee him, Father.

THOU hast left me ever, Jamie,

Thou hast left me ever,
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,

Thou hast left me ever.

Aften hast thou vow'd that death
Only should us sever,

Now thou 'st left thy lass for ay-
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
I'll see thee never.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken,
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo,

While my heart is breaking,
Soon my weary een I'll close-
Never mair to waken, Jamie,
Never mair to waken.

FAIR JENNY.1

TUNE-Saw ye my Father?

WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danced to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wandering,
At evening the wild woods among?

No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowerets so fair;
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?

No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride o' the year.

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow;
Come then, enamor'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

DELUDED SWAIN, ETC.

In a letter to Mr. Thomson, inclosing this song, Burns quaintly calls it "an old Bacchanal." It is, however, well known to be one of his own.

TUNE-The Collier's Dochter.

DELUDED Swain, the pleasure

The fickle Fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure;

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

1 Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, to whom the Poet thus speaks concerning it: "I have finished my song to 'Saw ye my Father?' and in English, as you will see. There is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, but the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is no great matter. Of the poetry, I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."

The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds' uncertain motion,
They are but types of woman.
Oh, art thou not ashamed,
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be naméd
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee;
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.

ΤΟ ΑΝΝΑ.

Written on the "Anna" of the song beginning-" Yestreen I had a pint o' wine."

ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But, ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,

So much in sight of Heaven.

ANNA.

Burns considered this to be the best love song he ever composed. Tao Postscript, which former editors have suppressed, is here restored.

TUNE-Banks of Banna.

YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The raven locks of Anna:
The hungry Jew, in wilderness,
Rejoicing o'er his manna,

Was naething to my honey bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah;
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
Then I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana;

While dying raptures in her arms,
I give and take wi' Anna.

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna!
Come in thy raven plumage, night;
Sun, moon, and stars, withdraw a';
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi' my Anna.

POSTSCRIPT.

The kirk and state may join, and tell
To do such things I mauna:
The kirk and state may gae to h‐ll,
And I'll gae to my Anna.

She is the sunshine o' my e'e,
To live but her1 I canna;
Had I on earth but wishes three,
The first should be my Anna.

THE RIGS O' BARLEY.

One of our Poet's earliest productions.-J. G. Lockhart's Life of Burns.

TUNE-Corn rigs are bonnie.

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

I held awa' to Annie:

The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
Till 'tween the late and early,

Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro' the barley.

1 Without her.