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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 CLARINDA1

Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the
signature of "Clarinda" and entitled, On Burns
saying he had nothing else to do.'

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.

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.

1 A grass-widow, Mrs. M'Lehose.

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.

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

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?

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

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.

I AM my mammy's ae bairn,

Wi' unco folk I weary, sir;

And lying in a man's bed,
I'm fley'd it mak me eerie, sir.
I'm o'er young, &c.

My mammie coft me a new gown,
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't;
Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir,

I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
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.

TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO

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 gin 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.

My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o't

Has gart me sigh and sab.
To the weaver's, &c.

A bonie, westlin weaver lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi' a net,
In every knot and thrum.
To the weaver's, &c.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca'd it roun';

But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
To the weaver's, &c.

The moon was sinking in the west,
Wi' visage pale and wan,
As my bonie, westlin weaver lad
Convoy'd me thro' the glen.
To the weaver's, &c.

But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa' me gin I tell;
But Oh! I fear the kintra soon

Will ken as weel's mysel!
To the weaver's, &c.

M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL

Tune "M'Pherson's Rant."

FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.

Chorus.-Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

O, what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain

I've dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Sae rantingly, &c.

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring me to my sword;

And there's no a man in all Scotland
But I'll brave him at a word.

Sae rantingly, &c.

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