O THAT I HAD NE'ER BEEN O THAT I had ne'er been married, Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. Waefu want and hunger fley me, Glowrin by the hallen en'; But ay I'm eerie they come ben. THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. THERE'S news, lasses, news, Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she, I'll no gang to my bed I hae as gude a craft rig SCROGGAM. THERE was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, Scroggam; She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen, Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam; The priest o' the parish fell in anither, Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, Scroggam; That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither, Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, FRAE THE FRIENDS AND FRAE the friends and land I love, Never mair to taste delight; Ease frae toil, relief frae care : When remembrance wrecks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desart ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till revenge, wi' laurell'd head, Bring our banish'd hame again; And ilka loyal, bonie lad Cross the seas and win his ain. THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS ELECTION BALLAD, 1789. THE laddies by the banks o' Nith Up and waur them a', Jamie, That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. But wha is he, his country's boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie; There's no a callant tents the kye, But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. To end the wark, here's Whistlebirk, Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue, And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. name Should grace the Lass of Albany. But there's a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We'll send him o'er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany. Alas the day, and wo the day, A false usurper wan the gree, Who now commands the towers and lands The royal right of Albany. We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, On bended knees most ferventlie, The time may come, with pipe and drum We'll welcome hame fair Albany. SONG. TUNE-' Maggy Lauder.' WHEN first I saw fair Jeanie's face, She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay, She's aye so blythe and cheerie ; Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in; Could I but hope to move her, She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay, &c. But sair I fear some happier swain Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour: If so, may every bliss be hers, Though I maun never have her : But gang she east, or gang she west, "Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, While men have eyes, or ears, or taste, She'll always find a lover. She's aye, aye gay, &c. sae blythe, sae APPENDIX. THE following Elegy, Extempore Verses to Gavin Hamilton, and Versicles on Signposts, now for the first time published, are extracted, it is supposed, from the copy of his Common-place Book which Burns presented to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop. The copy, after having been in the hands of several persons, and at each remove denuded of certain pages, came into the possession of Mr. Stillie, bookseller, Princes Street, Edinburgh, some years since, and is now the property of Mr. Macmillan. Besides the following poems, it contains two stanzas never before published of the Epitaph on Robert Fergusson, versions of There was a Lad was born in Kyle, and Gordon Castle, differing in some respects from those commonly printed; all of which have been embodied in the notes to the present edition. In the Common-place book, the Elegy is thus introduced:-"The following poem is the work of some hapless unknown son of the Muses, who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of 'The Voice of Cona,' in his solitary mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.' Burns, it will be seen, does not claim the authorship, and, from internal evidence, the Editor is of opinion that it was not written by him. Still, the Elegy, so far at least as the Editor is aware, exists nowhere else; and if Burns did not actually compose it, he at least thought it worthy of being copied with his own hand into a book devoted almost exclusively to his own compositions. Even if it were certain that Burns was not the author, still, the knowledge that he admired it, and that through his agency it alone exists, is considered sufficient excuse for its admission here. The Extempore Verses to Gavın Hamilton are as certainly Burns's as is Death and Dr. Hornbook, or the Address to the Deil. The dialect, the turn of phrase, the glittering surface of sarcasm, with the strong under-current of sense, and the peculiar off-hand impetuosity of idea and illustration, unmistakeably indicate Burns's hand, and his only. In the Commonplace Book, no date is given; but from the terms of the two closing stanzas, it would appear that the voyage to Jamaica was in contemplation at the period of its composition. The last stanza is almost identical in thought and expression with the closing lines of the well-known Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, which was written at that time, and which appeared in the first edition of the Poems printed at Kilmarnock. The Versicles on Signposts have the following introduction :-"The everlasting surliness of a Lion, Saracen's head, &c. or the unchanging blandness of the Landlord welcoming a traveller, on some sign-posts, would be no bad similes of the constant affected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal simper of a Frenchman or a Fiddler." The Versicles themselves are of little worth, and are indebted entirely to their paternity for their appearance here. ELEGY. STRAIT is the spot and green the sod, Pardon my transport, gentle sh ide, Not one poor stone to tell thy name, I'll sit me down upon this turf, And wipe away this tear: Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, Low lies the head by Death's cold arm I saw the grim Avenger stand Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, Thus wasted are the ranks of men, And overwhelms us all. Behold where round thy narrow house Some, with the tottering steps of Age, Trod down the darksome way: Yet these, however hard their fate, From thy lov'd friends when first thy heart Was taught by Heaven to flow: At the last limits of our isle, Pensive he eyes, before him spread, And while, amid the silent Dead Like thee, cut off in early youth And flower of beauty's pride, Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate And the same rapid tide shall whelm The tear of pity which he shed, His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, O, my dear maid, my Stella, when EXTEMPORE TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. To you, Sir, this summons I've sent, Pray whip till the pownie is fraething; But if you demand what I want, I honestly answer you, naething. Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, Are busy employed about-naething. He'll find, when the balance is cast, He's gane to the devil for-naething. The courtier cringes and bows, Ambition has likewise its plaything; A coronet beams on his brows: And what is a coronet ?-naething. Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, Some quarrel Episcopal graithing, But every good fellow will own Their quarrel is all about-naething. The lover may sparkle and glow, Approaching his bonie bit gay thing: But marriage will soon let him know He's gotten a buskit up naething. The Poet may jingle and rhyme In hopes of a laureate wreathing, And when he has wasted his time He's kindly rewarded with naething. The thundering bully may rage, And swagger and swear like a heathen; But collar him fast, I'll engage, Last night with a feminine whig, A Poet she could na put faith in, But soon we grew lovingly big, I taught her, her terrors were naething. Her whigship was wonderful pleased, But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing; Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, The priest anathemas may threat,- And now, I must mount on the wave, The drowning a Poet is naething. And now, as grim death's in my thought, |