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My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may Summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me the Autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn?

And, in the narrow house of death,
Let Winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the Spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes
hame.1

By yon Castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears doon came,-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars,
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame,—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

1 If Scott is right, some such song is older than Burns. When old Oliphant of Gask was bed-ridden, they told him the news of the peace of Amiens. He merely crooned in reply :

"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

Scott has a verse:There's naught in the Hielands but sy boes and leeks,

And bare-legged laddies gaun wanting the breeks.

Wanting the breeks, and wi'out hose or shoon,

But we'll a' get the breeks when King

Jamie comes hame.

Burns (to Cunningham, March 11, 1791) mentions the old air, "a beautiful Jacobite air."

THE BANKS O' DOON

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd *;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame,-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Song-Out over the Forth.1

OUT over the Forth, I look to the North;
But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
The far foreign land, or the wide rolling sea.

But I look to the west when I gae to rest,

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I loe best,

The man 2 that is dear to my babie and me.

The Banks o' Doon.3

FIRST VERSION.

SWEET are the banks-the banks o' Doon,
The spreading flowers are fair,

And everything is blythe and glad,

But I am fu' o' care.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough;

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Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true:
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,
And sae did I o' mine:
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon its thorny tree;

But my fause Luver staw my rose,
And left the thorn wi' me :
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon a morn in June;

And sae I flourished on the morn,
And sae was pu'd or noon!

The Banks o' Doon.1

SECOND VERSION.2

YE flowery banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough!
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.

1[March 1791.] "While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens! say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the

magic of that sound-'Auld Toon o' Ayr,' conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr Ballantine. Here it is."-Letter to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

2 This is Cromek's version, which wants the last four lines.

THE BANKS O' DOON

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon its thorny tree;

But my fause Luver staw my rose,
And left the thorn wi' me.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon a morn in June;

And sae I flourished on the morn,
And sae was pu'd or noon.

The Banks o' Doon.

THIRD VERSION.1

YE banks and braes o' bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant ye little birds,

And I sae weary fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by Bonie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine:

And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine;

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause Luver staw my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

1 A third version, adapted to a tune light." The poetry suffers, of course. called "The Caledonian Hunt's De

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn.1

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Look'd on the fading yellow woods,
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom Death had all untimely ta'en.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
His locks were bleachèd white with time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To Echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques o' the vernal queir!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;
But nocht in all-revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain;

But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hald of earth is gane;

Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,

And ithers plant them in my room.

1 Lord Glencairn died on January 27, 1791. The last verse has a wonderful

ballad-like charm of naturalness, lacking to "the ancient bard."

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