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Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

SONG.*

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T.

O was my babie-clouts will buy?
Wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?
The rantin dog the daddie o't.-

Wha will own he did the faut?
Wha will buy my groanin-maut?
Wha will tell me how to ca't?
The rantin dog the daddie o't.-

When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ?
Wha will kiss me o'er again?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young gi, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud. Burns' Reliques, p. 278.

SONG.*

CRAIGIE-BURN-WOOD.t

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee,
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.

SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood,
And blithely awakens the morrow;

But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood
Can yield me to nothing but sorrow.
Beyond thee, &c.

I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.

* It is remarkable of this air, that it is the confine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can localize it) has been composed. From Craigie burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady was born at Craigie-burnwood.-The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad.

The chorus is old.

Burns' Reliques, p. 284.

I canna tell, I maun na tell,

I dare na for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. Beyond thee, &c.

I see the gracefu', straight and tall, I see the straight and bonnie, But oh, what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy Johnie! Beyond thee, &c.

To see thee in anither's arms,
In love to lie and languish,
'Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
Beyond thee, &c.

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say, thou lo'es nane before me;
And a' my days o' life to come
I'll gratefully adore thee.
Beyond thee, &c.

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.*

I Do confess thou art sae fair,

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;

Had I na found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve.

do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,

Thy favours are the silly wind

That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briars sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu'd and worn a common toy !

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.

This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland.-The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotland.-I think that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress. Burns' Reliques, p. 292.

M 2

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS..

YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the
heather to feed,

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed:

Where the grouse, &c.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Aman gthae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs; And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,

They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

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