I.

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, His mind is ever true, jo, His garters knit below his knee, His bonnet it is blue, jo.

Then up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman!

Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.

II.

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, He's aften wat and weary; Cast off the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my dearie!

III.

I will wash my ploughman's hose, And I will dress his o'erlay; I will mak my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early.

IV.

I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston; The bonniest sight that e'er I saw Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.

V.

Snaw-white stockins on his legs, And siller buckles glancin'; A gude blue bonnet on his head-- And O, but he was handsome!

VI.

Commend me to the barn-yard, And the corn-mou, man; I never gat my coggie fou, Till I met wi' the ploughman.

Up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman!

Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.

LI.

LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN.

Tune--"_Hey tutti, taiti._"

[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line of the Stuarts.]

I.

Landlady, count the lawin, The day is near the dawin; Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, And I'm but jolly fou, Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti-- Wha's fou now?

II.

Cog an' ye were ay fou, Cog an' ye were ay fou, I wad sit and sing to you If ye were ay fou.

III.

Weel may ye a' be!

Ill may we never see!

G.o.d bless the king, And the companie!

Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti-- Wha's fou now?

LII.

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

Tune--"_Macgregor of Rura's Lament._"

["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796."]

I.

Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoa.r.s.ely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring-- "Farewell hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow!

II.

"O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes.

Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, Gladly how would I resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee!"

LIII.

HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

_To a Gaelic air._

[Composed for the Museum: the air of this affecting strain is true Highland: Burns, though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.]

I.

How long and dreary is the night When I am frae my dearie!

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.