Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming sh.o.r.e, 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 bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his ain.

XCV.

SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING.

Tune--"_Craigie-burn-wood._"

[This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time lived on the banks of the Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with her: but it did not prevail, for she married an officer of the name of Whelpdale, lived with him for a month or so: reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation necessary; she then took up her residence in Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing the poet. She lived till lately.]

CHORUS.

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!

I.

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, And blithely awaukens the morrow; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.

II.

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.

III.

I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.

IV.

I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie; But oh! what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy Johnnie!

V.

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.

VI.

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, 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!

XCVI.

c.o.c.k UP YOUR BEAVER.

Tune--"_c.o.c.k up your beaver._"

["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Musical Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, eked out and amended by the poet: all the last verse, save the last line, is his; several of the lines too of the first verse, have felt his amending hand: he communicated it to the Museum.]

I.

When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town, He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather,-- Hey, brave Johnnie lad, c.o.c.k up your beaver!

II.

c.o.c.k up your beaver, And c.o.c.k it fu' sprush, We'll over the border And gie them a brush; There's somebody there We'll teach better behaviour-- Hey, brave Johnnie lad, c.o.c.k up your beaver!

XCVII.

MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE.

Tune--"_My tocher's the jewel._"

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, to an air by Oswald: but he wished them to be sung to a tune called "Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he was an admirer.]

I.

O Meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae lure to spare for me.

II.

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

XCVIII.

GANE IS THE DAY.