O, my luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

As fair art thou, my bonnie la.s.s, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

IV.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel a-while!

And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

CL.

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Tune--"_Louis, what reck I by thee._"

[The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns.

Her name has no chance of pa.s.sing from the earth if impa.s.sioned verse can preserve it.]

I.

Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean?

Dyvor, beggar loons to me-- I reign in Jeannie's bosom.

II.

Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me.

Kings and nations--swith, awa!

Reif randies, I disown ye!

CLI.

HAD I THE WYTE.

Tune--"_Had I the wyte she bade me._"

[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.]

I.

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, Had I the wyte she bade me; She watch'd me by the hie-gate side.

And up the loan she shaw'd me; And when I wadna venture in, A coward loon she ca'd me; Had kirk and state been in the gate, I lighted when she bade me.

II.

Sae craftilie she took me ben, And bade me make nae clatter; "For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman Is out and owre the water:"

Whae'er shall say I wanted grace When I did kiss and dawte her, Let him be planted in my place, Syne say I was the fautor.

III.

Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refused her?

And wadna manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly used her?

He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, And blue and bluidy bruised her; When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but had excused her?

IV.

I dighted ay her een sae blue, And bann'd the cruel randy; And weel I wat her willing mou', Was e'en like sugar-candy.

A gloamin-shot it was I wot, I lighted on the Monday; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, To wanton Willie's brandy.

CLII.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

Tune--"_Coming through the rye._"

[The poet in this song removed some of the coa.r.s.e chaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, when it was first printed.]

I.

Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

II.

Gin a body meet a body-- Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body-- Need a body cry?

III.