WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE.

Air--"_The Sutor's Dochter._"

[Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, of Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in the south of Scotland.]

I.

Wilt thou be my dearie?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee!

I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie.

II.

La.s.sie, say thou lo'es me; Or if thou wilt no be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me: If it winna, canna be, Thou, for thine may choose me, Let me, la.s.sie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me.

La.s.sie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me.

CCXVI.

BUT LATELY SEEN.

Tune--"_The winter of life._"

[This song was written for Johnson's Museum, in 1794: the air is East Indian: it was brought from Hindostan by a particular friend of the poet. Thomson set the words to the air of Gil Morrice: they are elsewhere set to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.]

I.

But lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoiced the day; Thro' gentle showers and laughing flowers, In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa!

Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'.

II.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age; My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, Sinks in Time's wintry rage.

Oh! age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain!

Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again?

CCXVII.

TO MARY.

Tune--"_Could aught of song._"

[These verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's very tender and elegant song,

"Ah! the poor shepherd's mournful fate,"

and some unrecorded "Mary" of the poet's heart, is in the latter volumes of Johnson. "It is inserted in Johnson's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the name of Burns attached." He might have added that it was sent by Burns, written with his own hand.]

I.

Could aught of song declare my pains, Could artful numbers move thee, The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart May teach the lyre to languish; But what avails the pride of art, When wastes the soul with anguish?

II.

Then let the sudden bursting sigh The heart-felt pang discover; And in the keen, yet tender eye, O read th' imploring lover.

For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art's gay disguising; Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, The voice of nature prizing.

CCXVIII.

HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE La.s.s.

Tune--"_Laggan Burn._"

["This song is in the Musical Museum, with Burns's name to it," says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of the poet's early days, which he trimmed up, and sent to Johnson.]

I.

Here's to thy health, my bonnie la.s.s, Gude night, and joy be wi' thee; I'll come na mair to thy bower-door, To tell thee that I lo'e thee.

O dinna think, my pretty pink, But I can live without thee: I vow and swear I dinna care How lang ye look about ye.

II.

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me Thou hast na mind to marry; I'll be as free informing thee Nae time hae I to tarry.

I ken thy friends try ilka means, Frae wedlock to delay thee; Depending on some higher chance-- But fortune may betray thee.

III.