VII.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control

II.

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.]

O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O!

O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, O; The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O; But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

III.

I DREAM'D I LAY.

[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]

I.

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam; List'ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling crystal stream: Straight the sky grew black and daring; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring.

O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

II.

Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasure I enjoy'd: But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.

Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still.

IV.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune--"_Invercald's Reel._"

[The Tibbie who "spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was, it is said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.]

CHORUS.

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wad na been sae shy; For lack o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.

I.

Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I.

II.

I doubt na, la.s.s, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try.

III.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high.

IV.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry.

V.

But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

VI.

But, Tibbie, la.s.s, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

VII.

There lives a la.s.s in yonder park, I would nae gie her in her sark, For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; Ye need na look sae high.

V.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

Tune--"_The Weaver and his Shuttle, O._"