Though cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine.

Though mountains rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean

XIX.

ROBIN.

Tune--"_Daintie Davie._"

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm something which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips.]

I.

There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!

II.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'

Blew hansel in on Robin.

III.

The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof.

This waly boy will be nae coof, I think we'll ca' him Robin

IV.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', But ay a heart aboon them a'; He'll be a credit to us a', We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

V.

But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin.

VI.

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar, The bonnie la.s.ses lie aspar, But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, So blessin's on thee, Robin!

Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!

XX.

HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Tune--(unknown.)

[One day--it is tradition that speaks--Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast her bonnie mou'!

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.

XXI.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

Tune--"_ Mauchline belles._"

[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:--

"Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw; There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."]

I.

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

II.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part-- 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV.

The frank address, the soft caress, Are worse than poison'd darts of steel; The frank address and politesse Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.