Down The Burn, Davie

     As down the burn they took their way,
     And thro’ the flowery dale;
     His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
     And love was aye the tale: 

     With “Mary, when shall we return,
     Sic pleasure to renew?”
     Quoth Mary—­“Love, I like the burn,
     And aye shall follow you.”

Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie

     Tune—­“Fee him, father, fee him.”

     Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,
     Thou hast left me ever;
     Thou has left me ever, Jamie,
     Thou hast left me ever: 
     Aften hast thou vow’d that Death
     Only should us sever;
     Now thou’st left thy lass for aye—­
     I maun see thee never, Jamie,
     I’ll see thee never.

     Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
     Thou hast me forsaken;
     Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
     Thou hast me forsaken;
     Thou canst love another jo,
     While my heart is breaking;
     Soon my weary een I’ll close,
     Never mair to waken, Jamie,
     Never mair to waken!

Where Are The Joys I have Met?

     Tune—­“Saw ye my father.”

     Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
     That danc’d to the lark’s early song? 
     Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring,
     At evening the wild-woods among?

     No more a winding the course of yon river,
     And marking sweet flowerets so fair,
     No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure,
     But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.

     Is it that Summer’s forsaken our valleys,
     And grim, surly Winter is near? 
     No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses
     Proclaim it the pride of the year.

     Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
     Yet long, long, too well have I known;
     All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
     Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

     Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
     Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow: 
     Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish,
     Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.

Deluded Swain, The Pleasure

     Tune—­“The Collier’s Dochter.”

     Deluded swain, the pleasure
     The fickle Fair can give thee,
     Is but a fairy treasure,
     Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: 
     The billows on the ocean,
     The breezes idly roaming,
     The cloud’s uncertain motion,
     They are but types of Woman.

     O art thou not asham’d
     To doat upon a feature? 
     If Man thou wouldst be nam’d,
     Despise the silly creature. 
     Go, find an honest fellow,
     Good claret set before thee,
     Hold on till thou art mellow,
     And then to bed in glory!