O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass

     Chorus—­O lay thy loof in mine, lass,
     In mine, lass, in mine, lass;
     And swear on thy white hand, lass,
     That thou wilt be my ain.

     A slave to Love’s unbounded sway,
     He aft has wrought me meikle wae;
     But now he is my deadly fae,
     Unless thou be my ain. 
     O lay thy loof, &c.

     There’s mony a lass has broke my rest,
     That for a blink I hae lo’ed best;
     But thou art Queen within my breast,
     For ever to remain. 
     O lay thy loof, &c.

A Health To Ane I Loe Dear

     Chorus—­Here’s a health to ane I loe dear,
     Here’s a health to ane I loe dear;
     Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
     And soft as their parting tear—­Jessy.

     Altho’ thou maun never be mine,
     Altho’ even hope is denied;
     ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
     Than ought in the world beside—­Jessy. 
     Here’s a health, &c.

     I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day,
     As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
     But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber,
     For then I am lockt in thine arms—­Jessy. 
     Here’s a health, &c.

     I guess by the dear angel smile,
     I guess by the love-rolling e’e;
     But why urge the tender confession,
     ’Gainst Fortune’s fell, cruel decree?—­Jessy. 
     Here’s a health, &c.

O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast

     O wert thou in the cauld blast,
     On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
     My plaidie to the angry airt,
     I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
     Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
     Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
     Thy bield should be my bosom,
     To share it a’, to share it a’.

     Or were I in the wildest waste,
     Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
     The desert were a Paradise,
     If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
     Or were I Monarch o’ the globe,
     Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
     The brightest jewel in my Crown
     Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.

Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars

On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her by
Burns. ^1

     Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
     And with them take the Poet’s prayer,
     That Fate may, in her fairest page,
     With ev’ry kindliest, best presage
     Of future bliss, enroll thy name: 
     With native worth and spotless fame,
     And wakeful caution, still aware
     Of ill—­but chief, Man’s felon snare;

     All blameless joys on earth we find,
     And all the treasures of the mind—­
     These be thy guardian and reward;
     So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.