And how my auld shoon fitted her

shachl❜t feet,

distorted

But, Heavens! how he fell a swearin', a

swearin';

But, Heavens! how he fell a swearin'.

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor⚫

row;

1 think I maun wed him to-morrow.

July, 1795.

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER.

TUNE The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

War, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?
O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,

Why, why wouldst thou cruel,

Wake thy lover from his dream?

July, 1795.

I see a form, I see a face,

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place;
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.

She's bonny, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;

1 The reader will learn with surprise that the poet origiaally wrote this chorus

O this is no my ain Body,

Kind though the Body be, etc.

But gleg as light are lovers' e'en,
When kind love is in the e'e.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.

August, 1795.

quick

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN.

Now spring has clad the grove in green,

And strewed the lea wi' flowers;

The furrowed, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,

O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of wo!

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art.

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorched my fountains dry.

The little floweret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,

And now beneath the withering blast
My youth and joy consume.

The wakened laverock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye.

As little recked I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair,"

What tongue his woes can tell! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell!

August, 1795.

O BONNY WAS YON ROSY BRIER.

"Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my Poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris." - Burns to Mr. Thomson, August, 1795.

O BONNY was yon rosy brier

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; And bonny she, and ah! how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin' sun.

Yon rose-buds in the moning dew,
How pure amang the leaves sae green!
But purer was the lover's vow

They witnessed in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair!