Lassie, lend me your braw hemp-heckle,
And I'll lend you my thripplin kame:
My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten,
And we'll gae dance the Bob o' Dumblane.—

Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood,
Twa gaed to the wood, three cam hame:
An 't be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit,
An 't be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again.

Behold, my Love, how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair:
The lavrock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings;
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.—

Let minstrels sweep the skillfu' string,
In lordly, lighted ha';
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw:
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn,
But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milkwhite thorn.—

At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's Victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following lines extempore.

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast,
Here 's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost;
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n that we found,
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.
The next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er wou'd betray him, on high may he swing;

O Where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?
O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?
I hae been wi' my sweetheart, mother, make my bed soon;
For I'm weary wi' the hunting, and fain wad lie down.—

What got ye frae your sweetheart, Lord Ronald, my son?
What got ye frae your sweetheart, Lord Ronald, my son?
I hae got deadly poison, mother, make my bed soon;
For life is a burden that soon I'll lay down.—

O Galloway Tam came here to woo,
I'd rather we'd gin him the brawnit cow;
For our lass Bess may curse and ban
The wanton wit o' Galloway Tam.

O Galloway Tam came here to shear,
I'd rather we'd gin him the gude gray mare;
He kist the gudewife and strack the gudeman,
And that's the tricks o' Galloway Tam.

Young Jockey was the blythest lad
In a' our town or here awa;
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha'.
He roos'd my een sae bonie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae genty sma;
An ay my heart came to my mou,
When ne'er a body heard or saw.

My Jockey toils upon the plain
Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw;
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain
When Jockey 's owsen hameward ca'.
An ay the night comes round again
When in his arms he taks me a';
An ay he vows he'll be my ain

A Rosebud by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk
All on a dewy morning.—

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.—

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.—

She soon shall see her tender brood
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awauk the early morning.—

Musing on the roaring ocean
Which divides my Love and me,
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion
For his weal where'er he be;
Hope and Fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature's law,
Wisp'ring spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that 's far awa.—

Ye whom Sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy Day to you is dear:
Gentle Night do thou befriend me:
Downy Sleep the curtain draw;
Spirits kind again attend me,
Talk of him that 's far awa!

Thickest night, surround my dwelling!
Howling tempests, o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Roaring by my lonely cave.
Chrystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of Right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honor's war we strongly waged,
But the heavens deny'd success:
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us—
But a world without a friend!

The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single woes?
But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children,—then, Oh then he feels
The point of misery festering in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:
Such, such am I!—undone!
Thomson's Edward and Eleanora.

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
Where rich ananas blow!