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Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green;

The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
Twined am'rous round the raptured scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid,

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?

BURNS.

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across the Atlantic's roar?

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine:

But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true;
And sae may the heavens forget me
When I forget my vow.

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,

In mutual affection to join;

And curst be the hour that shall part us,

The hour and the moment o' time!

"In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merit of 'Ewe-Bughts;' but it will fill up this page. You must know that my earlier lovesongs were the breathing of ardent passion; and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race."-BURNS to Thomson.

Mr. Thomson did not think sufficiently well of this song to insert it in his collection.

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

BURNS. Air-"The mill, mill O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning,
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
but honest sodger.

A

poor

A leal light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheerily did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That pleased my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn
Where Nancy aft I courted;
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!-
I turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice quoth I, "Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,

Oh, happy, happy may he be

That's dearest to thy bosom !

My purse is light, I've far to gang,

And fain wad be thy lodger;

I've served my king and country lang,— Take pity on a sodger."

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,

And lovelier was than ever :
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never;
Our humble cot and hamely fare
Ye freely shall partake it;

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't!"

She gazed—she redden’d like a rose,*
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
"Art thou my ain dear Willie ?"
"By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted."
Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly ;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!"

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

* Mr. Thomson having written to Burns that he should get Mr. afterwards Sir William) Allan to paint him a picture from this song, the poet wrote to him: "As to the point of time for the expression in your proposed print of my 'Sodger's Return,' it must certainly be at' She gazed, she redden'd like a rose.' The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal."

THE RED, RED ROSE.

In Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs.

"Do you know," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "the beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs, called, 'Oh, gin my love?' The thought it contains is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain.

Oн, gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh, there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phœbus' light.

After balancing myself for a few minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. That they are far inferior to the foregoing I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place, as every poet, who knows any thing of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke.”

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;

And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

OH, POORTITH CAULD.

BURNS. Air-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

Он, poortith cauld and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;

Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.

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