21. MY JEAN. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, But, day and night, my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, There's not a bonnie flower that springs - ROBERT BURNS. 22. MARY MORISON. TUNE" Bide ye yet." O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor; How blithely wad I bide the stoure, Yestreen, when to the trembling string I sat, but neither heard nor saw; O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, A thought ungentle canna be ROBERT BURNS. 23. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace We tore oursels asunder; But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, But still within my bosom's core 24. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. TUNE-"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff." THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! 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 kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. 25. THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET. SHALL I, wasting in despaire Dye, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care Be she fairer than the Day Shall my seely heart be pin'd If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's Vertues move |