ntry's stay,
In day and hour of danger.

* * * * *

CXCIV.

MEG O' THE MILL.

Air--"_Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack?_"

["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1973, "called
'Jackie Hume's Lament?' I have a song of considerable merit to that
air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send
to the Museum." It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too
well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old
song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and
published it in the Museum.]

I.

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

II.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.

III.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.

IV.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen'
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

* * * * *

CXCV.

BLYTHE HAE I BEEN.

Tune--"_Liggeram Cosh._"

[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for
whose work he wrote it, that "Blythe hae I been on yon hill," was one
of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one
of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley
Baillie.]

I.

Blythe hae I been on yon hill
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free
As the breeze flew o'er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.

II.

Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

* * * * *

[I