With such pleasing persuasion, he blaws in your lug,
Ye wad think that the vera inanimate jug,
Whilk stauns on the table, mair brichtly doth glow
At the wild witching stories o' mighty Munro.
Such care-killing capers—such glorious riggs,
Such cantrin' on cuddies, and cadging in gigs,
Such rantin', and jauntin', and shouting, and show,
Could ne'er be display'd but by mighty Munro.
Great Goliah o' Gath, who came out and defied,
With the big swelling words o' vain glory and pride,
The brave armies of Israel, as all of ye know,
Was a dwarf looking bodie, compared wi' Munro.
And Sampson, that hero, who slew men en masse
Wi' naething but just the jaw bane o' an ass;
And drew down a house on himsel' and the foe,
Was a puir feckless creatur' compared wi' Munro.
The chivalrous knight of la Mancha, 'tis true,
And Baron Munchausen, had equals but few;
Their exploits have astonished the warl, but lo'
Both the Don and the Baron must bow to Munro.
But a tythe o' his merit nae words can impart,
His errors are all of the head not the heart;
Though his tongue doth a little too trippingly go,
Yet a guid chiel at bottom, is mighty Munro.
Though the lamp o' his fame will continue to burn,
When even his dust to the dust shall return,
And for ages to come a bright halo will throw
O'er the mouldering remains o' the mighty Munro.
Wha is she that lo'es me.
[Written by Burns to his favourite tune of "Morag." The heroine of this song is unknown.]
O wha is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-bud steeping:
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.
If thou shalt meet a lassie
In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming;
O that's, &c.
If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her by thee is slighted;
And if thou art delighted;
O that's, &c.
If thou hast met this fair one,
When frae her thou hast parted;
If every other fair one
But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.
The Hills of the Heather.
[Evan M'Coll.— Tune, "On wi' the Tartan," or, "Air failirin ilirin, uilirin O." This and the other songs by Evan M'Coll are from a little volume published by him in 1838, entitled "The Mountain Minstrel."]
Give the swains of Italia
'Mong myrtles to rove,
Give the proud, sullen Spaniard
His bright orange grove;
Give gold-sanded streams
To the sons of Chili,
But, oh! give the hills
Of the heather to me.
The hills where the hunter
Oft soundeth his horn,—
Where sweetest the skylark
Awakens the morn:—
The grey cliff, the blue lake,
The stream's dashing glee,
Endear the red hills
Of the heather to me.
