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And gins and guns destroy our race?
Thieves dread the searching eye of pow'r,
And never feel the quiet hour.
Old age, which few of us shall know,
Now puts a period to my woe.
Would you true happiness attain,
Let honesty your passions reign;
So live in credit and esteem,
And the good name you lost redeem.”

“The counsel's good," a fox replies,
"Could we perform what you advise.
Think what our ancestors have done-
A line of thieves from son to son!
To us descends the long disgrace,
And infamy hath marked our race.
Though we like harmless sheep should feed,
Honest in thought, in word, and deed,
Whatever hen-roost is decreased,
We shall be thought to share the feast.
The change shall never be believed;
A lost good name is ne'er retrieved."

“Nay, then,” replies the feeble fox
"(But hark! I hear a hen that clocks)-
Go, but be mod'rate in your food:

A chicken, too, might do me good.”
1725-26.

1727.

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ALLAN RAMSAY

AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING
CHORUS.-An thou were my ain thing,

I would love thee, I would love thee!
An thou were my ain thing,

How dearly would I love thee!

5

Like bees that suck the morning dew
Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue,
Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou,

And gar the gods envy me.

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Sae lang 's I had the use of light,
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight;
Syne in saft whispers through the night

I'd tell how much I loo'd thee.

How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
She moves a goddess o'er the green:
Were I a king, thou shou'd be queen,

Nane but mysell aboon thee.

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I'd grasp thee to this breast of mine,
Whilst thou, like ivy or the vine,
Around my stronger limbs shou'd twine,

Formed hardy to defend thee.

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Time's on the wing, and will not stay:
In shining youth let 's make our hay;
Since love admits of no delay,

O let na scorn undo thee!

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While Love does at his altar stand,
Hae there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand,
And with ilk smile thou shalt command
The will of him wha loves thee.

1721.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
The Lawland lads think they are fine,

But O they ’re vain and idly gaudy;
How much unlike that gracefu' mien

And manly looks of my Highland laddie!

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CHORUS.–O my bonny, bonny Highland laddie !

My handsome, charming Highland laddie!
May Heaven still guard and love reward
Our Lawland lass and her Highland laddie!

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If I were free at will to chuse

To be the wealthiest Lawland lady,
I'd take young Donald without trews,

With bonnet blew and belted plaidy.

The brawest beau in borrows town,

In a' his airs, with art made ready,
Compared to him, he's but a clown;

He's finer far in 's tartan plaidy.

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O'er benty hill with him I'll run,

And leave my Lawland kin and dady;
Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun

He'll screen me with his Highland plaidy.

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A painted room and silken bed

May please a Lawland laird and lady,
But I can kiss and be as glad

Behind a bush in 's Highland plaidy.

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Few compliments between us pass :

I ca' him my dear Highland laddie;
And he ca's me his Lawland lass,

Syne rows me in his Highland plaidy.

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Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend

Than that his love prove true and steady,
Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end

While Heaven preserve my Highland laddie.

1721.

FROM

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

Beneath the south side of a craigy bield,
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthfu’ shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blither Patie likes to laugh and sing.

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Patie. My Peggy is a young thing,

Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay;
My Peggy is a young thing,

And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at

The wauking of the fauld.

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This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
And puts all Nature in a jovial mood.
How hartsom is 't to see the rising plants,
To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants !
How halesom 't is to snuff the cauler air,
And all the sweets it bears, when void of care!
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? 45
Tell me the cause of thy ill-seasoned pain.

Roger, I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate;
I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great!
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood,
Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood;

50 But I, oppressed with never-ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

Patie. The bees shall loathe the flow'r and quit the hive.

The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornful queans or loss of warldly gear

55 Shall spill my rest or ever force à tear.

Roger. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done
By ane whase saul's sae sadly out of tune.
You have sae saft a voice and slid a tongue,
You are the darling of baith auld and young:

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If I but ettle at a sang or speak,
They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek,
And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught,
While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought;
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,

65 Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye; For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

Patie. But, ablins, nibour, ye have not a heart, And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part;

70 If that be true, what signifies your gear? A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.

Roger. My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoored, Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endured. In winter last my cares were very sma',

75 Tho' scores of wethers perished in the snaw.

Patie. Were your bien rooms as thinly stocked as mine, Less ye wad loss and less ye wad repine: He that has just enough can soundly sleep; The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep.

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Roger. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross,
That thou may'st thole the pangs of mony a loss!
O may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench,
That ne'er will lout thy lowan drouth to quench !
Till, brised beneath the burden, thou cry dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae fool.

Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I sauld them ilka clute
At the West Port, and bought a winsome flute,
Of plum-tree made, with iv'ry virles round-
A dainty whistle, with a pleasant sound:

90 I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry dool, Than you with all your cash, ye dowie fool!

Roger. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast, Some other thing lies heavier at my breast:

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