This was his last
communication
to the Museum.
Robert Forst
II.
O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.
III.
Ne'er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o'er the hill,
But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.
* * * * *
CCLXIV.
THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.
[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum. ]
I.
There was a bonnie lass,
And a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear;
Till war's loud alarms
Tore her laddie frae her arms,
Wi' mony a sigh and tear.
II.
Over sea, over shore,
Where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a stranger to fear;
And nocht could him quell,
Or his bosom assail,
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.
* * * * *
CCLXV.
O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.
[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl,
with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a
Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has
he recorded it.
This was his last communication to the Museum. ]
I.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,
Mally's every way complete.
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet;
But O the road was very hard
For that fair maiden's tender feet.
II.
It were mair meet that those fine feet
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,
And 'twere more fit that she should sit,
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
III.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,
Mally's every way complete.
* * * * *
CCLXVI.
HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.
Tune--"_Balinamona Ora. _"
[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as
part of the poet's contribution to the Irish melodies: he calls it "a
kind of rhapsody. "]
I.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
