For he 's ilka thing lordly to me:
His words are sae sugar'd and sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa'!
I listen, poor fool! and I greet;
Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

"Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer,
"Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say;
Though we 've little to brag o', near fear--
What 's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care;
Now we, though we 've naething but health,
Are cantie and leal evermair.

"O Marion! the heart that is true,
Has something mair costly than gear!
Ilk e'en it has naething to rue,
Ilk morn it has naething to fear.
Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store,
And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;
Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!"

He ends wi' a kiss and a smile--
Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss?
My laddie 's unpractised in guile,
He 's free aye to daut and to kiss!
Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks--I hae gi'en my consent,
And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!

[15] The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is
unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns,
to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died
in 1819, aged sixty-two. Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters "J.
D." to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author.

DONALD AND FLORA.[16]

I.

When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away,
Sadd'ning to Mora;[17]
Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow.

II.

"Loud howls the stormy wist,
Cold, cold is winter's blast;
Haste, then, O Donald, haste,
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er,
Since on a foreign shore
You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora."

III.

"'Where now is Donald dear?'
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
'Say, is he still sincere
To his loved Flora?'
Parents upbraid my moan,
Each heart is turn'd to stone:
'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone,
Fr