d life is a faught:
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

IV.

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain;
My warst word is--"Welcome, and welcome again!"

* * * * *

CCXXXVII.

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.

Tune--"_Roy's Wife._"

[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of
November, 1794, he added, "Well! I think this, to be done in two or
three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish
blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my
quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this song complains of
the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady replied in a strain equally
tender and forgiving.]

I.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart--
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
In this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward--
An aching, broken heart, my Katy!

II.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear--
But not a love like mine, my Katy!
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart--
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

* * * * *

CCXXXVIII.

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

Tune--"_There'll never be peace._"

[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, which the
poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. His thoughts
were often in Edinburgh: on festive occasions, when, as Campbell
beautifully says, "The wine-cup shines in light," he seldom forgot to
toast Mrs. Mac.]

I.

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
But to me it's delightless--my Nannie's awa!