Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/268

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
I guess by the dear angel smile,I guess by the love-rolling ee;But why urge the tender confession'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree—Jessy!Here's a health, &c.

THE LAZY MIST.

IRISH AIR—'COOLUN.'

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,As autumn to winter resigns the pale year!The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues;How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain:How little of life's scanty span may remain:What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn;What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn.How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!This life's not worth having with all it can give,For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty,And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;But little thinks my luve I ken brawlieMy Tocher's the jewel has charms for him.It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee;My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,He canna hae luve to spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood;Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree;Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.
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