Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/298

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.

THE BONIE BLINK O' MARY'S EE.

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green,An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring,By Girvan's fairy haunted streamThe birdies flit on wanton wing.To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's,There wi' my Mary let me flee,There catch her ilka glance o' love,The bonie blink o' Mary's ee!
The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth,Is aften laird o' meikle care;But Mary she is a' my ain,Ah, fortune canna gie me mair!Then let me range by Cassillis' banksWi' her the lassie dear to me,And catch her ilka glance o' love,The bonie blink o' Mary's ee!

THE BONIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWAY.

TUNE—'OWRE THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.'

O how can I be blithe and glad,Or how can I gang brisk and braw,When the bonie lad that I lo'e bestIs o'er the hills and far awa?
It's no the frosty winter wind,It's no the driving drift and snaw;But ay the tear comes in my e'e,To think on him that's far awa.
My father pat me frae his door,My friends they hae disown'd me a':But I hae ane will tak my part,The bonie lad that's far awa.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me,And silken snoods he gae me twa;And I will wear them for his sake,The bonie lad that's far awa.
The weary winter soon will pass,And spring will cleed the birken-shaw:And my sweet babie will be born,And he'll came hame that's far awa.

STREAMS THAT GLIDE.

TUNE—'MORAG.'

Streams that glide in orient plainsNever bound by winter's chains!Glowing here on golden sands,There commix'd with foulest stainsFrom tyranny's empurpled bands:These, their richly-gleaming waves,I leave to tyrants and their slaves;Give me the stream that sweetly lavesThe banks by Castle Gordon.
Spicy forests, ever gay,Shading from the burning rayHapless wretches sold to toil,Or the ruthless native's way,Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:Woods that ever verdant wave,I leave the tyrant and the slave,Give me the groves that lofty braveThe storms, by Castle Gordon.
Wildly here without control,Nature reigns and rules the whole;In that sober pensive mood,Dearest to the feeling soul,She plants the forest, pours the flood;Life's poor day I'll musing rave,And find at night a sheltering cave,Where waters flow and wild woods wave,By bonie Castle Gordon.
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