Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/337

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
267

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA.

Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's a health to them that's awa;And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,May never guid luck be their fa'!It's guid to be merry and wise,It's guid to be honest and true,It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,And bide by the buff and the blue.
Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's a health to Charlie the chief o' the clan,Altho' that his band be sma'.May liberty meet wi' success!May prudence protect her frae evil!May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,And wander their way to the devil!
Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's a health to them that's awa;Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,That lives at the lug o' the law!Here's freedom to him that wad read,Here's freedom to him that wad write!There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,But they wham the truth wad indite.Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's a health to them that's awa,Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd,Tho' bred among mountains o' snaw!

O LEAVE NOVELS.

O Leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,Ye're safer at your spinning wheel;Such witching books are baited hooksFor rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,They make your youthful fancies reel,They heat your brains, and fire your veins,And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;A heart that warmly seems to feel;That feeling heart but acts a part,'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,Are worse than poison'd darts of steel,The frank address, and politesse,Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

THE TORBOLTON LASSES.

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;She kens her father is a laird,And she forsooth's a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,Besides a handsome fortune:Wha canna win her in a night,Has little art in courting.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,And tak a look o' Mysie;She's dour and din, a deil within,But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense,She kens hersel she's bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hill-side,Speer in for bonie Bessy;She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light,And handsomely address ye.
There's few sae bony, nane sae gude,In a' King George' dominion;If ye should doubt the truth o' thisIt's Bessy's ain opinion!
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