IV.

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly-- But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!

* * * * *

CLXXXIII.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

[The starting lines of this song are from one of no little merit in Ramsey's collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is tender: it was written for Thomson.]

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress,--auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed; The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.