CCXI.

FAIR JEANY.

Tune--"_Saw ye my father?_"

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. "Of the poetry," he says, "I speak with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."]

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild woods among?

No more a-winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flow'rets so fair: No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly winter is near? No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses, Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have I known, All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor hope dare a comfort bestow: Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

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DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.

[To the air of the "Collier's dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure-- Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds uncertain motion-- They are but types of woman.

O! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature.

Go find an honest fellow; Good claret set before thee: Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory.

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