For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
     And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
     I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee,
     The cost nor shame o’t,
     But be a loving father to thee,
     And brag the name o’t.

Song—­O Leave Novels^1

     [Footnote 1:  Burns never published this poem.]

     O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
     Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel;
     Such witching books are baited hooks
     For 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 poisoned darts of steel;
     The frank address, and politesse,
     Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

Fragment—­The Mauchline Lady

     Tune—­“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

     When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
     My mind it was na steady;
     Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,
     A mistress still I had aye.

     But when I came roun’ by Mauchline toun,
     Not dreadin anybody,
     My heart was caught, before I thought,
     And by a Mauchline lady.

Fragment—­My Girl She’s Airy

     Tune—­“Black Jock.”

     My girl she’s airy, she’s buxom and gay;
     Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;
     A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: 
     She’s always good natur’d, good humour’d, and free;
     She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;
     I never am happy when out of her sight.

The Belles Of Mauchline

     In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
     The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a’;
     Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
     In Lon’on or Paris, they’d gotten it a’.

     Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland’s divine,
     Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: 
     There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Miss Morton,
     But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.

Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic

     Below thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes;
     O Death, it’s my opinion,
     Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin bitch
     Into thy dark dominion!

Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire

     As father Adam first was fool’d,
     (A case that’s still too common,)
     Here lies man a woman ruled,
     The devil ruled the woman.