Hark the mavis’ e’ening sang,
     Sounding Clouden’s woods amang;
     Then a-faulding let us gang,
     My bonie Dearie. 
     Ca’ the yowes, &c.

     We’ll gae down by Clouden side,
     Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide,
     O’er the waves that sweetly glide,
     To the moon sae clearly. 
     Ca’ the yowes, &c.

     Yonder Clouden’s silent towers,^1
     Where, at moonshine’s midnight hours,
     O’er the dewy-bending flowers,
     Fairies dance sae cheery. 
     Ca’ the yowes, &c.

     Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear,
     Thou’rt to Love and Heav’n sae dear,
     Nocht of ill may come thee near;
     My bonie Dearie. 
     Ca’ the yowes, &c.

     Fair and lovely as thou art,
     Thou hast stown my very heart;
     I can die—­but canna part,
     My bonie Dearie. 
     Ca’ the yowes, &c.

     [Footnote 1:  An old ruin in a sweet situation at the
     confluence of the Clouden and the Nith.—­R.  B.]

She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’

     Tune—­“Oonagh’s Waterfall.”

     Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
     Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
     Bewitchingly o’er-arching
     Twa laughing e’en o’ lovely blue;
     Her smiling, sae wyling. 
     Wad make a wretch forget his woe;
     What pleasure, what treasure,
     Unto these rosy lips to grow! 
     Such was my Chloris’ bonie face,
     When first that bonie face I saw;
     And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm—­
     She says, she lo’es me best of a’.

     Like harmony her motion,
     Her pretty ankle is a spy,
     Betraying fair proportion,
     Wad make a saint forget the sky: 
     Sae warming, sae charming,
     Her faultless form and gracefu’ air;
     Ilk feature—­auld Nature
     Declar’d that she could do nae mair: 
     Hers are the willing chains o’ love,
     By conquering Beauty’s sovereign law;
     And still my Chloris’ dearest charm—­
     She says, she lo’es me best of a’.

     Let others love the city,
     And gaudy show, at sunny noon;
     Gie me the lonely valley,
     The dewy eve and rising moon,
     Fair beaming, and streaming,
     Her silver light the boughs amang;
     While falling; recalling,
     The amorous thrush concludes his sang;
     There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove,
     By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
     And hear my vows o’ truth and love,
     And say, thou lo’es me best of a’.

To Dr. Maxwell

     On Miss Jessy Staig’s recovery.

     Maxwell, if merit here you crave,
     That merit I deny;
     You save fair Jessie from the grave!—­
     An Angel could not die!

To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J—­N