He ends wi’ a kiss and a smile—­
      Wae ‘s me! can I tak’ it amiss? 
    My laddie ’s unpractised in guile,
      He ’s free aye to daut and to kiss! 
    Ye lasses wha lo’e to torment
      Your wooers wi’ fause scorn and strife,
    Play your pranks—­I hae gi’en my consent,
      And this nicht I ’m Jamie’s for life!

[15] The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns, to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died in 1819, aged sixty-two.  Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters “J.  D.” to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author.

DONALD AND FLORA.[16]

I.

    When merry hearts were gay,
    Careless of aught but play,
    Poor Flora slipt away,
        Sadd’ning to Mora;[17]
    Loose flow’d her yellow hair,
    Quick heaved her bosom bare,
    As to the troubled air
        She vented her sorrow.

II.

    “Loud howls the stormy wist,
    Cold, cold is winter’s blast;
    Haste, then, O Donald, haste,
        Haste to thy Flora! 
    Twice twelve long months are o’er,
    Since on a foreign shore
    You promised to fight no more,
        But meet me in Mora.”

III.

    “‘Where now is Donald dear?’
    Maids cry with taunting sneer;
    ’Say, is he still sincere
        To his loved Flora?’
    Parents upbraid my moan,
    Each heart is turn’d to stone: 
    ’Ah, Flora! thou ’rt now alone,
        Friendless in Mora!’

IV.

    “Come, then, O come away! 
    Donald, no longer stay;
    Where can my rover stray
        From his loved Flora! 
    Ah! sure he ne’er can be
    False to his vows and me;
    Oh, Heaven!—­is not yonder he,
        Bounding o’er Mora!”

V.

    “Never, ah! wretched fair!”
    Sigh’d the sad messenger,
    “Never shall Donald mair
        Meet his loved Flora! 
    Cold as yon mountain snow
    Donald thy love lies low;
    He sent me to soothe thy woe,
        Weeping in Mora.

VI.

    “Well fought our gallant men
    On Saratoga’s plain;
    Thrice fled the hostile train
        From British glory. 
    But, ah! though our foes did flee,
    Sad was such victory—­
    Truth, love, and loyalty
        Fell far from Mora.

VII.

    “‘Here, take this love-wrought plaid,’
    Donald, expiring, said;
    ’Give it to yon dear maid
        Drooping in Mora. 
    Tell her, O Allan! tell
    Donald thus bravely fell,
    And that in his last farewell
        He thought on his Flora.’”

VIII.