Dumbarton's drums sound bonnie-o,
They are sprightly like my dear Johnie-o:
How happy shall I be

When on my soldier's knee,

And he kisses and blesses his Annie-o!

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.]

JOHN HAY'S BONNY LASSIE.

By smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cry'd he, Oh hey! maun I still live pining
Mysel thus away, and daurna discover

To my bonny Hay that I am her lover!

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stranger;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer:
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture,
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her.

She's fresh as the Spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-morrow;
The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi' daisies,
Looks wither'd and dead when twinn'd of her graces.

But if she appear where verdure invites her,

The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter; 'Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, Her smiles and bright eye set my spirits a-glowing.

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck dumb wi' amaze, my mind is confounded;
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
For a' my desire is Hay's bonnie lassie.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. It is said to be by Ramsay.]

Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
Her sweets she did impart,
Whene'er she spoke or smil'd:
Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd ;—
I wish'd her for my bride.

O! had I a' the wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill,
Insur'd long life and health,

And pleasure at my will;

I'd promise, and fulfil,

That none but bonnie she,
The lass of Patie's mill,

Should share the same with me.

[Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, informed Burns on the authority of the Earl of Loudon, that Ramsay was struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl, at a place called Patie's Mill, near New mills; and under the influence of her charms composed the above song. Published for the first time in the Tea Table Miscel lany, 1724.]

THE BRAES OF BRANKSOME.

ALLAN RAMSAY,

As I came in by Teviot-side,

And by the braes of Branksome,

There first I saw my bonny bride,

Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome;

Her skin was safter than the down,
And white as alabaster;

Her hair a shining wavy brown;

In straightness nane surpass'd her;
Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek,
Her clear een were surprising,
And beautifully turn'd her neck,
Her little breasts just rising:
Nae silken hose, with gooshets fine,
Or shoon with glancing laces,
On her bare leg, forbade to shine
Well shapen native graces.

Ae little coat, and bodice white,
Was sum of a' her claithing;
Even thae's o'er meikle; mair delyte
She'd given cled wi' naithing :
She lean'd upon a flow'ry brae,
By which a burnie trotted;
On her I glowr'd my soul away,
While on her sweets I doated.

A thousand beauties of desert

Before had scarce alarm'd me,
Till this dear artless struck my heart,
And, but designing, charm'd me.
Hurried by love, close to my breast
I grasp'd this fund of blisses,
Who smil'd, and said, without a priest,
Sir, hope for nought but kisses.

I had nae heart to do her harm,
And yet I cou'dna want her;
What she demanded, ilka charm
Of her's pled, I shou'd grant her.

Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,
Straight to the kirk I led her,

There plighting her my faith and trouth,
And a young lady made her.'

[First appeared under the name of "The Generous Gentleman," in Allan Ramsay's collection, accompanied by instructions to sing it to the tune of "The Bonnie Lass of Branksome."]

LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,
And we for life shall gang thegither,
Though daft or wise, I'll never demand,

Or black or fair, it makesna whether.
I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade,
And blood alane is na worth a shilling;
But she that's rich, her market's made,
For ilka charm about her is killing.

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,

And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure;
Gin I had ance her gear in my hand,
Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure.
Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand,
I hate with poortith, though bonny, to meddle,
Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land,
They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle.