ROBERT BURNS

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a* the seas gang dry:

Till a* the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while !

And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

��Lament for Culloden

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and morn she cries, ' Alas ! '

And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e : ' Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,

A waefu' day it was to me ! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear and brethren three.

' Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be; For monie a heart thou hast made sair,

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.'

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