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THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN.

The deil cam fiddling through the town,

And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman;
And ilka wife cry'd, Auld Mahoun,

We wish you luck o' the prize, man.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.

There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan',
Was the deil's awa wi' the exciseman.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And

mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.

At a convivial meeting of the excisemen at Dumfries, Burns was called on for a song: the poet had a strong and manly, but not a very melodious voice. He declined singing; but handed this very characteristic song to the chairman written on the back of a letter: it was sung with great enthusiasm. Burns was much esteemed in his official capacity for his moderation and kindness of heart. All the country shopkeepers and ale-house

wives delight in recalling him to their remembrance. Some of the more devout add to their commendations of the poet as an excise officer-"He was warst to himsel, puir fellow."

THE GLOOMY NIGHT.

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain:
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early winter's ravage torn;

Across her placid, azure sky,

She sees the scowling tempest fly;
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave—
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:

But round

my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare-
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.

few

"I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at heels. I had taken the last farewell of my my friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock; and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia

The gloomy night is gathering fast."

Such is the history which Burns gives of this touching lyric-one of the most mournful of all his compositions, inasmuch as we associate it with his early history and his untimely death.

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM.

They snool me sair, and haud me down,

And

gar me look like bluntie, Tam!
But three short years will soon wheel roun',

And then comes ane and twenty, Tam.
An O for ane and twenty, Tam,

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam !
I'll learn kin a rattlin sang

my

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

A glebe o' land, a claut o' gear,
Was left me by my auntie, Tam;
At kith or kin I needna spier,

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof,
Though I mysel hae plenty, Tam;
But hear'st thou, laddie? there's my loof,
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam.
An O for ane and twenty, Tam,

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam!

I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

Tam had the good fortune to be beloved by a very lively and opulent young lady. Her account of her hopes and her affections is very confidential, and her

confidence has been rewarded by public favour. The "Moudiework," from which this admirable song accepted only the aid of the air, is a very old and very free lyric; which cannot well be quoted, and certainly can far less be sung. "This song is mine," is the brief claim which Burns makes to this production in the Reliques.

THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE.

Far lone, amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander :
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,

Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass of Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonnie,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony:
Sae sweet amidst her native hills

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower of Arranteenie.

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