There's ae guid turn ye did for me,
An' I acknowledge't full an' free,
In praisin' up the barley bree
"In tuneful line;"
Nae bard but you its praise could gie
In words sae fine
An' listen tae me 'Rab, my man,
I dinna ken a better plan,
To ser' my turn wi'silly man
An wark them ill,
Than charming them to pleasure drawn
Frae the whisky gill,
This is what gars me maist complain,
Maist as weel kenned as mine's your name,
Auld Scotia claims ye as her ain,
Her dearest one;
An' that daft gilpey, Madam Fame,
Owns thee her son.
I thocht that jests wad flee fu' fain,
Forgetfulness come in again,
That I wad claim ye as my ain,
Tae baud an bin' ye
But noo through a' o' my domain
I canna fin' ye.
Noo fare ye weel, whaure'er ye be,
Ane thing I ken ye're no wi' me,
I ha'e searched high an' low to see,
By spells an' turns;
Sae I maun even let ye be,
O Robert Burns.
G. Hill, 1840.
SEPARATION.
ELIZABETH TO WALTER
He has come and he has gone,
Meeting, parting, both are o'er;
And I feel the same dull pain,
Aching heart and throbbing brain
Coming o'er me once again
That I often felt before.
For he is my father's son,
And, in childhood's loving time
He and I so lone, so young,
No twin blossoms ever sprung,
No twin cherries ever clung,
Closer than his heart and mine.