the same moral key, diverse as they are. They breathe of flowers, independently of speaking of them. But naturally the principle of grouping has been more particularly used to suggest what I have called the colour-tone of the poet’s mind at certain stages of his life, especially the later ones. And I permit myself to hope that the more the reader knows (understandingly) of Burns, the more will he find of what is essential and quintessential to any true account of the poet’s later days suggested or recalled by the successive groupings with which our first and main section draws to a close. [_Note._—The following pages have been set up from the text of the Oxford Edition, for kind permission to use which thanks are due, and are heartily tendered, to Mr. Henry Frowde of the Oxford University Press]. Songs and Lyrics THERE WAS A LAD There was a lad was born in Kyle, But what’n a day o’ what’n a style I doubt it’s hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi’ Robin. Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ Blew hansel in on Robin. The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo’ scho, Wha lives will see the proof, This waly boy will be nae coof, I think we’ll ca’ him Robin. He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’, But aye a heart aboon them a’; He’ll be a credit till us a’, We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin. But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin’, So leeze me on thee, Robin. Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; Robin was a rovin’ boy, Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. MARY MORISON O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser’s treasure poor: How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’, To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a’ the town, I sigh’d, and said amang them a’, ‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’ O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o’ Mary Morison. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY