But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt’ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne’er could buy; And joys the very best. There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart, The lover an’ the frien’; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a’ on flame! O all ye pow’rs who rule above! O Thou, whose very self art love! Thou know’st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray’r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care. All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since this world’s thorny ways Had number’d out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean. O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin’, rank and file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phœbus and the famous Nine Were glowrin’ owre my pen. My spavied Pegasus will limp, Till ance he’s fairly het; And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An’ rin an unco fit: But lest then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I’ll light now, and dight now His sweaty wizen’d hide. THO’ CRUEL FATE Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, Wide as the pole and line; Her dear idea round my heart Should tenderly entwine. Tho’ mountains rise and deserts howl And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean. TAM GLEN My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity; But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen? I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen’; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller, ‘Guid-day to you, brute!’ he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o’ his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen?