O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity’s sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo. Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet; Tak pity on my weary feet, And shield me frae the rain, jo. The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause Of a’ my grief and pain, jo. HER ANSWER O tell na me o’ wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain! Gae back the gait ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a’ this ae night, I winna let you in, jo. The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand’rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That’s trusted faithless man, jo. The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed; Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo. The bird that charm’d his summer-day Is now the cruel fowler’s prey; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate’s the same, jo. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide. The lightly-jumping glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.