THAIL BURN.

The river is a ribbon wide,

The falls a snowy feather,

And stretching far on ilka side

Are hills abloom wi’ heather.

The wind comes loitering frae the west

By weight o’ sweets retarded;

The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,

A Golden Fleece unguarded.

We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,

That hand in hand do tarry;

The youth is Burns, the Bard o’ Ayr,

The lass is Highland Mary.

He tells her they will never pairt —

‘ Tis life and luve taegither —

The world has got the song by hairt

He sang among the heather.

‘ Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,

Yet all remember dearly

The eyes, the hair, the brow o’ snow

O’ her he luved sae dearly.

And lads still woo their lassies dear,

I’ cot and hall and dairy,

By words he whispered i’ the ear

O’ his ain Highland Mary.