O welcome, lovely summer,

         Wi’ thi golden days so long,

      When the throstle and the blackbird

         Do charm us wi’ ther song;

      When the lark in early morning

         Takes his aerial flight;

      An’ the humming bat an’ buzzard

         Frolic in the night.

      O! welcome, lovely summer,

         With her rainbow’s lovely form;

      Her thunner an’ her leetnin’,

         An’ her grandeur in the storm:

      With her sunshine an’ her shower,

         An’ her whirlin’ of the dust,

      An’ the maiden with her flagon,

         To sleck the mower’s thirst.

      O! welcome, lovely summer,

         When the woods wi’ music ring,

      An’ the bees so heavy laden,

         To their hives their treasures bring:

      When we seek some shady bower,

         Or some lovely little dell,

      Or, bivock in the sunshine,

         Besides some cooling well.

      O! welcome, lovely summer,

         With her roses in full bloom;

      When the cowslaps an’ the laalek

         Deck the cottage home;

      When the cherry an’ the berry

         Give a grandeur to the charm;

      And the clover and the haycock

         Scent the little farm.

      O! welcome, lovely summer,

         Wi’ the partridge on the wing;

      When the tewit an’ the moorgam,

         Up fra the heather spring,

      From the crowber an’ the billber,

         An’ the bracken an’ the whin;

      As from the noisy tadpole,

         We hear the crackin’ din.

                     O! welcome, lovely summer.

      Go bring that tuther whisky in,

         An’ put no watter to it;

      Fur I mun drink a bumper off,

         To Scotland’s darlin’ poet.

      It’s just one hunderd year to-day,

         This Jenewarry morn,

      Sin’ in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,

         A rustic bard wur born.

      He kittled up his muirland harp,

         To ivvery rustic scene;

      An’ sung the ways o’ honest men,

         His Davey an’ his Jean.

      There wur nivver a bonny flaar that grew

         Bud what he could admire;

      There wur nivver lovely hill or dale

         That suited not his lyre.

      At last owd Coilia sed enough,

         Mi bardy thah did sing,

      Then gently tuke his muirland harp,

         And brack it ivvery string.

      An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,

         Wi’ all its berries red,

      Shoo placed it on his noble brow,

         An’ pensively shoo said: —

      “So long as Willies brew ther malt,

         An’ Robs and Allans spree;

      Mi Burns’s songs an’ Burns’s name,

         Remember’d they shall be.”

      Ligging here deead, mi poor Ann Lavina,

      Ligging alone, mi own darling child,

      Just thi white hands crost on thi bosom,

      Wi’ features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

      Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,

      Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;

      Asking for summat withaht ever speaking,

      Asking thi father to say tha wur fine.

      Ligging here deead, the child that so lov’d me,

      At fane wod ha’ hidden mi faults if shoo could;

      Wal thi wretch of a father despairin’ stands ower tha,

      Wal remorse and frenzy are freezin’ his blood.

      Ligging here deead, i’ thi shroud an thi coffin,

      Ligging alone in this poor wretched room;

      Just thi white hands crossed ower thi bosom,

      Waiting for t’angels to carry tha home.