CHORUS.

For oh, her lanely nights are lang;
And oh, her dreams are eerie ;
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair,
That's absent frae her dearie.
When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi' thee, my dearie;

And now what seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie ?

For oh, &c.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;
The joyless day how dreary!

It wasna sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearie.
For oh, &c.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS

MISTRESS.

TUNE-Deil tak the Wars.

SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy morn now lifts his

eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy:

Now thro' the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods,

Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray;

The lintwhite in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

BUT LATELY SEEN.

Phœbus, gilding the brow o' morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade,

Nature gladdening and adorning;

Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,
The murky shades o' care

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky:
But when in beauty's light

She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;

"Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

BUT LATELY SEEN.

TUNE-The Death of the Linnet.

BUT lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoice the day,
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:

But now our joys are fled

On winter blasts awa!

Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But

my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.

Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain!

Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again!

77

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

TUNE-Rothiemurchus's Rant.

CHORUS.

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
O, wilt thou share its joys wi' me,

And thou❜lt be
say

Lassie wi', &c.

my

dearie O?

And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.
Lassie wi, &c.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way,
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,

I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie O?

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.
TUNE-Nancy's to the Greenwood gane.

FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows
Around Eliza's dwelling!
O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling:
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain,
And yet in secret languish,

To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover:
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.

I know thou doom'st me to despair,
Nor wilt nor canst relieve me;
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,
Till fears no more had sav'd me:
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing,
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.

9

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

TUNE-Lumps o' Pudding.

CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure, or [again!' My warst word is- Welcome, and welcome

pain,

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

TUNE-There'll never be Peace.

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes;
While birds warble welcome in ilka
green shaw;
But to me it's delightless-my Nannie's awa.