MY AULD GUDEWIFE.

THERE'S nane like you—there's nane like you:
    The youngsters blithe around us now
Are bonnie a', baith grit an' sma';
    But, auld gudewife, there's nane like you.

Nae doubt they're dear to ither hearts;
    But since thae bairns atween us grew,
You're mair than a' the earth to me—
    There's nane like you—there's nane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you, &c.

Within my arms ye now ha'e lain
    For springs an' summers forty-two:
You've cheered my grief an' shared my joy—
    There's nane like you—there's nane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you, &c.

Ye ance were fair as ony here—
    Your cheek as fresh—your een as blue;
But wither'd, wrinkled as ye are—
    There's nane like you—there's mane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you, &c.

Ye mind, gudewife, when we could loup
    And dance as they are dancin' now;
I lo’ed ye then—I lo’e ye yet—
    There's nane like you—there's nane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you, &c.

A meikle share o' love we've had
    The warld as we've warsled through:
My auld heart dances thinking o't—
    There's nane like you—there's nane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you, &c.

There come your childer an' their joes
    Wi' daffin unco tired I trow:
Cleek hame wi' me, my auld gudewife—
    There's nane like you—there's nane like you.
        Chorus—There's nane like you—there's nane
            like you:
    The youngsters blithe around us now
        Are bonnie a', baith grit an' sma':
    But, auld gudewife, there's nane like you.

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THE COURTIN' TIME.

OUR Jean likes the mornin' when milkin' the kye,
An' May thinks the noontide gangs merrily by;
But nane o' them a' are sae saft and serene
As the hours when the lads come a-courtin' at e'en—
        A-courtin' at e'en—a-courtin' at e'en—
As the hours when the lads come a-courtin' at e'en!

The sun quietly slips o'er the top o' the hill,
An' the plover its gloamin' sang whistles fu' shrill,
Syne dimness comes glidin' where daylight hath been,
An' the dew brings the lads who come courtin' at e'en.
        Courtin' at e'en—courtin' at e'en—
An' the dew brings the lads who come courtin' at e'en!

When the men-folk are crackin' o' owsen an' land,
An' the kimmers at spinnin' are tryin' their hand,
I see at the window the face o' a frien',
An' I ken that my joe's come a-courtin' at e'en.
        A-courtin' at e'en—a-courtin' at e'en—
An' I ken that my joe's come a-courtin' at e'en!

I never let on, but I cannily gang
To the door to my laddie, an' a' may think lang;
An' the warm simmer gale may blaw snelly an' keen
Ere I leave the braw lad who comes courtin' at e'en.
        Courtin' at e'en—courtin' at e'en—
Ere I leave the braw lad who comes courtin' at e'en!

Awa' 'mang the stacks wi' my dearie I gae;
An' we dern oursel's down 'mang the fresh aiten strae—
There we cosily crack, while thegither we lean;
An' blithe is the time o' our courtin' at e'en—
        Courtin' at e'en—courtin' at e'en—
An' blithe is the time o' our courtin' at e'en!

Neist mornin' they meet me wi' floutin' an' jeers,
An' about my braw wooer ilk ane o' them speers;
But for floutin' an' scornin' I carena, I ween,
Compared wi' the lad who comes courtin' at e'en.
        Courtin' at e'en—courtin' at e'en—
Compared wi' the lad who comes courtin' at e'en!

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THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.

O! the bonnie Hieland hills,
O! the bonnie Hieland hills,—
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.

There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms—
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills,
As it wantons alang o'er our ain Hieland hills.
                Chorus—O! the bonnie Hieland hills.

There are rich gowden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we make na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'—our ain Hieland hills.
                Chorus—O! the bonnie Hieland hills.

In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O ! sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
                Chorus—O! the bonnie Hieland hills.

On the moss-covered rock, wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom their sons ever stand;
A storm-nurs'd bold spirit ilk warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.

Chorus—O! the bonnie Hieland hills,
              O! the bonnie Hieland hills,—
              The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
              The bonnie Hieland hills.

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THE THISTLE.

BY the Thistle we'll stand while there's blood in our veins:
We carena who loses—we carena who gains;
For our side is ta'en; an', while reason remains,
        We'll stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.
            Chorus—Put your foot to mine,
                          Heart and hand let us join
                  To stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.

May it flourish! its hame is our dear native land;
While there's life in ilk heart—while there's strength in ilk
            hand,
Be it by night or by day—be't by sea or by land;
        We'll stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.

While we hollow the graves o' the free an' the brave,
While the land hath a stream, while the sea hath a wave,
While the bold are the free, while the coward's a slave,
        We'll stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.

For the love of the maiden, the praise of the free—
For the blessings that father an' mother will gi'e—
For the hames that are dear baith to thee and to me,
        We'll stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.

By Freedom! our aith—be't in peace or in war—
We'll mak' Honour an' Scotland our bright guiding-star;
An' till valleys lie low, where our wild mountains are,
        We'll stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.
                Chorus—Put your foot to mine,
                              Heart and hand let us join
                      To stand by the auld Scottish Thistle.

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THE HEATHER OF SCOTLAND.

THE heather, the heather,
The bonnie brown heather—
The heather, the heather
Of Scotland O!

'Tis thy badge an' thy token, thou gem o' the North—
'Tis wide-spread as the fame of thy honour and worth:
It is welcomed wherever its red blossoms blow
As the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
                    Chorus—The heather, the heather, &c.

The dark hair of our maidens it decks on our hills,
And the place of a plume in the bonnet it fills:
On the mountain it blooms and in valleys below;
O ! the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
                    Chorus—The heather, the heather, &c.

'Tis the best pledge o' friendship, of true love and truth;
'Tis the plant of our hames—of the land of our youth.
By our door-steps and hamesteads it sweetly doth grow;
O! the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
                    Chorus—The heather, the heather, &c.

For Freedom, langsyne, when our forefathers fought—
When with blood frae their bold hearts our birth-right they
        bought—
They fell free and unconquered, fronting the foe
On the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
                    Chorus—The heather, the heather, &c.

The fields of renown where our warriors have bled—
The cairns on our hills where our chieftains are laid—
Ilka scene that is dear to our hearts bright doth glow
Wi' the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
                    Chorus—The heather, the heather, &c.

Let us stand, and, uncover'd, our hands let us join,
Vowing high-hearted manhood we never will tyne;
But will strive to bring honour wherever we go
To the bonnie brown heather of Scotland O!
    Chorus—The heather, the heather,
                  The bonnie brown heather—
                  The heather, the heather
                  Of Scotland O!

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THE BAGPIPES.

THE bagpipe's wild music comes o'er the braid lea,
An' the thoughts o' langsyne it is bringin' to me,
When the warrior's foot on the heather was placed—
When his heart an' his hand for the combat were braced
When the free by the brave to the battle were led,
An' when ilka man's hand had to keep his ain head:—
Thae auld-warld fancies my heart winna tyne,
Of the bold an' the true o' the days o' langsyne.

When the bairn was born the bagpipes were brought;
The first sound in its ears was their bauld-speakin' note;
An' when forth came the Tartan in battle array,
The proud voice o' war aye was leading the way:
And when dead with his fathers the warrior was laid,
Aboon his low dwelling the coronach was play'd.
In weal as in woe,—amid tears, amid wine,
The bagpipes aye moved the bold hearts o' langsyne.

Alang the hill-side comes the dear pibroch's sound,
And auld Scottish thoughts from my heart are un-wound:
The days o' the past are around me again—
The hall of the chieftain—the field of the slain—
The men of the plaid and the bonnet sae blue,
Who by Scotland, my country, stood leally an' true.
O ! the land o’ the bagpipes and thistle is mine,
Wi' its auld rousing thoughts of the days o' langsyne!

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FADING AWAY.

A STARN shone out deep in the sky,
            Blinkin' sae cheery cheerily:
It was seen an' loved by mony an eye—
That brightest speck in the Heavens high:
But in darkness sad the starn did die:
            My sang sings dreary drearily.

A flowrie grew in yonder wood,
            Bloomin' sae cheery cheerily;
An' the light o' day did round it flood,
Till brightest amang the bright it stood:
But it faded an' wither'd leaf an' bud:
            My sang sings dreary drearily.

A bonnie maiden loved me true,
            An' time gaed cheery cheerily;
Her lip was red an' her een were blue,
A warm leal heart she had, I trow;
But alake! she's dead, the maid I lo'e:
            My sang sings dreary drearily.

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REGRETS.

TAK' aff, tak' aff this silken garb,
    An' bring to me a Hieland plaid:
Nae bed was e'er sae saft an' sweet
    As ane wi' it an' heather made.
Tak' aff this gowd-encircled thing,
    An' bring to me a bonnet blue,
To mind me o' the Hieland hills
    That I ha'e left for ever now.

Tak', tak' awa' this gaudy flower,
    An' bring to me a sprig o' heather,
Like those langsyne among the hills
    Of home and youth, I aft did gather.
For a' your luscious Indian fruit,
    The ripe blaeberry bring to me:
To be in braes where black they hing,
    There's nought on earth I wadna' gi'e.

O! take away this tinsel wealth,
    That wiled me frae my Hieland hame;
I cannot bear its glitter now,—
    For it I've played a losing game.
O! bring me back my youthfu' heart—
    The eye and hand of long ago—
Take a' I have, but place me syne
    Afar where Hieland waters flow!

O! for an hour of youth an' hope—
    Ae moment of my youthfu' years
Upon the hills of Scotland dear,
    When I had neither cares nor fears.
I maunna sigh, I maunna mane—
    Before my fate I laigh mann bow,—
Bring wealth—bring wine—till I forget
    The time when round me heather grew!

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THE HIELAND PLAID.

O! LEEZE me on the Hieland plaid,—
    The tartan plaidie, tartan plaidie!
The very sight o't makes me glad—
    The bonnie tartan plaidie!

It minds me o' the happy days,
    When blithe I herdit on the braes,
O' love an' a' its gladsome ways:
                    Be blessin's on the plaidie!
Chorus—O! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

My Sandy was the triggest lad
    That ever made a lassie glad;
And O! a handsome look he had
                When he put on his plaidie.
Chorus—O ! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

I mind it as I mind yestreen,
    When courtin' he would come at e'en:
We sat upo' the trystin' green
                Beneath his tartan plaidie.
Chorus—O! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

At fairs an' preachin's far and near,
    Baith Sandy an' his joe were there;
An' as we hame at night did wear,
                He row'd me in his plaidie.
Chorus—O! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

For monie a year, at hame, a-field,
    The plaidie was his cosie bield:
O! vow, he was a sonsie chield
                When he gat on his plaidie.
Chorus—O! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

When winter nights were lang an' cauld,
    Upo' the hill he watch'd the fauld,
Frae e'en to morn sae crouse an' bauld,
                Weel happit in his plaidie!
Chorus—O ! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,
     &c.

When Sandy gaed as I am gaun—
    When frae our fireside he was ta'en—
They laid him low aneath the stane
                Row'd in his tartan plaidie.
Chorus—O! leeze me on the Hieland plaid,—
                   The tartan plaidie, tartan plaidie!
               The very sight o't makes me glad—
                   The bonnie tartan plaidie!

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WHAT SHALL I DO ?

I'm either gaun daft, or I'm donnert wi' drink,
My head is a' singin'—I'm deein', I think:—
Whene'er I see Mysie, I grane and I grue;
I maybe ha'e fa'en in love!—What shall I do?

That guess is the right ane, as sure as a gun;
But frae the deep sea to the de'il I ha'e run.
There are cures for a fever, but nane for me now:
To a lassie I canna speak!—What shall I do?

Will I tell her I've plenty o' maut, meal, and milk—
A stockin' o' guineas—a gown-breed o' silk—
That my auld mither's plaid is as gude as when new—
An' the hale I will gi'e her?—O! what shall I do?

It's weel kent I ne'er had a gift o' the gab,
An' my thoughts now ha'e gane, like a sair ravell'd wab:
If I try to speak saftly, I'll look unco blue,
An' stoiter an' stammer!—O! what shall I do?

What say ye?   Gae praise her saft cheek an' blue een,
An' swear that their like on the earth ne'er was seen,
An' daut her fu' kindly?—Na! I canna woo,
Sae needna be tryin'!—O! what shall I do?

Gae, gar the auld wives o' the clachan come ben—
Can nae skilly body gi'e cures for sic pain?
If I die, the fau't, Mysie, will lie upon you—
The de'il tak' the womenkind!—What shall I do?

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THE WOOING.

THOUGH overly proud, she was bonnie an' young,
    And, in spite o' her jeers an' her scornin',
I lo'ed her as weel, or mair than mysel';
    An' I followed her e'enin' an' mornin'.
She trysted me ance, an' she trysted me twice,
    But—the limmer!—she never came near me;
And, when I complained o't, she leuch, while she
        speer'd,
    Was I fear'd that the bogles would steer me?

I gaed to the market to meet wi' my joe,
    An' to buy her back-burdens o' fairin',
My lang-hoarded shillin's and saxpences took;
    For I vow'd that I wou'dna be sparin'.
She pouch'd a' my sweeties, my apples, an' rings,
    Till awa was ilk lang-treasured shillin',
Then says I, "We'll go hame."—"Losh, Geordie,
        gae wa',"
    Says she, "for your supper is spoilin'!"

Wi' puir Geordie's fairings, sae fine in her pouch,
    She gaed an' drew up wi' anither;
The chield threw his arms about her sweet neck,
    An' awa' hame they cleekit thegither.
Wi' a heart sad an' sair I followed the twa—
    At her auld father's door saw them partin'—
Syne lifted the sneck, an' crap after my joe,
    Wi' a waefu' like look, I am certain!

I whispered her name, an' I clinkit me down
    In the dark, on the settle, aside her,
An' clew at my head—I was sairly tongue-tied;
    For I hadna the smeddum to chide her.
I now an' then mumbled a short word or twa—
    A saft word or twa to my dearie;
But she gapit an' gauntit, sae aft an' sae lang,
    An' she said she o' courtin' was weary!

I raise to gae hame; but the deil, for my sins,
    O'er the floor gart me stoiter an' stammer,
Till the pans made a noise, as the tinker had been
    A-smashin' them a' wi' his hammer.
At the clatter, up startit the waukrife auld wife,—
    Her claes she put on in a hurry;
Says she, "There's a loon 'yont the hallan wi' Meg,
    An' the tangs in his harns I will bury!"

The flytin' auld rudas cam' but wi' a bang;
    An' my bosom was in a sad swither;
An' maist I would 'greed to forgotten my Meg,
    If I had got but quit o' her mither.
The wife an' the tangs were ahint me, I trow;
    An' the window was high,—but I jumpit;
An' up to the neck in a deep midden-hole,
    Like a trout in a bucket, I plumpit!

Baith mither an' dochter glower'd out on the fun,
    An' the young gilpie Maggie was laughin';
The auld ane skreigh'd out wi' a terrible yowl,
    "Hey, lad! ye are row'd in a rauchan."
My face it was red, an' my heart it was sair,
    While my fause love my sorrow was mockin';
And an uncanny something raise up in my throat,
    Till I thought that I surely was chokin'.

I ran to the burn, an' to drown me I vow'd,
    For my heart wi' my fause love was breakin';
But the banks were sae high, and the water sae deep,
    That the sight o't wi' fear set me quakin'!
Says I, Why despair?   Sae comfort I took:—
    A sweatheart!   I'll soon get anither:
Sae hamewith I toddled, an' endit it a'—
    For I told my mischance to my mither!

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THE LAMENT OF BENEDICT THE MARRIED MAN.

I ANCE was a wanter, as happy's a bee:
I meddled wi' nane, and nane meddled wi' me.
I whiles had a crack o'er a cog o' gude yill—
Whiles a bicker o' swats—whiles a heart-heezing gill;
And I aye had a groat if I hadna a pound,—
On the earth there were nane meikle happier found:
But my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the world sinsyne.

Fu' sound may she sleep! a douce woman was she,
Wi' her wheel, an' her pipe, an' her cuppie o' tea.
My ingle she keepit as neat as a preen,
And she never speer'd questions, as, "Where ha'e ye
        been?"
Or, "What were ye doin'?" an' "Wha were ye wi'?"—
We were happy thegither, my mither an' me:
But the puir bodie died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.

When my mither was gane, for a while I was wae;
But a young chap was I, an' a wife I maun ha'e.
A wife soon I gat, an' I aye ha'e her yet,
An' folk think thegither we unco weel fit:
But my ain mind ha'e I, though I maunna speak o't,
For mair than her gallop I like my ain trot.
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.

If I wi' a cronie be takin' a drap,
She'll yaumer an' ca' me an auld drucken chap.
If an hour I bide out, loud she greets an' she yowls,
An' bans a' gude fellows, baith bodies an' souls:
And then sic a care she has o' her gudeman!
Ye would think I were doited—I canna but ban!
O! my auld mither died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne.

Our young gilpie dochters are lookin' for men,
An' I'll be a grandsire or ever I ken:
Our laddies are thinkin' o' rulin' the roast—
Their father, auld bodie, 's as deaf as a post!
But he sees their upsettin' sae crouse an' sae bauld:—
O! why did I marry, an' wherefore grow auld?
My mither! ye died in the year aughty-nine,
An' I ne'er ha'e had peace in the warld sinsyne!

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THERE'S NEVER AN END O' HER FLYTIN' AN' DIN.

THERE'S joy to the lave, but there's sadness to me;
For my gudewife an' I can do a'thing but 'gree;
In but-house an' ben-house, baith outby an' in,
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

She's girnin' at e'enin'—she's girnin' at morn—
A' hours o' the day in my flesh she's a thorn:
At us baith a' the neighbour-folk canna but grin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

She scolds at the lasses, she skelps at the bairns;
An' the chairs an' the creepies she flings them in cairns.
I'm joyfu' when aff frae the house I can rin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

When I bid her speak laigher, fu' scornfu' she sneers;
Syne she shrieks like a goslin' till a'body hear ;
Then I maun sing sma'; just to keep a hale skin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an' din.

Ance deav'd to the heart by her ill-scrapit tongue,
To quiet her I tried wi' a gude hazel rung:
Wi' the tangs she repaid me, and thought it nae sin:
There's never an end o' her flytin' an din.

There's ae thing I ken, an' that canna be twa—
I wish frae this world she ance were awa';
An' I trust, if ayont to the ill place she win,
They'll be able to bear wi' her flytin' an' din.

To the wa' the door rattles—that's her coming ben;
An' I maun gi'e o'er or the Luckie would ken.
Gude save us! she's clearin' her throat to begin!
The Lord keep ye a' frae sic flytin' an' din!

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A MAIDEN'S MEDITATIONS.

NAE sweetheart ha'e I,
    Yet I'm no that ill-faur'd:
But there's ower monie lasses,
    An' wooers are scaur'd.
This night I the hale
    O' my tocher would gi'e
If a' ither bodie
    Were married but me.

Syne I would get plenty
    About me to speer—
Folk wou'dna be fashious
    'Bout beauty or gear.
Hearts broken in dozens
    Around I would see,
If a' ither bodie
    Were married but me.

Ae lover would ha'e
    A' my errands to rin;
Anither should tend me
    Baith outby an' in;
And to keep me gude humour'd
    Would tak' twa or three,
If a' ither bodie
    Were married but me.

Fond wooers in dozens
    Where I ha'ena ane,
An' worshippin' hearts
    Where I'm langin' alane—
Frae mornin' to e'enin'
    How bless'd would I be,
If a' ither bodie
    Were married but me?

A daft dream was yon—
    It has faded awa':
Nae bodie in passin'
    E'er gi'es me a ca':
Nae sweetheart adornin'
    I ever shall see,
Till a' ither bodie
    Be married but me!

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MY MINNIE MAUNNA KEN.

COME sleely up the burnie's side
    When starnies ope their een;
An' quietly through the winnock keek,
    But say to nane, Gude-e'en!
An' creep alang ahint the dyke,
    Where nane can hear or see;
For O! my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

Ye'll wait na lang till out I slip;
    Syne gi'e a hoast or twa,
An' soon I'll sittin' be wi' you
    Ahint the kailyard-wa'!
But there ye mauna keep me lang,
    Wi' fleechin' words sae slee;
For O! my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

At kirk or market when we meet,
    If I should pass ye by,
An' seem to think ye far ower laigh
    To catch a maiden's eye:
Ne'er gloom at me as ance ye did,
    Nor think I lightly thee;
For O! my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

My minnie brags o' a' her lands,
    Her mailins, and her gear:
My brithers o' their sister fair
    Are boastin' late an' air;
And kent they who that sister loved,
    Their hate would follow thee;
And sae any minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

It may be good to live in wealth—
    To walk in claithing braw;
But O! a leal young heart's first love
    Is better than it a';
Than a', ae glint o' love frae thee
    Is dearer to my e'e;
But O! my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

The time is comin' round about
    When I will care for nane;
But take the laddie whom I love—
    I never loved but ane.
A year or two will soon gang by,
    An syne I'll follow thee,
Although my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me.

Come sleely up the burnie's side
    When starnies ope their een,
An' quietly through the winnock keek
    But say to nane, Gude-e'en!
An' creep alang ahint the dyke,
    Where nane can hear or see;
For O! my minnie maunna ken
    That ye come courtin' me!

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KATE CARNEGIE.

SONG.

MY life is a burden—nae pleasure ha'e I;
    I'm girnin' baith e'enin' an' mornin'.
'Cause why?   I'm in love, and I darena e'en try,
    For fear o' her floutin' an' scornin'.
She's a jewel of a kimmer—as straight as an ash;
    But I fear I maun jump o'er a craigie;
For in spite o' my love, an' in spite o' my cash,
    I'm nae favourite wi' Katie Carnegie!

Gudewife! bring a bicker, I'll slocken my drouth—
    That ale was na spoilt i' the brewin'.
Heartbroken and wae in the hours o' my youth—
    Love—true love—has been my undoin'!
And why should Kate care for a gomach like me?
    I've glour'd at her aft wi' a gleg e'e,
But though I'm in love—though I fear I maun dee—
    I ne'er spoke o't to Katie Carnegie.

Gi'es a waucht o' the ale—she's the queen o' the
        Strath—
    And what is to hinder me tryin'?
The hard-hearted kimmer! she cou'dna weel laugh
    An' jeer at a man who is dyin'!
Just ae ither stoup!—what the deil makes me sad?
    Gae, laddie, and saddle my naigie ;
And if ony ane speer where I'm till on the yaud,
    I'm awa' to court Katie Carnegie!

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THE MAID I DAURNA NAME.

I wish I were a hinny-bee,
    That I awa' might sing,—
Upo' the buds o' a bonnie bower,
    When the e'enin' fa's, to hing,
And be bless'd wi' ae look o' a bonnie face
    Like the sun-glint on the fell—
The face o' ane—a precious ane—
    Whase name I daurna tell!

I wish I were a breathin' wind,
    That I might pree her mou',
An' wander blessed by her side;
    The woods an' valleys through;
An' clasp her waist sae jimpy sma',
    Where grows the muirland bell;
An' pass ae hour o' love wi' her
    Whase name I daurna tell.

The laverock loves the simmer lift—
    The corncraik clover green—
An' the mither loves her bairnie's face,
    Where its father's smile is seen;
The lintie loves the hawthorn hedge—
    The blackbird lo'es the dell—
But mair than a' I lo'e the maid
    Whase name I daurna tell.

The misty mornin' often brings
    A sunny afternoon;
An' March, wi' hands sae sleety cauld,
    Leads gladsome May an' June:
An' maybe yet, or a' be done,
    I'll happy be mysel',
When she is mine—the precious ane—
    Whase name I daurna tell.

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THE PACKMAN.

THE fire we sat round on a cauld winter nicht—
    Mysel' an' my dochters were spinnin'—
When in came the pedlar, wi' ellwand in hand,
    An' the sweat frae the bodie was rinnin'.
Wi' beck an' wi' bow, and wi' "Goodness be here!"
    He trampit in o'er to the ingle;
Syne open'd his pack fu' o' claes o' the best—
    Wi' the sight o't my lugs they play'd tingle!

Fn' o' jokin' an' cracks was the slee, pawky loon—
    Weel kent he how braw things becam' folk;
An' my dochters he praised till we cou'dna but buy;
    For he ca'd a' our neighbours but sham folk.
The deil break his shanks! he had plenty o' news,
    And he clatter'd, and coost me wi' glamour,
Till quarters I promised to gi'e for a night,
    And to make our bien but-house his chaumer.

The morn I got up, as a gudewife should do—
    To packmen there's naething to lippen—
And soon followed after me Chirsty and Meg,
    But Jean came na after them skippin'.
Where is she? why waits she? my youngest and best—
    My ain Jean, my bonnie wee burdie—
Run awa?   The light limmer—the deil break his banes—
    Wi' the oily-tongued chapman, Tam Purdie!

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THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.

THE bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen—
Where the burnie clear doth gush
            In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin and cauld,—
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen.

My Jeanie first I met
            In yon lane glen—
When the grass wi' dew was wet
            In yon lane glen;
The moon was shinin' sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,—
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen—

O! she promised to be mine
            In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign
            In yon lane glen:
An' monie a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen.

Sax bonnie bairns had we
            In yon lane glen—
Lads an' lasses young an' spree
            In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen.

Now my auld wife's gane awa'
            Frae yon lane glen;
An' though simmer sweet doth fa'
            On yon lane glen,
To me its beauty's gane,
For alake!   I sit alane,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
            In yon lane glen.

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THE AULD BEGGAR MAN.

THE Auld Beggar Man is a hearty auld cock:—
Wi' his sair-tatter'd rags and his meikle meal-pock,
He lives like a king in the midst o' the lan',—
He's a slee pawkie bodie the Auld Beggar Man.

He has a white pow and a fresh ruddy cheek,
For there's Sabbath to him ilka day o' the week;
An' he daunders aye onward the best way he can;
He's a cantie bit carle the Auld Beggar Man.

The gudewife sets his chair by the clear ingle-side,
Where his feet may grow warm an' his claes may be
        dried;
Syne the hale kintra's clashes he screeds them aff han';
He's a gash, gabbin' birkie, the Auld Beggar Man.

Wi' the gudeman he cracks about cattle an' corn,—
Whether this rig or that ane the best crap has borne:
How aits up hae risen an' owsen hae fa'n;
Like a beuk he can argue, the Auld Beggar Man.

The bairnies crowd round him his stories to hear,
While maistly the wee things are swarfin' wi' fear;
An' he tells them how witches wi' Auld Clootie ban,
Till they creep to the knee o' the Auld Beggar Man.

"He's ane o' our ain folk," the lasses aye say,
When their wooers drap in at the close o' the day;
Sae he hears them mak' up ilka lovin' bit plan,—
He's an auld-farrant bodie, the Auld Beggar Man.

When the supper is done, an' the grace has been said,
'Mang the strae in the barn is the auld bodie's bed;
There he sleeps like a tap till the brak' o' the dawn,—
He's hale at the heart yet, the Auld Beggar Man.

Wi' his staff in his hand and his pock on his back,
He stoiters through life on a rough staney track;
His days whiles are dowie, but sin' they began
He has trusted in Heaven, the Auld Beggar Man.

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YE WINNA LET ME BE.

THAE een o' yours are bonnie blue,
    An' O! they sparkle sae
That I maun look, an I maun love,
    Until my heart grow wae.
They jewels seem o' meikle price,
    Aneath the dark e'ebree;
Ilk glance frae them gangs through my heart,—
    O! they winna let me be.

Thae lips o' yours are cherries twa;
    But floutin' words they speak;
An ahint the door o' cauld disdain
    My heart I canna' steek.
Your bonnie e'en an' your jeerin' words
    Are ever grievin' me;
Ye cuttie quean! it's an awfu' thing
    That ye winna let me be.

Whene'er I sleep I dream o' thee,
    An' o' thy bonnie face;
I think nae then o' your scornfu' ways,
    Ye little scant-o'-grace!
To break a truthfu' heart like mine
    Is the height o' crueltie;
Ye've gi'en it monie a fearfu' stound,
    For ye winna let me be.

But I ha'e gotten a wylie plan
    To haud ye out o' ill;
The holy priest—ye needna laugh;
    Your mirth I wot he'll spill:
He'll say the fearsome words, that one
    Will make o' you an' me;
An then you'll plague your bonnie sel'
    If ye winna let me be!

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THE BANKS OF TAY.

THE ship is on its seaward path,
    An' frae the shore the breezes blaw:
Now Scotland's cliffs sae dear to me
    Aneath the wavin' waters fa'.
My hame is growin' far awa'—
    It lies aneath yon hill-tap gray—
Yon last seen spot o' Scotland's soil
    That rises by the Banks of Tay.

Fareweel, ye mossy fountains wild!
    Where yon fair stream doth softly rin:
To ilka wildwood-shaded pool,
    To ilka tumblin' roarin' linn—
To ilka burnie that doth win
    Through heathery muirs its silent way—
I bid fareweel; for now my hame
    Is biggit far frae bonnie Tay.

Fareweel, ye hames o' pure delight,
    That I ha'e lo'ed sae weel and lang!
Ye simmer birdies! ye maun sing
    To others now your cheering sang!
Fareweel, ye holms, where lovers gang
    Upon the peaceful Sabbath-day:
In youth I lov'd—in age I'll mind
    The green an' bonnie Banks of Tay.

Be blessin's on ilk cot an ha'
    That by thy braes o' hazel rise;
Be a' thing bonnie where thou rins,
    An' a' thing happy 'neath thy skies.
Though far frae thee my boatie flies,
    The friends I love beside thee stray:
My heart fu' dead an' cauld will be
    Ere I forget the Banks of Tay.

The streams are wide where I am gaun,
    An' on they row through boundless woods;
But dearer is thy Hieland wave
    Than yonder wild and foreign floods.
Thy haughs sae green—the simmer clouds
    That o'er thy shelter'd hamlets stray—
I'll mind for love an' friendship's sake;
    Fareweel, ye bonnie Banks of Tay.

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THE LASS OF TURRIT HA'.

AMANG the hills, the rocky hills,
    Where whirrs the moorcock, waves the
        heather,
Ae bonnie morn, in lightsome June,
    I wi' a lassie did foregather.
Her naked feet, amang the grass,
    Seem'd dancin' snaw-white lambies twa,
As she gaed singin' through the glen—
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

I stood upon an auld gray stane,
    An' follow'd her wi' straining e'e,
As bairnies look on fallin' starns
    That o'er the lift glint silentlie.
Her sang, her bonnie mornin' sang,
    Upon my heart did thrilling fa';
A thing of light and love was she,
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

I met her on the Sabbath-day,
    When winds amang the woods were lown—
When o'er the muir o' gorse an' broom
    Came sweet the plaintive chanted tune.
And monie a bonnie queen was there;
    But she was fairest o' them a'—
The bonniest tree within the wood—
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

An' when they sang the holy psalm,
    Her voice was sweetest, dearest there—
'Mang a' that gaed to God aboon,
    Hers was the purest, holiest prayer!
I thought the light o' day was gane
    When she, ayont the kirkyard wa'
By yon burn-brae, gaed wanderin' hame—
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

A' things in earth an' heaven aboon
    Ha'e something worthy to be loved;
But mair than a' I met afore,
    That lassie's smile my bosom moved.
The birdie lo'es the summer bush,
    The maukin lo'es the greenwood-shaw;
But nane can tell how weel I lo'ed
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

The summer bud o' Turrit Glen,
    Alas! aneath the mools is laid;
The winds that waved her raven hair
    Are cauldly whistlin' o'er her bed:
But, while yon silent moon doth shine—
    Sae lang as I ha'e breath to draw—
I'll mind the gem o' youth an' love—
    The bonnie lass of Turrit Ha'!

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MARY HAMILTON.

As dreamin' in yon wood I lay,
    A spirit came before me there—
Immortal seem'd its holy form,
    Frae heaven sent, it was sae fair.
Its peacefu' presence seem'd to bring
    Deep joy upon yon forest lone:
But aye I sigh'd, though fair eneuch,
    You're no like Mary Hamilton!

Her heart by Gudeness' sel' was made—
    Her laugh is like an angel's voice—
Her sang o' sweetness lightsomely
    Gars nature in her joy rejoice!
Her een are starns o' living love,
    Whilk hallow a' they glint upon—
The wale o' precious womankind
    Is bonnie Mary Hamilton!

When life's rude storms are ragin' hie—
    An' poverty sits by my door—
When wae is twinin' at my heart—
    An' envy counts my failin's o'er—
I'm sad eneuch ; but in a blink
    My granein' sorrow a' is gone,
If ae kind glint on me fa' frae
    The e'e o' Mary Hamilton.

'Mong lowly folk her hame is made;—
    A puir man's bairn I wat is she;
But love sits in her smeeky hame,
    An' kindly, kindly smiles to me.
Like some sweet rose 'mang heather brown,
    Upon a barren mountain-throne,
Is she within her father's ha'—
    My bonnie Mary Hamilton!

Let a' wha think, if sic there be,
    That love an' innocence are dreams—
That woman's heart is fause an' frail—
    That purest gudeness aft but seems—
That maids are witches—we the fools
    They cast their cheatrie glamour on—
Gae, look on her, an' syne confess
    There's truth in Mary Hamilton.

I wish upo' that bosky glen
    The tearfu' e'enin' dew were come;
I wish yon sun were ower the hill—
    That gushin' burnie's waters dim;
I wish the wanderin' e'enin' wind
    Were whistlin' round the breckans lone—
That I might live anither hour
    O' love wi' Mary Hamilton.

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JANET.

I'LL mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in't I'11 ha'e ye brunt, I trow—
            Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!

Your een in ilka starn I see—
The hale night lang I dream o' thee—
The bonnie lintie on the lea,
            I liken to you, Janet!

When leaves are green, an' fresh an' fair—
When blithe an' sunny is the air—
I stroke my beard, and say they're rare;
            But naething like you, Janet!

'Twas but yestreen, as I gaed hame,
The minister said, "What is your name?"
My answer—'deed I may think shame—
            Was, "Sir, my name is Janet!"

Last Sabbath, as I sang the psalm,
I fell into an unco dwaum,
An' naething frae my lips e'er cam'
            But "Janet!  Janet!  Janet!"

I've fought, I've danced, an' drucken too;
But nane o' thae are like to do;
Sae I maun come an' speer at you,
            What ails me, think ye, Janet?

I'll soon be either dead or daft,
Sic drams o' love frae you I've quaff 'd;
Sae, lay aside your woman-craft—
            Ha'e mercy on me, Janet!

An' if ye winna, there's my loof,
I'll gar the Provost lead a proof,
An' pit ye 'neath the Tolbooth roof:
            Syne what will ye do, Janet?

I'll mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in't I'll ha'e ye brunt, I trow—
            Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!

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THE FALSE ONE.

THEY told me thou hadst faithless grown—
    That gowd had wiled thy love frae me;
But my fond heart was constant still,
    An' thought that false ye couldna be;
It thought that truth and constancy
    Within thy bosom dwellers were—
My love nae ill of thee could think:
    And art thou then sae fause an' fair?

My weary feet ha'e wander'd far,
    That I might gaze upon thy brow—
That I might sit wi' thee again
    Where mountain-burnies onward row.
An' hath it come to this?    But now
    Ye pass'd me wi' a heedless air:
An' can it be that I ha'e lo'ed
    A thing sae very fause an' fair?

An' hast thou then forgot the time
    When bairnies, we thegither ran
Upon the wild blae-berrie braes,
    Where summer's breath the birks did fan?—
Hast thou forgot the lilies wan,
    Wi' which I aften deck'd your hair?—
An' how I watch'd your infant sleep?—
    And art thou then sae fause an' fair?

Your plighted vows are broken a'—
    The maiden-vows ye gave to me;
Ye ha'e forgot the hazel glen—
    Ye ha'e forgot the trystin' tree—
Where, under heaven's open e'e,
    Ye listen'd to my young heart's prayer.
How could ye, lass, beguile me sae?
    How could ye prove sae fause an' fair?

I see thee cast thy sun-like smiles
    O'er yon fond heart that doats on thine:
May joy aye dwell wi' him an' thee,
    Though, lassie, thou hast broken mine.
Yet, ere thy love I a' resign—
    The sight o' thee for evermair—
Wi' tearfu' e'e I speer if ane
    Can live sae very fause an' fair?

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SUMMER WOOING.

THE green broom was bloomin'—
    The daisy was seen
Peerin' up to the sky
    Frae the flower-spangled green—
The burnie was loupin'
    By bank an' by brae,
While alang by its margin
    A lassie did gae.
She heard the wee birdies
    Sing high in the clouds,
An' the downy wing'd breezes
    Creep through the green woods;
An' she saw the bright e'enin' sun
    Lighting the whole:
There was joy in the lassie's face—
    Peace in her soul!

She sat in the shade
    Of a sweet-scented briar,
And the sounds of the wild-wood
    Came saft on her ear;
While the flushes o' feelin'
    Swept o'er her sweet face,
As the clouds o'er the moon
    One another do chase.
In the peace of the twilight
    Her soul did repose—
Where green leaves were wavin'
    Her eyelids did close,
She lay in that bower
    In her innocent sleep,
And spirits around her
    Their vigils did keep.

The butterfly breathed.
    On her cheek for a flower,
As a pure maiden blush
    Spoke the dream o' the hour.
While the lassie was sleepin'
    A bauld youth came by—
There was life in his footstep
    An' love in his eye.
He stood by the maiden
    Who lay in her dream,
An' heard her in slumber
    Laigh murmur his name.
An idol she seemed
    Sae heavenly fair,
And he an idolater
    Worshippin' there.
He kiss'd her sweet lips,
    An' her warm cheek he press'd;
An' the lassie awoke
    On her leal lover's breast!

The e'enin' was fa'in'
    On mountain au' fell,
The rush o' the stream
    Through the darkness did swell;
But the maid an' her true love
    Ne'er heeded the hour,
As they sat in their bliss
    In that green briar bower.
He tauld a' his love,
    While her tears fell like rain—
Their joy was sae joyfu'
    It maistly was pain.
They hamewith return'd
    Through the simmer mist gray,
An' twa hearts were happy
    For ever and aye!

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THE PRISONER'S SONG.

WERE I a little simmer bird,
    Awa', on twitterin' wing,
I far wad flee, 'mang wild-woods green,
    An' blithely I would sing;
An' I wad sit by ilka flower,
    An' taste ilk drap o' dew—
A' wad be mine where light hath shone,—
    Green glens and waters blue.

O! I wad flit o'er heather'd hills,
    An' sit by mountain streams—
O! I wad be where nightly yet
    I wander in my dreams—
Pu'ing the bonnie mountain-flowers,
    An' listening to the sang
O' mountain-birds,—the mossy rocks
    An' hoary crags amang.

The birds may sit where'er they list,
    Where'er they list may flee;
They are na barr'd, as I am now,
    Wi’ wa's baith thick and hie.
My heart is dead wi' weariness,—
    Here breezes never blaw;
An' tears, like those within my een,
    Are a' the dews that fa'.

The simmer e'enin's settin' sun
    Into my dungeon throws
Ae single ray,—a holy flower
    That, 'mid the darkness, grows:
A joyfu' tale it tells to me
    O' freedom's happiness;
And, though the joy I cannot taste,
    I love it not the less.

It tells me o' a gowany glen
    Afar, where it hath been—
A deep, wild dell, amang the hills,
    A' spread wi' breckans green:—
O' singin' birds an' simmer suns,
    An' winds, fu' gently swellin';—
O' bonnie burns—fair Freedom's type—
    To me that ray is tellin'.

It whispers what the free enjoy
    On mountain and in glen,—
Things holy, fresh, and beautiful,
    That I maun never ken.—
O! stay a while, thou simmer ray,
    Nor leave me thus alane;—
O! dim, an' dimmer, now it grows;
    An' now—the light is gane!

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WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would be,
If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree,
An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha',
"Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'."

I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,
When to 'gree would make a' body cosie an' right,
When man meets wi man, 'tis the best way ava
To say, "Gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'."

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
And I maun drink water while you may drink wine;
But we baith ha'e a leal heart unspotted to shaw:
Sae gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride;
Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;
Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw;
Then gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Ye would scorn to do falsely by woman or man;
I hand by the right aye, as well as I can;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gie me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo’e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do;
We are ane, hie an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa:
Sae gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair;
Hame!—O, how we love it, an' a' that are there!
Frae the pure air o' heaven the same life we draw—
Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Frail, shakin' Auld Age, will soon come o'er as baith,
An' creepin' alang at his back will be Death;
Syne into the same mither-yard we will fa':
Come, gi'e me your hand—WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

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STEADFASTNESS.

FOLK sillerless may ca' us,—
    We ha'e unco little gear;
Our wealth is gatherin' gey an' slow,—
    'Twill ne'er be great, I fear.
But though our lot be laigh eneuch,
    An' though our life be wae,
We never yet ha'e fail'd a friend,
    An' never fear'd a fae!

Although our parritch-cup be sma',
    To him who needs it yet
We'll spare a sup, an' wi' the lave
    A blessin' we will get.
We've fendit aye in days gane by—
    We'll fend through monie mae—
An' never fail a trustin' friend,
    An' never fear a fae!

Though some folk think that a' thing gude
    In palaces doth dwell—
An' though the poor, to tempt an' vex,
    Ha'e mair than I may tell;
There's ae thing yet—there's twa things yet—
    To brag o' that we ha'e—
We never, never fail'd a friend,
    An' never fear'd a fae!

Folk shou'dna mind the ragged coat,
    Nor yet the horny han',—
'Tis by the heart his breast doth hap
    That they should judge the man.
Ye ken there are in cottages,
    Where poor folk plackless gae,
True hearts that never fail'd a friend,
    An' never fear'd a fae?

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THE HONEST AND TRUE.

YOUR soldier is bloody, your statesman a knave;
Frae the true heart nae honour they ever shall have:
Their glitter an' fauseness may gar our hearts grue;
But honour to him wha is honest and true!

Will we bow to the coof wha has naething but gear?
Or the fool whom a college has fitted wi' lear?
Na, troth! we'll gi'e honour where honour is due—
To the MAN wha has ever been honest and true.

We'll ne'er speer if he come frae France, Holland, or Spain,
Ere we pledge manly friendship wi' him to maintain—
Be he Mussulman, Christian, Pagan, or Jew,
'Tis a' ane to us if he's honest and true!

His skin may be black, or his skin may be white,—
We carena a fig, if his bosom be right:
Though his claes be in rags, an' the wind blawin' through,
We'll honour the man wha is honest and true!

While the sun's in the heavens, the stars in the sky,—
Till the earth be a sea, till the ocean run dry,—
We'll honour but him to whom honour is due,
The MAN wha has ever been honest and true!

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THE WORLD'S FU' O' SKAITH AND TOIL.

THE world's fu' o' skaith and toil—
Its gruesome face doth seldom smile ;
But what care I how sad it be?

Its sadness shall never danton me!

An' men are fause an' women frail—
An' Friendship aft at need doth fail;
But though the warst o't I may see,

Their fauseness shall never danton me!

Life's dearest lights may fade awa',
An' dour misfortunes down may fa';
But I will keep a spirit hie,—

The warst o't shall never danton me!

O! let me ha'e a leal true heart—
Let honour never frae me part;
And, though in want, sae cauld, I dee,

Even that shall never danton me!

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THE SHEPHERDESS.

To yon deep mountain glen my wee lambkins I'll ca'
Where o'er the brown heather the saftest winds blaw;
And there, 'mang the broom bushes, blithely I'll sing,
Till the crags on the hill-taps fu' cheerily ring!

And then when I've herdit till fair eventide,
I'll see a bit doggie come down the hill-side;
And soon 'neath the broom, where nae body can see,
My dearie will share his gray plaidie wi' me!

He'll ca' me his dear, and he'll ca' me his pet—
He'll seek but ae kiss,—and he twa-three will get:
How can I refuse them?—my heart is sae fain
When he dauts me and ca's me his dearest—his ain!

Wi' sour, unco looks, I awhile may him tease,
And tell him that true love and falsehood are faes;
And syne to repay him a kiss I will gi'e,
And a press o' the hand, and a glance o' the e'e!

Rin down the glen, burnie— rin saftly alang—
Adown the glen, burnie, wi' you I'll no gang;
At gloaming I'll meet him, and cannily he
Will guide to the fauld my wee lammies and me.

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BE STILL, BE STILL, THOU BEATING HEART.
 
SONG.

BE still, be still, thou beating heart,—
    O cease, ye tears, that fill my e'e:
In warldly joys I ha'e nae part—
    Nae blithesome morning dawns for me.
I once was glad as summer winds,
    When fondling 'mang the grass sae green;
But pleasure now hath left my breast—
    I am na like what I ha'e been.

I once was loved,—I loved again
    The spreest lad in a' our glen;
I kent na then o' care or pain,
    Or burning brow, or tortured brain.
I braided, then, my flowing hair,
    And had o' love an' peace my fill;
Deep, deep I drank—but a' has gane—
    O, cease thy beating:—Heart be still!

Why should two hearts, together twined,
    Be sever'd by stern Fate's decree?
Why doth the brightest star of mind
    Oft turn its darkest cloud to be?
My Jamie left his native glen,
    My silken purse wi' gowd to fill;
But O, he ne'er came back again—
    O, cease thy beating:—Heart be still!

Why should I longer watch and weep?
    Hame, hame to yonder glen I'll gae;
There in my bridal bed I'll sleep,
    Made i' th' kirkyard, cauld and blae.
I'll soon, soon wi' my Jamie meet,
    Where sorrow has nae power to kill;
Earth's woes are past—and my poor heart
    Will soon have peace—will soon be still.

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TO THE LADY OF MY HEART.

I DREAM'D I had a diamond mine
    Ayont yon billowy sea,
An' a' thing rich, an' a' thing rare,
    Was brought to pleasure me.
Earth's fairest things were at my gate
    An' standing in my ha';
But forth I came in that proud hour
    An' chose thee mang them a'.

I dream'd I was a powerful king,
    Wi' servants at command,—
Ae word wad brought unto my knee
    The brightest in the land;
But ne'er on palaced halls I look'd—
    I hied me to the lea,
An', mair than crowns, a loving heart
    I blithely gave to thee.

I woke, and was, what I am now,
    A man o' laigh degree,—
Nae wealth ha'e I—nae silken pomp—
    Nae gather'd gowd to gi'e:
But I ha'e something yet to boast,
    Ne'er bought wi' warld's gear,—
A heart that never failed a friend,—
    An' what wad ye ha'e mair?

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A CASTLE IN THE AIR.

COME, sit amang the daisies,
    Beside the violets blue,
A dream I have to tell you—
    An' O! if it were true!
For 'tis o' love an' happiness,
    An' ither fireside things:
The scenes o' Scotland's cottage hames
    That dream before me brings.

I thought that baith thegither
    We gaed across the sea,
An' deep into the forest land
    O' yon far countrie;
Syne we chose a pleasant spot,
    Beside a woodland lake,
An' there a lowly forest hame,
    Of tall trees, we did make.

We biggit it beside a stream
    Within a forest glade,
Where the fairest o' the woodland things
    Their dwelling-place had made.
It was a lowly hamestead,
    An' round it to an' fro,
A sun-nurs'd flower its clusters rich
    Fu' gracefully did throw.

We rear'd our modest dwelling—
    We clear'd our forest land—
An' through the bosky glens sae wild
    We wander'd hand in hand.
Like a voice frae hame, the blue bird
    Aye cheer'd us wi' its sang:—
We were as happy in the woods
    As simmer days are lang.

Ay dream o' peace an' happiness
    Was far o'er gude to last:
The light grew dim, syne pass'd away,—
    The sky grew sair o'ercast.
Twas but a vision o' the night,
    An' cam but to deceive;
But, boding o' a gown o' gowd,
    We'll may be get the sleeve?

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THE LASSES.

The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
Rise up, ye loons—ye daurna sit—
Around me join ilk voice to mine—
The lasses yet! the lasses yet!

Though some may geck at womankind,
    An' slight them sair to shaw their wit—
Their loving subjects leal are we:—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

Their kindly and their lovesome ways
    To them ilk manly heart should knit:
The flowers o' earth an joys o' life—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

We dinna like a weary wind
    That ever in ae airt doth sit:
They change, an' changes lightsome are;—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

Wha on the earth ha'e warmest hearts?
    Wha bless our youth an' cheer our age?—
Wha welcome first the stranger fit?
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

They're kindly, frae the grannie auld,
    That crooning in the neuk doth sit,
To laughing gilpies herding kye—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

The lift is sweet in summer rain,
    And when the sun its arch cloth light;
And sweet are they in smiles or tears—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet!

Auld gabbin' grey-beards please at morn;
    And rantin' chields when yill we get;
But, ance and aye, the dearies charm ;—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet!

Camsteerie they at times may be;
    But louring clouds will quickly flit:
The warmest sun comes after shade—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet! &c.

The lasses! frae the jewell'd queen
    To rosy dears, in ha' and hut,—
The lasses! here and everywhere—
    The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
        Chorus—The lasses yet! the lasses yet!
                      Rise up, ye loons—ye daurna sit—
                      Around me join ilk voice to mine—
                      The lasses yet! the lasses yet!

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