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An O gin love but leads the way,
What cares can e'er befa'?
When love's no far awa.
Let's catch the fleetin' hour,
In token o’ her pow'r.
Begins to fling his snaw,
If love's no far awa.
THE MAID OF ISLAY.
RISING o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell, While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude ! I love to dwell. Lonely to the sea breeze blowing,
Oft I chaunt my love-lorn strain, To the streamlet sweetly flowing
Murmur oft a lover's pain.
PRAZER of Edi
* Although these two highly beautiful songs, by a Mr. James
gh, were received at an arly period of this work, by some unaccountable accident they have hitherto slipt aside. We would have been extremely sorry to have been deficient in our duty to the public and the author, in not giving them a place, as we judge them inferior to few pieces in this or any other collection. They contain the most flattering proofs of a highly endowed poetical genius, which we would be happy to See assiduously cultivated, and encouraged.
'Twas for her, the maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Lightning's flash, or thunder's roll,
While her image fill'd my soul.
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Bliss that never can return.
Cheerless o'er the wave worn shore,
Hope's fair visions charm no more,
SWEET MAID, ON THY CHEEK. Sweet maid, on thy cheek there's a red rosy blush,
From thine eye beams the peace of the dove, I own'd their keen pow'r ’neath yon sweet birken bush,
When I sigh'd out the ag'nies of love. O enter this sweet sylvan shade,
Where no cares shall intrude on our bliss, . Where blushing, yet yielding, dear maid,
Let me seal each fond vow with a kiss.
And add to our joys new delight;
A sweet prelude to the joys of the night.
While I lean on thy fond beating heart; For sweetest, and dearest's the joy
That the conjugal life can impart.
Sweet is the ship, that, under sail,
Sweet, O sweet's the flowing cann;
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man.
Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To show of constancy the worth,
A curious lesson teaches man;
Let seamanship do all it can:
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
And ev'ry creature from me ran:
None hail'd me, woman, child, or man:
I had all the world in lovely Nan.
To mourn their loss who hazard ran:
By manners love to show the man;
To sail thro' life by honour's breeze:
First made me doat on lovely Nan.
WILD HOWLS THE WIND.
TUNE" Banks of the Devon."
Fierce beat the dark billows on Coila's smooth shore; While friendless I wander amid the commotion,
And muse on the spot I may never tread more. Ah no, my sad breast, never more must thou wander
Those scenes, to thy mem’ry tho' ever so dear, Never more wi' thy lassie, by Clyde's smooth meanier,
o'er thy fate shall drop pity's soft tear. More dread, and more ruthless the surge o'misfortune,
Beat 'gainst this sad breast in my youth's early dawn; The keen blasts o' sorrow the tender stem tore soon,
An' crush'd low in dust ere the floweret was blawn. This woe-laden bosom is now weakly beating,
And trembling those limbs as I slow pace the shore; At each quiv'ring throb I feel life quick retreating,
And Fate, hov’ring nigh, says the struggle is o'er. Hark, the wind stills, and lo where the high foaming
billow, Late scatter'd his locks ’mong the robes o' the sky, Serene play the sun rays o' bright beaming yellow,
And nature sweet smileth as order draws nigh. Ev'n so, thou lov'd maiden, when life's storms are over,
A calm such as this we'll enjoy on yon shore, But more sweet, and a happier clime we'll discover,
Where Fate, all relentless, can part us no more.
* Written by a young Gentleman while standing by the sea whore at Saltcoats.
HALLOW FAIR. TUNE—“ Fy let us a' to the bridal." THERE's fouth o’ braw Jockies and Jennies
Comes weel buskit into the fair, Wi' ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour in their hair. O Maggie she was sae weel busked,
That Willie was tied to his bride; The poney was ne'er better whisked
Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.
But Maggie was wond'rous jealous,
To see Willie busked sae braw; And Sawney he sat in the ale-house,
And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie that weel lo’ed his lassie,
He took the pint stoup in his arms, And huggd it, and said, Troth they're saucy
That lo’es na a gude father's bairn. There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,
Was mounted upon a grey cowte, Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie,
To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, Wi' hair pouther'd, hat, and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee. But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,
And aff scour'd the cowte like the win'; Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,
And birs'd a' the banes in his skin.
And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt:
Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was ye hurt?