I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue:
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily white;
It was her een sae bonie blue.
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,
She charin'd my soul I wist na how;
And ay the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie blue.
WILT thou be my dearie?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul,
And that's the love I bear thee!
I swear and vow, that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.
Lassie, say thou lo'es me;
Or, if thou wilt na be my ain,
Say na thou'lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose me;
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou loes me.
O, WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
The e'enin sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree,
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.
The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr:
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
O, sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinking sun's gaen down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,
His setting beams ne'er shone upon.
If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit all else below,
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear.
For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she-as fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.
BLITHE, blithe and merry was she, Blithe by the banks of Ern,
And blithe was she but and ben:
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Blithe, &c.
Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blithe, &c.
Her bonie face it was as meek
As onie lamb upon a lee;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'c.
Blithe, &c.
The Highland Hill's I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blithe, &c.
BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors and mosses many, O,
The wint'ry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O,
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, 0: But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome ay to Naunie, O.
My riches a' 's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er trouble me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
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