THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING.

THE heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen;
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen.

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ;
I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather-bells,
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ;
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And O! as she wanton'd gay on the wing.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill:

He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae-
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.

WAE IS MY HEART.

WAE is my heart, and the tear's in my ee;
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved;
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest.

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O if I were where happy I hae been;

Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green: IO For there he is wand'ring and musing on me,

Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee.

O THAT I HAD NE'ER BEEN MARRIED.

O THAT I had ne'er been married,
I wad never had nae care;
Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
An' they cry crowdie ever mair.
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,
Three times crowdie in a day;
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Waefu want and hunger fley me,
Glowrin' by the hallen en';
Sair I fecht them at the door,

But aye I'm eerie they come ben.

THERE'S NEWS, LASSES.

THERE'S news, lasses, news,
Gude news I've to tell!
There's a boat fu' o' lads
Come to our town to sell.
The wean wants a cradle,

An' the cradle wants a cod,
An' I'll no gang to my bed
Until I get a nod.

I hae as gude a craft rig
As made o' yird and stane;
And waly fa' the ley-crap

For I maun till'd again.

SCROGGAM.

THERE WAS a wife wonn'd in Cockpen,
Scroggam;

She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen,
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever,
Scroggam;

The priest o' the parish fell in anither,
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

They laid the twa i' the bed thegither,

Scroggam ;

That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither,
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.

FRAE the friends and land I love,
Driven by Fortune's felly spite,

Frae my best belov'd I rove,

Never mair to taste delight;

Never mair maun hope to find

Ease frae toil, relief frae care:
When remembrance wrecks the mind,
Pleasures but unveil despair.

S

JO

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,
Desert ilka blooming shore,

Till the Fates, nae mair severe,
Friendship, love, and peace restore;
Till revenge, wi' laurell'd head,

Bring our banish'd hame again;
And ilka loyal, bonnie lad

Cross the seas and win his ain.

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.

ELECTION BALLAD, 1789.

THE laddies by the banks o' Nith

Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie,
But he'll ser' them as he ser'd the king—
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie.

Up and waur them a', Jamie,

Up and waur them a';

The Johnstons hae the guidin' o't,—
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa!

The day he stude his country's friend,
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin' wan,

That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country's boast?
Like him there is na twa, Jamie;
There's no a callant tents the kye,
But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

To end the wark, here's Whistlebirt,-
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie!
And Maxwell true o' sterling blue;
And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie.

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THE BONNIE LASS OF ALBANY.

My heart is wae, and unco wae,

To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
And the bonnie Lass of Albany.

This lovely maid's of royal blood
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonnie face,

They hae wrang'd the Lass of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.

But there's a youth, a witless youth,

That fills the place where she should be; We'll send him o'er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany.

Alas the day, and woe the day!

A false usurper wan the gree,

Who now commands the towers and lands-
The royal right of Albany.

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,

The time may come, with pipe and drum
We'll welcome hame fair Albany.

IO

20

WHEN FIRST I SAW.

WHEN first I saw fair Jeanie's face,
I couldna tell what ailed me,
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat,
My een they almost failed me.