She's bow-hough'd, she's beam shinn'd, Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her. XCVII. TO MARY. TUNE-Ewe bughts, Marion. WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, O sweet grows the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, O plight me your faith, my Mary, We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the cause that shall part us! XCVIII. HIGHLAND MARY. TUNE-Katharine Ogie. YE banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, As underneath their fragrant shade, The golden hours, on angel wings, Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, But still within my bosom's core XCIX. THE BANKS O' DOON. TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye chant, ye little birds, Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, . Departed, never to return. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And fondly sae did I o' mine. C. BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. YE gallants bright, I red you right, Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimpy laced her genty waist, Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, In a' their charms, and conquering arms, The captive bands may chain the hands, Beware o' bonnie Ann. CI. YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed: Where the grouse, &c. Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love. She is not the fairest, although she is fair; |