XL. Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green The birdies flit on wanton wing. The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, Ah, fortune canna gie me mair! XLI. MY NANNIE'S AWA. TUNE-There'll never be Peace. Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie-my Nannie's awa. Thou lavrock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity—my Nannie 's awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me-now Nannie 's awa. XLII. DAINTY DAVIE. Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, The crystal waters round us fá', Meet me, &c. F When purple morning starts the hare, Then thro' the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. Meet me, &c. When day, expiring in the west, I flee to his arms I lo'e best, XLIII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. TUNE-The hopeless Lover. Now spring has clad the groves in green, The trout within yon wimpling burn My life was once that careless stream, Has scorch'd my fountain dry. The little floweret's peaceful lot, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And now beneath the withering blast The waken'd lavrock warbling springs, O' witching love, in luckless hour, O had my fate been Greenland snows, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whose doom is, "hope nae mair," XLIV. COMPOSED IN AUGUST. TUNE-I had a horse, I had nae mair. Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night The partridge loves the fruitful fells; Thus every kind their pleasure find, Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander : The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry, But Peggy dear, the evening's clear, We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: |