But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil ;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

LXXXVII.

TUNE-Laddie, lie near me.

"TWASNA her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kind

ness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me; Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest !
And thou 'rt the angel that never can alter :
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

LXXXVIII.

FAIR ELIZA.

A GAELIC AIR.

TUNE-The bonnie brucket Lassie.

TURN again, thou fair Eliza;

Ae kind blink before we part;

Rew on thy despairing lover!

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart?

Turn again, thou fair Eliza!

If to love thy heart denies,

For pity hide the cruel sentence

Under friendship's kind disguise!

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended?
The offence is loving thee;
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,
Wha for thine wad gladly die?

While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe:
Turn again, thou lovely maiden !
Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o' sunny noon;
Not the little sporting fairy,

All beneath the simmer moon;
Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens in his ee,

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gies to me.

LXXXIX.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine. B.

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

CAULD blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn;
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning, &c.

XC.

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 by its throbbings will soon be at rest.

O if I were where happy I hae been !
Down by yon stream and yon bonny castle green;
For there he is wandering and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's ee,

XCI.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN AULD MAN?

TUNE-What can a Lassie do.

WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!
Bad luck on the penny, &c.

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e’enin,
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang :
He's doylt and he 's dozin, his bluid it is frozen :
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers;
I never can please him do a' that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows:
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity;

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;

I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break

him,

And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

XCII.

THE LEA RIG.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, iny jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

K