The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. near, The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is [clear: And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae The violets for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. a' above, I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o'luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by [remuve, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE BANKS O' DOON. TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed-never to return. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. WILLIE Wastle dwalt on Tweed, Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; I wadna gie a button for her. The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; Her nose and chin they threaten ither; She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, VOL. II. L 117 Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; GLOOMY DECEMBER. ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, BEHOLD THE HOUR. TUNE-Oran-gaoil. BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive; But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail: 'E'en here I took the last farewell; There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.' Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, Where now my Nancy's path may While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O, tell me, does she muse on me? be! SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart, A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, |