But Woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonie 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 on Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry 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 has joys divine,

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

SONG OF DEATH.

A GAELIC AIR.

Scene.-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye

skies,

Now gay with the bright setting sun!

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, Our race of existence is run !

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave !

Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou for the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name :

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our
hands,

Our King and our Country to save

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O.

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, my 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.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie O,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo ;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o'gude fellows and wale of auld men ;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ; O how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express !

NAEBODY.

I HAE a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie cuckold to naebody.

I hae a penny to spend,
There-thanks to naebody;
I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody's lord,

I'll be slave to naebody;
I hae a guid braid sword,
I'll tak dunts fra naebody.

I'll be merry and free,

I'll be sad for naebody;
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,

For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack, we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blithe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.