To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, WANDERING WILLIE. HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me! Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. LOGAN BRAES. TUNE- LOGAN WATER.' O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide But now thy flow'ry banks appear Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; And evening's tears are tears of joy: Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, O wae upon you, men o' state, How can your flinty hearts enjoy THERE WAS A LASS. TUNE-BONIE JEAN.' THERE was a lass, and she was fair, And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, The blithest bird upon the bush But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the brawest lad, He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As in the bosom o' the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; So trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonie Jean. And now she works her mammie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again. But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; His cheek to her's he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love: O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me? At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, Now what could artless Jeanie do? PHILLIS THE FAIR. TUNE-ROBIN ADAIR.' WHILE larks with little wing Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair. In each bird's careless song While yon wild flowers among, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair. Down in a shady walk, |