The hawthorn I will pu', wi' it's locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near,
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear;
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
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 a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er re-
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
COUNTRY LASSIE.
TUNE "John, come kiss me now."
IN simmer when the hay was mawn,
And corn waved green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield;
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
Says, I'll be wed come o't what will.
Out spak' a dame in wrinkled eild,
"O'guid advisement comes nae ill.”
"It's ye ha'e woers mony a ane,
And lassie, ye're but young, ye
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale
A routhie but, a routhie ben:
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen,
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre;
Tak' this fra me, my bonnie hen,
It's plenty beets the luver's fire."
For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen
I dinna care a single flie;
He lo'es sae well his craps and kie,
He has nae love to spare for me:
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e,
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear;
Ae blink o' him I wadna gi'e
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.
O thoughtless lassie! life's a faught; The canniest gate the strife is sair; But aye fu'-han't is fechtin best,
An hungry care's an unco care; But some will spend and some will spare, An' wilfu' fauk maun ha'e their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."
O, gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender heart o' leesome luve
The gowd and siller canna buy:
We may be poor, Robie and I,
Light is the burden luve lays on; Content and luve bring peace and joy, What mair ha'e queens upon a throne?
THE BANKS O' DOON.
FIRST VERSION.
TUNE-" Catherine Ogie."
YE flowering banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!
Thoul'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird.
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause luve was true.
Thoul't break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.
Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause luver staw the rose,.
But left the thorn wi' me.
TUNE-"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!
Thoul't break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft ha'e ha'e I roved 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.
But my false luver stole my rose,
And ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,-
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trila,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?
JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS.
JOCKEY'S ta'en the parting kiss,
Owre the mountains he is gane,
And with him is a' my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remain.
Spare my love, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beatin' rain!
Spare my love, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting owre the frozen plain !
When the shades of evening creep
Owre the day's fair, gladsome e'e,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blithe his waukening be'!
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still at hame.
FAIR ELIZA.
TUNE-"The bonnie bruoket 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, ha'e 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 e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gi'es to me..
FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.
FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd' with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodland's the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems the clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton,, disturb not her dream.
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