I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek-
For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.
She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery ee—
Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee;
While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,
My heart shall haud nae other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.
There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.
O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,
But there's ae light puts them all out,—
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.
Tak' tent now, Jean,—ye mind yestreen
The tap that raised ye
Your wily ee, that glanced on me,
Ha! lass, the meaning I kent weel.
But I hae tint thy kindly glint,
And lightly now ye geck at me;
But, lass, tak' heed, ye'll rue the deed,
When aiblins we'll be waur to 'gree.
Tak' tent now, Jean,-the careless mien,
And cauldrife look, are ill to dree;
It's sair to bide the scornfu' pride
And saucy leer o' woman's ee.
Ah! where is now the bosom-vow,
The gushing tear of melting love,
The heav'nly thought, which fancy wrought,
Of joy below, and bliss above?
Tak' tent now, Jean,-thae twa sweet een
Fu' light and blithely blink I trow;
The hinney drop on the red-rose top
Is nae sae sweet as thy wee mou':
But though thy fair and faithless air
Hath wrung the bosom-sigh frae me;
A changing mind, and heart unkind,
May chill a breast as dear to thee.
The tree that built my bonnie bark
Grew in a haunted glen,
In the west nook of an old kirk-yard,
Among the bones of men-
Among the bones of men, my lads,
And the axe that laid it low
Was temper'd in a dead man's blood,
And I dread no winds that blow.
Look on yon cloud, an old man said,
No larger than my hand;
And hearken to that sweeping blast,
That shakes the sea and land-
That shakes the sea and land, my lads,
And makes the waters foam;
A wise man when he looks on these
Would wish himself at home.
When I was late on Lapland's shore
I bought a gentle gale,
around me on the sea,
And murmur'd in my sail;
That murmur'd in my milk-white sail,
With a friendly voice, and low:
A man who sails a charmed ship
Need fear no blasts that blow.
The hand which holds the winds at will
Will guide us while we roam :
When stormy heaven is burning bright,
And the wild sea in a foam-
And the wild sea in a foam, my lads,
While, sobbing sad and low,
The mother wails her sailor-boy
As she hears the tempest blow.
The dark gray o' gloaming,
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the ringdove,
The scent o' the haw,
The brae o' the burnie,
A' blooming in flower,
An' twa faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' sweet smiling babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time row around ay
The ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,
Whom av'rice can move,
To woo, an' to marry,
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasures
O' ae happy hour.
The bittern's quavering trump on high,
The beetle's drowsy distant hum,
Have sung the daylight's lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The golden primrose from the wood,
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel's buds, I've strewed
Deep in my maiden's woodland bower.
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