SONG LIX.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF

HER SON.

AIR-FINLAYSTON HOUSE.

I.
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,

And pierc'd my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,

In dust dishonour'd laid :
So fell the pride of all my hopes,

My age's future shade.

II.
The mother-linnet in the brake

Bewails her ravish'd young ;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,

Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,

Now, fond I bare my breast,
O, do thou kindly lay me low

With him I love, at rest

SONG LX.

TE OF

O MAY, THY MORN WAS NE'ER SAE SWEET.

AIR.-0 MAY, THY MORN.

I.
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,

As the mirk night o' December ;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,

And private was the chamber :
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will ay remember.

And dear, &c.

II.
And here's to them, that, like oursel,

Can push about the jorum;
And here's to them that wish us weel,

May a' that 's guid watch o'er them!
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

And here's to, 8c.

SONG LXI.

0 WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.

AIR.-WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN ?

I.
O wat ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,

That e'ening sun is shining on.

II.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,

She wanders by yon spreading tree: How blest ye flowers that round her blaw,

Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

III. How blest

ye

birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear,

IV.
The sun blinks blythe on yon town,

And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

V.
Without my love, not a the charms

O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

VI.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,

Tho' raging winter rent the air ;
And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

VII.
O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

VIII.
If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

IX.
For while life's dearest blood is warm,

Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And sheas fairest is her form!

She has the truest, kindest heart. *