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:
Give me the hour o' gloamin' gray,
It maks my heart sae cheerie, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
"TWAS ev'n—the dewy fields were green,
On ev'ry blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
All nature list'ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like Nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd, passing by, “Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!”
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild:
But Woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compiles
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 in 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 honors lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep
Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot be.ow the pine,
To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine,
Wi' the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.
O saw ye bonie Lesley,
As she gaed o'er the border?
She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonie face,
And say, "I canna wrang thee.”
The Pow'rs aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves, sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonie.
THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.
And ay she wrought her mammie's wark,
And ay she sang sae merrilie;
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
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,
The flow'r and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton nagies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As, in the bosom o' the stream,
The moonbeam 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 ay she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
An e'enin', on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove:
His cheek to hers he fondly prest
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
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 shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me
Now what could artless Jenny do?
She had na will to say him na
At length she blush d a sweet consent,
And love was ay between them twa
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