SONGS. THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. TUNE- Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff, or Ettrick Banks.' 'TWAS even-the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang; The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In every glen the Mavis sang, All nature listening seem'd the while : Except where green-wood 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 hair like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle! Fair is the morn in flowery May, But Woman, Nature's darling child! O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on 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 honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day has joys divine, With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. SONG OF DEATH. A GAELIC AIR. SCENE.-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song. FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun! Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant! but know, Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me; NAEBODY. I HAE a wife o' my ain, I hae a penny to spend, I am naebody's lord, I'll be slave to nacbody; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody; If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME SHE is a winsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, She is a winsome wee thing, The warld's wrack, we share o't, DUNCAN GRAY. DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, On blithe yule night when we were fou, Maggie coost her head fu' high, Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide, Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, This warld's wealth when I think on, Her een sae bonie blue betray O wha can prudence think upon, How blest the humble cotter's fate! O why should fate sic pleasure have, GALLA WATER. THERE'S braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonie lad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace or plea sure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, LORD GREGORY. O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! WITH ALTERATIONS. OH, open the door, some pity to shew, Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, |