CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY

KATY?

Tune, Roy's wife.'

CHORUS.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

Is this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward-
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?
Canst thou, &c.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear-
But not a love like mine, my Katy.

Canst thou, &c.

MY NANIE'S AWA.

Tune, There'll never be peace,' &c.

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless-my anie's awa.

The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nanie-and Nanie's awa.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,

The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa’, Give over for pity-my Nanie's awa.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And sooth me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw Alane can delight me—now Nanie's awa.

FOR A THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it shall for a' that;

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, and a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;

When man and man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be, and a' that.

SONG.

Tune, 'Humours of Glen.'

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, [fume,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perFar dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un

seen:

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud
[slave!
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and

palace,

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains of his Jean.