Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys through the heather to
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Where the grouse, &c.
Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me ha'e the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd, clear stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang the wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath:
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us, unheeded, fly the swift hours o' love.
She is not the fairest, although she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share:
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement ha'e polished her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
HOW CAN I BE BLITHE AND GLAD.
TUNE-"Over the hills an' far awa'."
O How can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa'?
It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa'.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they ha'e disown'd me a',
But I ha'e ane will tak' my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa',
A pair o' gloves he gave to me,
And silken snoods he gave me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far away.
The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will eleed the birken-shaw;
And my sweet babie will be born,
And he'll come hame that's far awa.'
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?
TUNE-"Lass, an I come near thee."
WHA is that at my bower door?
O wha is it but Findlay?
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here
Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay
What mak' ye sae like a thief?
O come and see, quo' Findlay;
Before the morn ye'll work mischief-
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Gif I rise and let you in
Let me in, quo' Findlay;
Ye'll keep me waukin' wi' your din--
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
In my bower, if ye should stay—-
Let me stay, quo' Findlay;
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day-
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Here this night if ye remain-
I'll remain, quo' Findlay:
I dread ye'll learn the gate again-
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
What may pass within this bower-
Let it pass, quo' Findlay;
Ye maun conceal till your last hour-
Indeed will I, qno' Findlay.
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.
TUNE-"Jacobite Air."
Br yon castle wa', at the close o' the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came----
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yird :
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that sair bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. I DO Confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thon art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu'd and worn a common toy!
Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Though thou may gaily bloom a while;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.
[Alttered from the old song of Eppie Macnab, which had more wì than decency.]
O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab?
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab?
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird,
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab.
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M 'Nab!
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab!
Whateer thou hast done, be it late, be it soon,
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab?
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab.
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab.
I HA'E a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll tak' cuckold frae nane,
I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody.
I hae' a penny to spend,
There-thanks to naebody;
I ha'e naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody's lord,
I'll be slave to naebody;
I ha'e 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.
TUNE-"My lodging is on the cold ground."
My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair:
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair.
The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings:
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In loraly lighted na':
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw.
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milk-white thorn?
The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen,
In shepherd's phrase will woo;
The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true?
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
That spotless breast o' thine :
The courtiers' gems may witness love--
But 'tis na love like mine.
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