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(ALEXANDER GEDDE. Bom 1737; died 1803.)

Oh! send Lewie Gordon hame
And the lad I daurna' name ;
Although his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa'.

Hech hey! my Highlandman !
My handsome, charming Highlandman!
Weel could I my true love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.

Oh, to see his tartan trews,
Bonnet blue and laigh-heeld shoes,
Philabeg aboon his knee !
That's the lad that I'll gang wi.
This lovely lad of whom I sing,
Is fitted for to be a king ;
And on his breast he wears a star,
You'd take him for the god of war.

Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on his father's throne !
Our griefs would then a' disappear,
We'd celebrate the jub'lee year.


(Jean Adams. Died 1765.]
And are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to think of wark?

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel
Is this a time to think o' wark.

When Colin's at the door?
Gie me ray cloak! I'll to the quay

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava ;
There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa.
Rise up and mak' a .clean fireside ;

Put on the muckle pot ;
Gi’e little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat :
And mak’ their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw ;
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.
There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,

Been fed this month and mair ;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare ;
And mak’ the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw ;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.
o giỏe me down my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin 's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearl blue;
Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.
Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,

His breath's like caller air ! His very foot has music in 't,

As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy with the thought

In troth, I'm like to greet.

I linen cap.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe,

Till death we 'll never part :
But what puts parting in my head?

It may be far awa';
The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin 's weel, I'm weel content,

I ha'e nae more to crave ;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I 'm blest above the lave':
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth, I'm like to greet.

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I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,

And naebody to see me.
Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye 'se lie and sleep,

And ye shall be my dearie.
If ye 'll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad ;
And ye may row me in your plaid,

And I shall be your dearie.
While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,

Ye aye shall be my dearie.


(JANE Elliot. Born 1727; died 1805.)

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning';
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts? in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;
The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae ;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin", and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters 5 are lyart, and runkled and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ?-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ' A loaning is a grass path through corn-fields for the use of the cattle. · sheep-pens. 3 teasing.

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At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremosthen
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear na more lilting at our ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.


John MAYNE. Born 1759; died 1836.]

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft, wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi’ my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart ! thae days are gane
And fu' o' grief herd alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair, at Logan kirk, will he,
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me-
Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane-
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his facs,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes !
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dander dowie and forlane,
Or sit beneath the trysting-tree,
Where first he spak of love to ma

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