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TUNE— Bide ye yet.'
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor ; How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun; Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh’d, and said amang them a',
'Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown ! A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
MY NANIE, 0.
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, C The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I'll awa to Nanie, 0.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill :
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O! But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O. My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young ;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonie, O: The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O. A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, 0; But what care I how few they be?
I'm welcome ay to Nanie, 0. My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, 0: But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, 0. Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, 0; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O. Come weal, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, 0; Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, 0.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
Green grow the rashes, 0;
Are spent among the lasse's, 01
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, 0;
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
An riches still may fly them, O;
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
My arms about my dearie, 0;
May a' gae tapsalteerie, e!
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, 0;
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Her noblest work she classes, 0;
An' then she made the lasses, 0.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE
AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han’s,
+ wrestled ' A neibor herd-callan about three-fourths as wise as other folk.
He gaped wide, but naething spak.
O thou, whase lamentable face
"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
"Tell him, he was a Master kin',
‘O, bid him save their harmless lives,
'An' may they never learn the gaets
‘My poor toop '1-lamb, my son an' heir,
4 handful.. ways. 6 restless.
in fences. s take by force. o forefathers.
good manne s.
An' warn him, what I winna name;
Anniest my yowie?, silly thing,
‘And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
FROM 'AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD
I am nae Poet, in a sense,
Yet, what the matter?
I jingle at her.
To mak a sang ?'
Ye're maybe wrang.