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She's stately like yon youthful ash, | Oh, were yon hills and vallies mine,
That grows the cowslip braes between, Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! And shoots its head above each bush;
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, O.
With flow'rs so white, and leaves so green, And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, And she's twa glancin' sparklin een.
My faithful highland lassie, O. Her hair is like the curling mist
For her I'll dare the billows' roar, That shades the mountain-side at e'en,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band ! And gild the distant mountain's brow;
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
I'm thine, ny highland lassie, O. Her voice is like the evening thrush
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! That sings in Cessnock banks unseen,
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
To other lands I now must yo, And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
To sing my highland lassie, O.
That sunny walls from Boreas screen
Powers celestial! whose protection That slowly mount the rising steep ;
Ever guards the virtuous fair, And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care : Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
Let her form sae fair and faultless, That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
Fair and faultless as your own, When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas;
Let my Mary's kindred spirit And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soothe her bosom into rest:
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
From ther, Elija.
TUNE-Gilderoy, or Donald.
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore,
A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans roaring wide,
The Farrwell. Between my love and me,
TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, They never, never can divide
TARBOLTON. My heart and soul from thee,
TUNE-Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'l Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
ADIEU ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! The maid that I adore !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie! A boding voice is in mine ear,
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, We part to meet no more!
Companions of my social joy; The latest throb that leaves my heart, Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, While death stands victor by,
Pursuing Fortune's slipp’ry ba', That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
With melting heart and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, thu' far awa'.
And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light;
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! AGAIN rejoicing nature sees
Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Those happy scenes when far awa.' Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
May freedom, harmony, and love
And bear the scorn that's in her ee? The glorious Architect divine !
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray’r when far awa'.
And you, farewell! whose merits claim, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
Justly, that highest badge to wear !
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
To masonry and Scotia dear; Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; A last request permit me here, But life to me's a weary dream,
When yearly ye assemble a', A dream of ane that never wauks.
One round-I ask it with a tear
To him, the Bard that's far awa'. The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims,
Ghe Brars o' Ballochuyle. (316) And everything is blest but I.
TUNE--The Braes o' Ballochmyle. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, I meet him on the dewy hill.
But nature sicken'd on the ee.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; And raging bend the naked tree :
Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers, Thy gloom Will soothe my cheerless soul, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. When nature all is sad like me!
But, here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle !
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY,
The Lass o* Ballorhmyle. (317) Tune-Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff. Twas even the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearlies hang, The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
All nature list ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced 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 air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle! Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving thro' the garden gay
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild: But woman, nature's darling child !
There all her charms she does compile;
The autumn mourns her rip’ning corn, By early winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound: These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr!
By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Oh, 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, Throweary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
The Banks a' Daun. (319)
TUNE--Caledonian Hunt's Delight. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu'o' care ? Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wanton'st thro' the flowering thoru : Thou minds'st me o' departed joys,
Departed-never to return! Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird saug o'its luve,
And fondly sae did I o'mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fuse luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
The Birks of Aberfeldy. (320)
To the birks of Aberfeldy ? Now simmer blinks on flowry braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
The little birdies blythely sing,
| Untie these hands from off my hands, While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
And bring to me my sword : Or lightly flit on wanton wing
And there's no man in all Scotland, In the birks of Aberfeldy.
But I'll brave him at a word.
I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; The foamy stream deep-roariny fa's,
I die by treacherie: O'erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws,
It burns my heart I must depart, The birks of Aberfeldy.
And not avenged be. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers
And all beneath the sky ! The birks of Aberfeldy.
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
How Long and Drrary is the flight.
How long and dreary is the night I'm mure Yonng to Marry Vet. When I am frae my dearie! TUNE-- I'm owre young to marry yet.
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. I AM my mammy's ae bairn,
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Wi' unco fvik I weary, Sir;
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. And if I gang to your house,
When I think on the happy days I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir.
I spent wi' you, my dearie,
And now what lands between us lie,
How can I be but eerie !
And now wliat lands between us lic, To take me trae my mammy yet.
How can I be but eerie ! Hallowmas is come and gane,
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
As ye were wae and weary ! And you and I in wedlock's bands,
It was na sae ve glinted by.
When I was wi? my dearie.
When I was wi' my dearie.
Blaws through the leatless timmer, Sir ; 1
Erre's a Bralth to thru that's awa.
TUNE-Here's a health to them that's awa.
HERE's a health to them that's awa,
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
It's guid to be honest and true, Macpherson's time will not be long
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o'the clan,
Altho' that his band be sma'. Oh, what is death but parting breath May liberty meet wi' success! On many a bloody plain
May prudence protect her frae evil! I've dar'd his face, and in this place
| May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, I scoru him yet agaiu;
1 Aud wander their way to the devil!
Here's a health to them that's awa,
| Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, Here's a health to them that's awa; [laddie, ! With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland dawn;
(seizes That lives at the lug o' the law;
And far bo thou distant, thou reptile that Here's freedom to him that wad read!
The verdure and pride of the garden and Here's freedom to him that wad write !
lawn! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should | Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, be heard,
And England, triuniphant, display her But they whan the truth wad indite.
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, Here's a health to them that's awa,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering Here's a health to them that's awa;
flows. Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth
gow'd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! Here's friends on both sides of the Forth,
Brawing Angry Wintrr's Storms. (324) And friends on both sides of the Tweed; TUNE-Neil Gow's Lamentation for And wha wad betray old Albion's rights,
Abercairny. May they never eat of her bread.
WHERE, braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,
First blest my wondering eyes ;
As one, who by some savage stream, Howling tempests, o'er me rave !
A lonely gem surveys, Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, Still surround my lonely cave!
With art's most polish'd blaze. Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Blest be the wild sequester'd shade, . Busy haunts of base mankind,
And blest the day and hour, Western breezes softly blowing,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, Suit not my distracted mind.
When first I felt their pow'r! In the cause of right engaged,
The tyrant death, with grim control, Wrongs injurious to redress,
May seize my fleeting breath; Honour's war we strongly wayed,
But tearing Peggy from my soul But the heavens denied success.
Must be a stronger death. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend : The wide world is all before us
2n Prggy's Fare. But a world without a friend.
TUNE--My Peggy's Face. | My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
[blooming fair ! | Her native grace so void of art, With green spreading bushes, and flowers | But I adore my Peggy's heart. But the bonniest flower on the banks of the The lily's hue, the rose's dye, Devon
[Ayr. The kindling lustre of an eye: Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Who but owns their magic sway! Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. | Who but knows they all decay ! In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the The tender thrill, the pitying tear, dew;
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, The gentle look, that rage disarms That steals on the evening each leaf to These are all immortal charms.