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She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And shoots its head above each bush;

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn,
With flow'rs so white, and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn ;

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her looks are like the sportive lamb

When flow'ry May adorns the scene, That wantons round its bleating dam; And she's twa glancin' sparklin een. Her hair is like the curling mist

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past;

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When shining sunbeams intervene, And gild the distant mountain's brow; And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her voice is like the evening thrush

That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. Her lips are like the cherries ripe

That sunny walls from Boreas screenThey tempt the taste and charm the sight; And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas;
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,

Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
And chiefly in her sparklin' een.

The Bighland Lassie. (315)
TUNE-The Deuks dang o'er my Daddy!
NAE gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care:
Their titles a' are empty show:
Gie me my highland lassie, O.

Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,
I set me down wi' right good will,
To sing my highland lassie, O.

Oh, were yon hills and vallies mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, O.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll love my highland lassie, O.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful highland lassie, O.
For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my highland lassie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band!
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my highland lassie, C.

Bowers Celestial.

TUNE-Blue Bonnets.

POWERS celestial! whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care :
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own,
Let my Mary's kindred spirit

Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast,
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Soothe her bosom into rest :
Guardian angel! oh protect her,

When in distant lands I roam; To realms unknown while fate exiles me, Make her bosom still my home.

From thee, Eliza.

TUNE-Gilderoy, or Donald.

FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore,
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar ·

But boundless oceans roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee,

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!

The latest throb that leaves my heart,
While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!

Alenie.

TUNE-Johnny's grey Breeks.

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?
For it's jet, jet black, and like a hawk,
And winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blest but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide,

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree :
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

The Farewell.

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,

TARBOLTON.

TUNE-Good-night, and joy be wi you al ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu! Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy; Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba',
With melting heart and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa’.
Oft have I met your social band,

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!
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa.'
May freedom, harmony, and love
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above,
The glorious Architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
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,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear;
A last request permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a',
One round-I ask it with a tear-
To him, the Bard that's far awa’.

Ghe Braes a Ballochmyle. (316)
TUNE-The Braes o' Ballochmyle.
THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the ee.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
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 Lass n' Ballarhmale. (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; Ev'n there her other works are foil'd

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, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,

With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle! Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

The Gloomy Might is Gathering Fast.

(318)

TUNE-Roslin Castle.

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

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!

The Banks o' Doan. (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 thorn : 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 sang 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.

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The little birdies blythely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the lions the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers

The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let fortune's gifts at random fice,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
În the birks of Aberfeldy,

I'm aure Poung to Marry Vet. TUNE-I'm owre young to marry yet.

I AM my mammy's ae bairn,

Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; And if I gang to your house,

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir.

I'm owre young to marry yet •

I'm owre young to marry yet;
I'm owre young-'twad be a sin

To take me frae my mammy yet.

Hallowmas is come and gane,

The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
And you and I in wedlock's bands,
In troth, I dare not venture, Sir.
I'm owre young, &c.

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind

Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir; But if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. I'm owre young, &c.

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Sae dauntingly gaed he;

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Bere's a Bealth to them that's awa.

TUNE-Here's a health to them that's awa.

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,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,

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;

He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,

Below the gallows-tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?—

On many a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place

I scoru him yet again;

Altho' that his band be sma’.

May liberty meet wi' success!

May prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

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Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; [seizes And far be thou distant, thou reptile that The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose:

A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

Braving Angry Winter's Storms. (324) TUNE-Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny.

WHERE, braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,

Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes;

As one, who by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polish'd blaze.

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,
When first I felt their pow'r!

The tyrant death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

The Banks of the Drunn. (323)

TUNE-Bhannerach dhon na chri. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, [blooming fair! With green spreading bushes, and flowers But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

[Ayr. Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to

renew.

My Peggy's Fare.

TUNE-My Peggy's Face.

MY Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair, Her native grace so void of art, | But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye: Who but owns their magic sway! Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarmsThese are all immortal charms.

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