MARY MORISON. 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 stoure1, 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; O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, A thought ungentle canna be MY NANIE, O. 3ehind yon hills where Lugar flows 'Mang moors an' mosses many, C The wintry sun the day has closed, And I'll awa to Nanie, O. 1 dust. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill : My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young; A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O. 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, O. Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; 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, O; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O. GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. Chorus. Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent among the lasses, O! There's nought but care on ev'ry han', The warly race may riches chase, But gie me a cannie hour at e’en, ! For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 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, 2 cast. s loop. hoof. 4 wrestled. 'A neibor herd-callan about three-fourths as wise as other folk. He gaped wide, but naething spak. 'O thou, whase lamentable face 'O, bid him save their harmless lives, 3 Wi' taets o' hay, an' ripps1 o' corn. 'An' may they never learn the gaets' Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 7 6 To slink thro' slaps an' reave an' steal, So may they, like their great forbears, So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet 10 for them when they're dead. An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins 12 in his breast! ⚫ forefathers. 1 An' warn him, what I winna name; 3 But ay keep mind to moop an' mell', 'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, An' when you think upo' your Mither, 'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell my Master a' my tale; An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather" This said, poor Mailie turned her head, FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer like, by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 1 mannerloss. 2 ewe. • fondle. ↑ meddle. • bladdes |