PEGGIE.

WILLIAM NICHOLSON.

Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggie,
My Peggie an' I were young;
Sae blithe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,

My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,

Till the stars did blink sae hie; Come weel or come wae to the biggin', My Peggie was dear to me.

The stately aik stood on the mountain, And tower'd o'er the green birken shaw; Ilk glentin' wee flow'r on the meadow Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,

Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,

When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee; 'Twas there that I courted my Peggie,

Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.

Though love it has little to look for

Frae the heart that's wedded to gear,

A wife without house or a haudin'

Gars ane look right blate like an' queer;

Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three;
Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten,
But Peggie's ay dear to me.

It vex'd me her sighin' an' sabbin',

Now nought short o' marriage wou'd do;
An' though that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to?
What cou'd I but e'en buckle to,

An' dight the sa't tear frae her e'e ?
The warl's a wearifu' wister;

But Peggie's ay dear to me.

SING ON, SING ON.

R. M'C.

Sing on, sing on, thou little bird

That wing'st the balmy air;
Sing out thy sang, thou blithesome bird,
That tells thou'rt free of care.

It's gude to ha'e a lightsome heart,

A heart that's fu' of glee;

And I would bless thy gladsome notes,

Though sorrow dwells with me.

Thou sings to see the gowans bloom,
And leaves that clead the tree,
Thou sings, to woo thy gentle mate,
A sang that's dear to me.
And wilt thou, gentle, win her love,
By methods such as these,
Nor ever learn, as I hae done,
How hard it is to please.

O dinna langer strain thy throat,
Sweet sangster of the grove—
I, too, hae sung as gay a note,
To win a woman's love;

And, as thy gentle mate does now,

She listen'd to the lay,

And I sang on, and she proved false

O cease thy roundelay.

O MY LOVE IS A COUNTRY LASS.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O my love is a country lass,
And I am but a country laddie;
But true love is nae gentleman,
And sweetness is nae lofty lady.

I make

my bed 'mang brackens green;

My light's the moon, round, bright, an' bonnie; And there I muse the summer night

On her, my leal and lovely Jeanie.

Her gown spun by her ain white hand;
Her coat sae trim of snowy plaiden;
Is there a dame in all the land

Sae lady-like in silk and satin?
Though minstrel lore is all my wealth;

Let gowks love gold and mailens many,
I'm rich enough when I have thee,
My witty, winsome, lovely Jeanie.

O! have you seen her at the kirk,

Her brow with meek devotion glowing?
Or got ae glance of her bright eye,

Frae 'neath her tresses dark and flowing?
Or heard her voice breathe out such words
As angels use-sweet, but not many?
And have ye dream'd of aught sinsyne,
Save her, my fair, my lovely Jeanie?

VOL. IV.

Z

THE LORD'S MARIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks
Up wi' a golden kame,

An' she has put on her net-silk hose,
An' awa to the tryste has gane.
O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks,
An' saft, saft on her brow;

Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip,
An' I kiss'd it off, I trow!

O whare gat ye that leal maiden,
Sae jimpy laced an' sma'?
O whare gat ye that young damsel,

Wha dings our lasses a'?

O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass,
Wi' heaven in her e'e?

Here's ae drap o' the damask wine ;-
Sweet maiden, will ye pree?

Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck,
Twist wi' the satin twine,

But ruddie, ruddie grew her throat,

While she supp'd the blude-red wine. Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, Who wears the golden kame;