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, O
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 angels! oh protect her
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.
WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY!
Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!
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 my ear,
We part to meet no more!
But the last throb that leaves my heart,
While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!
THOUGH CRUEL FATE.
TUNE-The Northern Lass.
THOUGH cruel fate should bid us part.
Far as the pole and line;
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between,
Yet dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
FAREWELL TO THE BRETHREN OF ST JAMES'S LODGE, TORBOLTON.
TUNE-Good-night, and joy be wr' you a'.
ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie
Ye favoured, ye enlightened few,
Companions of my social joy;
Though I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye
I'll mind you still, though far awa.
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honoured with supreme command,
Presided o'er the Sons of Light:
And by that hieroglyphic bright
Which none but Craftsman ever saw
Strong Memory on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa.
May Freedom, Harmony, and Love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious Architect Divine !
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummnet's law,
Till Order bright completely shine,
Shall be my prayer when far awa.
And you, farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heaven bless your honoured, 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.
THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE
TUNE-Shawnboy.
YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honourèd station.
I've little to say, but only to pray,
As praying's the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse,
"Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element's border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order;
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention
Or withered envy ne'er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound.
And brotherly love be the centre.
THE BONNIE LASS O'' BALLOCHMYLE.
"TWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang!
The Zephyr wantoned round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang;
In every glen the mavis sang,
All Nature listening seemed the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward strayed,
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like Nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whispered passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild;
When roving through the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild:
But woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile,
Even there her other works are foiled
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
Oh had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain !
Though sheltered in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain,
Through weary Winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slippery 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 every day have joys divine
With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST.
TUNE.-Roslin Castle.
THE gloomy night is gathering 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 scattered coveys meet secure
While here I wander, pressed with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her ripening 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 bonny banks of Ayr.
'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
"Tis not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear!
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced 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 bonny banks of Ayr!
WHEN Guildford good our pilot stood,
And did our helm thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
And did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then through the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.
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