WANDERING WILLIE.
HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee;
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms!
But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main!
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.
AIR-O Bonnie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack?
O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
Sho has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.
The Miller was strappin', the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;-
She's left the guid fellow and taen the churl.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter more moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chainèd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnic side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing!
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen !
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!
pitiful, dwarf good, taken offered, true
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul, I'll dance a dance with you,
Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be KILLED, no doubt
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM THAT WINDING FLOWS.
FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows
Around Eliza's dwelling!
O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling.
Condemned to drag a hopeless chain,
And yet in secret languish,
To feel a fire in every vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.
Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover:
The bursting sigh, the unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom'st me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
But, oh! Eliza, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me!
The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslaved me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing feared,
Till fears no more had saved me.
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing,
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.
BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL.
TUNE-Liggeram Cosh.
BLITHE hae I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me:
Now nae longer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring;
Trembling, I dow nocht but glower,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod,
Soon maun be my dwelling.
LOGAN BRAES.
TUNE-Logan Water.
O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride!
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run.
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile:
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widowed nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
O wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make many a fond heart mourn.
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
OH WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.
TUNE-Iughie Graham.
O WERE my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing'
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o' the stream
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en,
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pair;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love
Ae e'enin on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whispered thus his tale o' love:
"O Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me;
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me."
Now what could artless Jeanie do ?
She had nae will to say him na;
At length she blushed a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.
PHILLIS THE FAIR.
TUNE-Robin Adair
WHILE larks with little wing
Fanned the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun's golden eye
Peeped o'er the mountains high;
Such thy morn I did I cry,
Phillis the fair,
In each bird's careless song,
Glad did I share;
While yon wild-flowers among,
Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray
Such thy bloom! did I say,
Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk
Doves cooing were;
I marked the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.
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