ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.
TUNE-Aye Wakin 0.
LONG, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul's delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care?
Can I cease to languish?
While my darling fair
Is on the couch of anguish?
Every hope is fled,
Every fear is terror;
Slumber even I dread;
Every dream is horror.
Hear me, Powers divine!
Oh, in pity hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me
THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE.
THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen:
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild-flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?-the haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;
Ile wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters-the chains o' his Jean!
"TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EE WAS MY RUIN.
TWAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin;
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoing:
"Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
"Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever!
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou has plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS
ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.
TUNE-John Anderson my Jo.
How cruel are the parents,
Who riches only prize;
And to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile, the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife ;-
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wretched wife.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin
Awhile her pinions tries:
Till of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.
MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY FASHION.
MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion,
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compared with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polished jewel's blaze
May draw the wondering gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.
But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.
Oh then, the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The worlds imperial crown,
Even Avarico would deny
His worshipped deity,
And feel through every vein Love's rapture's roll.
FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR
TUNE-Let me in this ae Night.
FORLORN, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
Oh, wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me:
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.
Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
Cold, altered friendship's cruel part,
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
But dreary though the moments fleet,
Oh, let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.
SCOTTISH BALLAD.
TUNE-The Lothian Lassie.
LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men-
O WHAT MADE THE GOMRAL believe me, believeme:
O WHAT MADE THE GOMRAL believe me,
He spak o' the darts o' my bonny black een,
And vowed for my love he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean-
HE'D NEED TO FORGIE ME for lying, for lying;
IIE'D NEED TO FORGIE ME for lving!
came, long sore, deafen
nothing fool
A well-stocked mailen-himsel for the laird-
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kenned it, or cared,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers;
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think?-in a fortnight or less,
NAE PRAISE TO his taste to gae near her!
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, thejad! I could bear her, could bear her:
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock!
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neibors might say I was saucy,
My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink,
And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie;
And vowed I was his dear lassie.
I speered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recovered her hearin',
o'er, shoulder, gave neighbours
And how my auld shoon fitted her shachl't feet,
BUT HECH! how he fell a swearin', a swearin';
BUT HECH! how he fell a swearin'.
He begged for ONYSAKE I'd be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow:
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow;
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.
WHY, why tell thy lover,
Bliss he never must enjoy?
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes the lie?
O why, while Fancy, raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,
Why, why wouldst thou cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?
O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE
TUNE-This is no my ain House.
CHORUS.
O THIS is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.
I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her ee.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tell,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her ee,
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the ee.
It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her ee.
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