Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen,
She blether'd it round to her fae and her friend,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen.
HEY DONALD, HOW DONALD.
Tho' simmer smiles on bank and brae,
And nature bids the heart be gay,
Yet a' the joys o' flow'ry May,
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me.
Hey Donald, how Donald !
Think upon your vow, Donald-
Mind the heather knowe, Donald,
Whare ye vow'd to love me.
Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud to be sure,
As if there was never such beauty before,
But, ere I got wedded to old Thady More,
I had dozens of wooers each night at my door,
With their, Och dear! O will you marry me,
Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul!
MY DAYS HAE FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED.
My days hae flown wi' gleesome speed,
Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind,
Sae happy in my rural reed,
I lilted every care behind;
I've whiles been vext, and sair perplext,
When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy,
But, like gude John O'Badenyon,
I crun'd my lilt, and car'd na by.
Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you,
Wing'd with rude storms, tho' the winter assails you,
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me,
For here amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me;
'Tis sad to see the withered lea, the drumly flooded fountain,
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moor and mountain;
But frae the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I'll defend her,
And frae the bonnie banks of Spey I never more shall wander.
THE gale is high, the bark is light,
Swiftly it glides the dark sea over,
Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight,
Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover.
Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o'er,
No bright'ning hope can gild the morrow,
Thy lover hails a distant shore,
Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra.
The moon is up, the maiden's gone,
Where flower and tree the night dews cover,
To weep by mountain streamlet lone,
O'er perjur'd vows of faithless lover.
Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra's wild,
To rapture raise the maiden's sorrow,
Ah! see where love so lately smil'd,
Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra.
The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep,
And lists a hapless maiden sighing,
The sullen night-winds, cavern'd sleep,
As loath to rave o'er maiden dying.
The hue of death has blench'd the lip,
The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow,
Ere morn, death's chilly hand shall nip
The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra.
LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.
O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight,
Thy mother a lady so lovely and bright,
The hills and the dales from the tow'rs which we see,
They all shall belong, my dear infant, to thee.
O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may.
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