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Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
The eye that never wept before ;
Our mortal pilgrimage is o'er,
And now we part to meet no more !

Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung ;

Of mirth, high dames and lords among :

And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end ; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend.

Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone ; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone.

The traveller faint will list'ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede.

But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie.

Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey.

She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Rise sweetly in thy midnight song,
Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong,
Now, low and dying, weep along.

Oh! she will hear thee oft bewail
The fate of lovers true, and tell,
How many an evil tide befell
Maids, who have lov'd but all too well.

The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser’s fire, And under thy old oak retire :

For, lo ! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze ; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.

O Harp ! be still a little while,
Nor wake thy dirge of melting numbers,
Stay till thy master calmly slumbers,
Where no bale his bliss encumbers.

Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
And benison, in death's arms given,
Oh now begin thy mournful steven,
And waft my soul on it to heaven!

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A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal, Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's remains,

note
Again rejoicing nature sees,
Again the happy day returns,

note
Ah! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell,
All in the merry Whitsuntide,
All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream,
Amid Loch-Catrine's scenery wild,
A moment pause, ye British fair,

note And art thou gone,

for ever gone,
And can thy bosom bear the thought,
And has she then fail'd in her truth,

note
As I came in by our gate end,
At the close of the day in the sacred Aisle,
Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits,

note
Auld Rob, the laird o' muckle land,
Away! let nought to love displeasing,

note

424 Burns,

39 Tannahill, 237

184

270 Joanna Baillie, 157 J.B.,

306

307 John Sim, 102 J. Goldie, 199

292 Burns,

267 Camoens, - 174 Anderson,

201 129 165

Hogy,

11

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,

note Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed grave,

note
Blythely I hae screwed my pipes,
By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees,

W. M Laren, 332
Hogy,

135 300

note

note

Can a crown give content,
Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot, -
Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise,
Come live with me, and be my love,
Come o'er the sea,
Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar,

7. Dibdin,
Dr. Droight,
C. Marlowe,
Moore,

218
313
113
414
103
275

note

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Paintly as tolls the evening chime,
Fair dream of my slumber, sad thoughts of my waking,
Far lone amang the highland hills,
Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer,
Farewell, oh sweet hope! I have wept thee in sadness,
For many a wistful hour to pity dear,

note From his booth on the hill, the sad shepherd retires, . From my slumber I woke at the dead hour of

night,

Moore,

384 W. Reader,

55 Tannakill,

439 Byron,

142 M.A.R., 299

298 Robt. Glasaford, 175

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Gie me a lass wi' a lump o' land,
Gloomy winter's now awa',
Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
Go, lovely rose !
Go round, my wheel, go round,

Ramsay,

Tanahill, 383 From Paul's Letters," 431 B. Waller,

282 note Gott. Aug. Burder, 440

note

Happy the world in that blest age,

356 Have you not seen the timid tear, .

Moore,

333 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep,

Blackwood's Mag., 392 Here, beneath this willow sleepeth,

Mrs Opie, · 134 Her hair was like the Cromla mist,

R. Allan, 99 Her kiss was soft and sweet,

James Yool, 34 Here's to them that's awa,

note
Burns,

205 Here's to thy health, my bonny lass,

Burns,

68 How ardently my bosom glows,

James Yool, 56 How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,

280 How green the fields, the flowers how fair,

note Patie Birnie, 289 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom, J. D.,

13 65

note

note

I come in the morn, I come in the hour,
I found the warrior on the plain, .
If that the world and love were young,
I have known what it was to be happy and gay,
In Buttermere's woods and wilds among,
In summer when nature her mantle displays,
In summer when the hay was mawn,

V.,

927 Sir W. Raleigh, 415 James Yool, 109 R. Allan,

32 John Sim,

8 Burns,

note

In vain thou call'st for a mirthful smile,

W. Reader,

327 Isabelle ! Isabelle ! hark to my soft lute,

409 I saw from the beach when the morning was shining, Moore, I saw thee weep-the big bright tear,

Byron,

75 I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Moore,

51 Is there a man whose breast ne'er glowd,

171 Its filmy wing of azure hue,

359 It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,

Fanny de Beauharnois, 361 I've no sheep on the mountains, nor boat on the lake, Joanna Baillie, 69 I whispered her my last adien,

note Camoens, 371

note

Mrs. Opie,
Tannahill,

Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around,
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes of Gleniffer,
Kenmure's on an'awa, Willie,

note Know'st thou the land where stately laurels bloom,

273 398 194 401

W.S.S.,

note

Marquis de Paulmy, 248

Let every valiant son of Gaul,
Let high Benledi rear its tap,
Let us go, lassie, go,
Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, 0,
Light springs the pang, light passes by,
Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending,
Love under Friendship’s vesture white,
Love will not bloom where envy breathes,

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Maiden, wrap thy mantle round thee,
Maid of the cold suspicious heart,
Mark'd you her eye of heavenly blue,
Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow,
May heaven holpe the Mayde,
Merrily every bosom boundeth,
Mine be a cot beside the hill,
Money maks us bonny,
My bonny black meer's dead,
My cruel love to danger go,
My father and mother now lie with the dead,
My friend is the man I would copy through life,
My dying sire, in battle slain,
My Harry was a gallant gay,
My heart is sair, I darena tell,
My love can boast a sweeter flower,
My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string,

Moore,
Rogers,
Anderson,
Anderson,

48 256 411 320 119

15 223

88 242 141 211 176 112 357 206 95

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