BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors and mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal,
And o'er the hill to Nannie, O.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O;
The opening gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
And few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few there be?
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a's my penny fee,
And I maun guide it cannie, 0;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
Our auld gudeman delights to view
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
And has nae care but Nannie, O.
minds between place and circumstances, which renders the haunts early residence ever dear. The exiled Highlander, expatiating over the luxuriance of the more favoured champagne, may feel highly pleased; but when, in the expressive language of our Bard, "to his dear native hills he journeys," his feelings are beyond the latitude of even this term.
Come weel, come wae, I carena by,
I'll tak what Heaven will send me, O;
Nae ither care in life hae I,
But live and love my Nannie, O.
GOOD NIGHT AND JOY BE WI' YE A'.
Good night and joy be wi' ye a';
Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my. heart: May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw! In sorrow may ye never part! My spirit lives, but strength is gone;
The mountain fires now blaze in vain: Remember, sons, the deeds I've done, And in your deeds I'll live again !
When on your muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha show'd himself a better man,
Or fiercer way'd the red claymore?
But when in peace, then mark me there-
When thro' the glen the wand'rer came,
I gave him of our lordly fare,
I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear,
Be cantie, but be good and leal;
Your ain ills ay hae heart to bear,
Anither's ay hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,
I'll see you triumph ere I fa':
My parting breath shall boast you mine:
Good night and joy be wi' ye a'.
O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.
TUNE-" I'll gang nae mair to yon town.”
O WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'ening sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'ening sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her ee.
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year;
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.
The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
Without my love, not a' the charms
Of paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's drearie sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
O sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinking sun's gaun down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.
angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suff'ring I am doom'd to bear,
I'd careless quit aught else below;
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.
For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart:
And she-as fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart. *
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.
HEAR me, ye nymphs, and ev'ry swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
The bonnie bush aboon Traquair,
Was where I first did love her.
That day she smil'd, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I try'd to soothe my am'rous flame,
In words that I thought tender:
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame;
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flies the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
"The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.), died lately at Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband."
The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May;
Its sweets I'll aye remember:
But now her frowns make it decay;
It fades as in December.
Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains;
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair;
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair;
To lonely wilds I'll wander. *
SWEET Annie frae the sea-beach came,
Where Jockie speel'd the vessel's side;
Ah! wha can keep their heart at hame,
When Jockie's tost aboon the tide.
Far aff to distant realms he gangs,
Yet I'll prove true, as he has been;
And when ilk lass about him thrangs,
He'll think on Annie, his faithfu' ain.
I met our wealthy laird yestreen;
Wi' gowd in hand he tempted me;
He prais'd my brow, my rolling een,
And made a brag o' what he'd gie.
What though my Jockie's far away,
Toast up and down the dinsome main;
I'll keep my heart anither day,
Since Jockie may return again.
* When BURNS visited this far-famed Bush in 1787, it consisted of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near it, which he calls the New Bush.
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