Thus merrily my time I pass, With spirits brisk and voggie, Then haste, and gie's an auld Scots sang, A gude Scots sang comes never wrang, CLUTHA. TUNE-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." They ken na me, they lo'e na me, How touchin' saft the gloamin's gleam, When dusky vapours slowly row, And gath'rin cluds o' leaden hue, Tho' placid be the closin' scene This version of Cauld kail in Aberdeen is by Mr. WILLIAM REID, Bookseller in Glasgow, and is intended to present to the mind a few ideas more agreeable than some of those in the old song of that name. A' things are gay, but I am wae; Thou awfu' spirit o' the floods, That scoop'd wide Clutha's vale, For me, I'll wander where I list, Nae frien' shall sooth my bleeding breast, I hae a love, but that sweet love MARY LOOK'D SAE CAULD ON ME. BLOW on, rude tempest! wildly rave, *This song, and the six following, the Editor has been fa voured with from a Gentleman in Ayrshire, already known to the world as the author of a beautiful little work entitled Hora Poetica. The Editor expresses the highest sense of gratitude to the author for these pieces; and he is assured the public will give its most cordial assent to the high poetical merit he attaches to them. Come rapid, with tumultous sweep, I hear the bending forest groan; In scatter'd fragments o'er the sky. ADVICE TO THE LASSES. To ony tune you like. LASSES lookna sourly meek, But laugh an' love in youth's gay morn: If ance the bloom forsake your cheek, Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn. The secret favour that you meet, Or the favour ye return, If vainly ye let ithers see't, Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn. Wi' care the tender moments grip, Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn. Be on your guard wi' Sir or Laird; For if you grant what he may want, The lad that's wi' your siller taen, Widows rest you as ye are Nae lover now dare crook his horn; But mak him master o' your gearFareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn. Lasses that nae lads hae got, But live in garrets lane and lorn, Let ilk be carefu' o' her cat Ne'er think o' heuks-your hairst is shorn. THE FAREWELL. O WELCOME Winter! wi' thy storms, I've mourn'd the gowan wither'd laid I've seen the rose-bud drooping fade Beneath the dewy tear. Then fare ye weel, my frien's sae dear, For I maun lea' you O will ye sometimes shed a tear For me, when far awa? For me, when far frae hame and you, Will ye repeat my last adieu, An' mourn that I'm awa'? I've seen the wood, where rude winds rave, In gay green mantle drest; But now its leafless branches wave Wild whistling in the blast: Then fare ye weel, &c. In vain will Spring her gowans spread In vain will Spring bedeck the bow'rs Then fare ye weel, &c. Qwinter! spare the peacefu' scene Ye lads and lasses! when sae blythe * After untoward fate had forced the author to seek mental peace for several years on the restless bosom of the deep, he returned, disappointed in his search, to the scenes of his youth. He now found them endeared to him by absence, a soul-cheering contrast to the tumults and dangers he had lately experienced; but misfortune still pursued him, and it was on the prospect of quitting his country once more, and for ever, that the above effusion was |