This was written in the same measure as the Birks

LEAVE ME?

Tune-" An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!
Well you know how much you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill-requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling!
Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!

Chrystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes, softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before usBut a world without a friend!*

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Tune-" Morag,"

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May heaven be his warden: Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon

The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,

The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blythely singing,

is borrowed but the chorus.

*Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying con. cealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 1788.

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,

When by his mighty warden

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon.*

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

Tune-" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament."

RAVING winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,
Isabella stray'd deploring.
"Farewell, hours that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow.

"O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.
Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing,
O how gladly I'd resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee !"t

BLYTHE WAS SHE.

Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Ern,

And bly he in Glenturit glen.

By Oughtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw :
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, &c.

Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, &e.

Her bonnie face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lee; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. Blythe, &c.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, &c.

And bless the parent's evening ray

That watched thy early morning.*

Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,

TER'S STORMS.

Tune-" N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny."

WHERE braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,

Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes.
As one who by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonished doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polished blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,
When first I felt their pow'r!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her under sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part, but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes!

Tune-"Invercauld's Reel."

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day
Ye would na been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But troth, I care na by.

YESTREEN I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

I doubt na lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day: And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune-"Seventh of November."

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet:
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature ought of pleasure give!
While joys above, my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below,

Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.
THE LAZY MIST.

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;

| For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best :
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE,

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,* Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,

Tune-" My love is lost to me."

O WERE I on Parnassus hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie sel'; On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-long simmer's day,
I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en-
By heaven and earth I love thee

By night, by day, a field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name :
I only live to love thee,
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
'Till my last, weary sand was run;
'Till then-and then I love thee.

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair,

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree ;
Three blyther hearts, that lee lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

"We are na fou, we're nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree."

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!

"We are na fou," &c.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Tune-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."

Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west,

*Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq (1800.)

It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my troth she'll wait a wee! We are nae fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three! We are nae fou, &c.*

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, "Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd,
She charmed my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa e'en sae bonny blue.t

THE BANKS OF NITH.

Tune-" Robie Donna Gorach."

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command: When shall I see that honoured land,

That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here.

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!

* Willie, who "brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr William Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our poet, and his friend, Allan Masterton. These three honest fellows-all men of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf.-(1799)

The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochma. ben. This lady, now Mrs R. after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New York, North America,

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go :
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.*

neat;

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ave the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns,

And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms,

And sae are ye in mine, John-I'm sure ye'll ne'er say