At a meeting of the DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, held STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 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? By my love so ill-requited; STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling! Chrystal streamlets gently flowing, Wrongs injurious to redress, 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, The birdies dowie moaning, of Abergeldy, an old Scottish song, from which nothing And every flower be springing. 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, "O'er the past too fondly wandering, BLYTHE WAS SHE. Blythe, blythe and merry was she, And bly he in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw : Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 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 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, WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN- Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice: TER'S STORMS. Tune-" N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." WHERE braving angry winter's storms, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 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, CLARINDA. CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, To what dark cave of frozen night We part, but by these precious drops, TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. No other light shall guide my steps, Tune-"Invercauld's Reel." O Tibbie, I hae seen the day YESTREEN I met you on the moor, O Tibbie, I hae, &c. I doubt na lass, but ye may think, 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, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet: And crosses o'er the sultry line; While day and night can bring delight, Comes in between to make us part; THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; | For there the bonnie lassie lives, I see her in the dewy flowers, 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, O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. And aye the wild wood echoes rang, Tune-" My love is lost to me." O WERE I on Parnassus hill! 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! How much, how dear, I love thee. By night, by day, a field, at hame, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, "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, THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune-" Robie Donna Gorach." THE Thames flows proudly to the sea, 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; We've had wi' ane anither. 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 |