The Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving through the garden gay,

Or wandering in the lonely wild: But woman, Nature's darling child!

There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil'd

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Oh! had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain :
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil
And nightly to my bosom strain.

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle!

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine;

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

The Birks of Aberfeldy.

TUNE-" The Birks of Aberfeldy."

BONNY lassie, will ye go,

Will ye go, will ye go;

Bonny lassie, will ye go

To the birks of Aberfeldy?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; Come, let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blithely sing,

Or lightly flit on wanton wing

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The Birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers. The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Blithe was She.

TUNE-" Andrew and his Cutty Gun."

0

BLITHE, blithe, and merry was she,

Blithe was she butt and ben:

Blithe by the banks of Earn,

And blithe in Glenturit glen.

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Her looks were like a flower in May,

Her smile was like a simmer morn;

She trippèd by the banks of Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Blithe was She.

Her bonny face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lea;

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.

The Highland hills I've wandered wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;

But Phemie was the blithest lass

That ever trod the dewy green.