Blithe was She. TUNE-" Andrew and his Cutty Gun." 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, Blithe was She. Her bonny face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lea; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 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. The Banks of the Devon. TUNE-" Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh.” How pleasant the banks of the clear, winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England, triumphant, display her bright rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. The Lazy Mist. TUNE-" Here's a health to my true love." THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark, winding rill! How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown: Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues! How long I have lived-but how much lived in vain! How little of life's scanty span may remain! What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn! pain'd! This life's not worth having, with all it can giveFor something beyond it poor man sure must live. |