The hunter lo'es the mornin' sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin' gray, It maks my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O!

Highland Mary.

TUNE-"Katharine Ogie."

YE banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfaulds her robes,
And there the langest tarry ;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk!

How rich the hawthorn's blossom &

As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!—
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly-
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!

By Allan Stream I chanced to Rove.

TUNE-" Allan Water."

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds were whispering through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listen'd to a luver's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures many;
And aye the wild wood echoes rang-
Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;

Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!

Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!"

While mony a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow,-we ne'er should sever.

By Allan Stream I chanced to Rove.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae,
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, through her shortening day,
Is Autumn in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?