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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 dearlyBut 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 Phæbus 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 ?

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Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

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