1 THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 2 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A-list'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 3 Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?—the haunt of the tyrant and slave! 4 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters-the chains o' his Jean! SONG. TUNE-'Laddie, lie near me.' 1 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, "Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 2 Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 3 Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS ! ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. TUNE-John Anderson, my jo.' 1 How cruel are the parents Poor woman sacrifice! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife;- 2 The ravening hawk pursuing, No shelter or retreat, MARK YONDER POMP. TUNE- Deil tak the Wars.' 1 MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion, What are the noisy pleasures? The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art: May draw the wondering gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. 2 But did you see my dearest Chloris, In Simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Oh then, the heart alarming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd Deity, And feel through every vein Love's raptures roll. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. TUNE- This is no my ain House. CHORUS. OH this is no my ain lassie, 1 I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place: 2 She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e. 3 A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, |