Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword;
And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie :

It burns my heart I must depart,
And not avenged be.

Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

MARK YON POMP OF COSTLY

FASHION.

TUNE-Deil tak the Wurs.

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion,
Round the wealthy, titled bride :
But when compar'd with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish'd jewel's blaze

May draw the wond'ring gaze,

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array ;

Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.
Oh then the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,

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 thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll.

MARY MORISON.

TUNE-Bide ye yet.

OH Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha,'

To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw.

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

MEG O' THE MILL.

AIR-Oh Bonnie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack? On ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gotten? And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. The Miller was strappin', the Miller was ruddy ;

A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;She's left the guidfellow and taen the churl. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;

The Laird did address her wi' matter more moving,

A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

Oh wae on the siller, it is a sae prevailing! And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl.

MENIE.

TUNE-Johnny's grey Breeks.

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?
For it's jet, jet black, and like a hawk,
And winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lint-white sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree :
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.

TUNE-Galla-Water.

ALTHO' my bed were in yon muir
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

Were I a baron proud and high,

And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy.