SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME
BEST OF A'.
TUNE- Onagh's Water-fall.
SAE flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'erarching
Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. Her smiling, sae wyling,
Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonie face, When first her bonie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion;
Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget the sky; Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature-auld Nature
Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Let others love the city,
And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming
Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes his
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'?
HOW LANG AND DREARY.
TUNE- Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.
How lang and dreary is the night,
When I am frae my dearie;
I restless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.
For oh, her lanely nights are lang; And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.
When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi' thee, my dearie,
And now that seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie !
For oh, &c.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;
The joyless day how drearie!
It wasna sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearie.
For oh, &c.
THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. TUNE-Deil tak the Wars.' SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature
Waters wi' the tears o' joy:
Now thro' the leafy woods,
And by the reeking floods,
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray;
The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o'er the breathing flower;
The lav'rock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless
Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,
The murky shades o' care
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky:
But when, in beauty's light,
She meets my ravish'd sight,
When thro' my very heart
Her beaming glories dart-
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.
LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.
TUNE-'Rothiemurchus's Rant.'
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,
And say thou'lt be my dearie O?
Lassie wi', &c.
And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.
When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. Lassie wi', &c.
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie O?
THE AULD MAN.
TUNE- The Death of the Linnet.' BUT lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoic'd the day,
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are fled,
On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again?
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. TUNE-'Nancy's to the Greenwood gane. FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows
Around Eliza's dwelling!
O Mem'ry! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling:
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain,
And yet in secret languish,
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.
Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover :
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom'st me to despair,
Nor wilt nor canst relieve me;
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me!
The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,
Till fears no more had sav'd me:
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing,
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.
TUNE-Lumps o' pudding.'
CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a';
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is-Welcome, and welcome again!'
TUNE- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.'
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw;
But to me it's delightless-my Nannie's awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn :
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nannie-my Nannie's awa.
Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa',
Gie over for pity-my Nannie's awa.
Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
And soothe me wi' tidins o' nature's decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me-now Nannie's awa.
O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET?
SWEET FA'S THE EVE.
TUNE-Craigieburn-wood!
SWEET fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blythe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.
O LASSIE, ART THOU
SLEEPING YET?
TUNE- Let me in this ae night.
O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou wakin, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O let me in, &c.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in, &c.
O TELL na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gait ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed;
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
THEIR groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt their perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
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 listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
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