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We'll

gae

down by Cluden side, Through the hazels spreading wide, O’er the waves that sweetly glide,

To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,

Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near,

My bonny dearie.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die- but canna part-

My bonny dearie!

Countrie Lassie.

TUNE—The Country Lass..

In simmer, when the hay was mawn,

And corn waved green in ilka field, While clover blooms white o'er the lea,

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel

Says, “ I'll be wed, come o't what will : Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild

“O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

66 It's

ye

hae wooers mony ane, And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken;

Then wait a wee, and cannie wale

A routhie butt, a routhie ben :

There's Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen,

Fu’ is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonny hen,

It's plenty beats the luver's fire.”

" For Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen

I dinna care a single flie;
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye,

He has nae luve to spare for me :
But blithe's the blink o' Robbie's ee,

And weel I wat he loe's me dear : Ae blink o' him I wadna gie

For Buskie Glen and a' his gear.”

“Oh, thoughtless lassie, life's a faught;

The canniest gate, the strife is sair, But aye fu'-hant is fechtin' best

A hungry care's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare,

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.”

Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And

gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve

The gowd and siller canna buy; We may

be

poor-Robbie and I. Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve bring peace and joy

What mair hae queens upon a throne ?”

1

any ain kind Dearie, D

TUNE—The Lea Rig.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ;
And, owsen frae the furrow'd field

Return sae dowf and weary, 0;
Down by the burn, where scented birks

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O!

1

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,
· If through that glen I gaed to thee,

My ain kind dearie, O!
Although the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O!

2 C

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!

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