Dyvor, beggar louns to me, Let her crown my love her law, FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair I dare na tell, I could wake a winter night I could range the world around, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, I wad do-what wad I not, THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas! A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear, Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, That ever blest a woman's e'e! For mony a heart thou hast made sair, A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tune-" Finlayston House." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, By cruel hands the sapling drops, So fell the pride of all my hopes, The mother linnet in the brake O MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, And dear was she I dare na name, And here's to them, that, like oursel, O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. O wat ye wha's in yon town, Now haply down yon gay green shaw, How blest ye birds that round her sing, And doubly welcome be the spring, The sun blinks blythe on yon town, But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms M My cave wad be a lover's bower, That I wad tent and shelter there. O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me, spare my Lucy dear. For while life's dearest blood is warm, A RED, RED ROSE. O my luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.) died lately at Lisbon. This most ac complished and most lovely woman, was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr. Syme inclosing this song, vol. ii. p. 244. (1799.) E. And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And fare thee weel, my only luve! A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care; The winds were laid, the air was still, The stream adown its hazelly path, The cauld blue north was streaming forth * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. |