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Dyvor, beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie's bosom,
Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me : Kings and nations, swith awa!
Reif randies I disown ye!
FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.
My heart is sair I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
0, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody ! I wad do-what wad I not, For the sake o' somebody!
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 !
And ay, the saut tear blinds her e'e : Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear and brethren three.
Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e !
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee,
A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATU
OF HER SON.
Tune-“ Finlayston House."
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart :
Life can to me impart.
In dust dishonour'd laid :
My age's future shade.
The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
Lament the live-day long.
Now, fond, I bare my breast, 0, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love at rest!
O MAY, THY MORN.
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber :
And dear was she I dare na name,
And dear, &c.
And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum;
May a'that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to, ác.
O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.
O wat ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o’ her e'e,
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.
The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on you bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
Without my love, not a' the charms
O' paradise could yield me joy ;
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; And she a lovely little flower,
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,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she-as fairest is her form!
She has the truest, kindest heart*.
A RED, RED ROSE.
O my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June ; O my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
* The heroine of this song, Mrs. 0. (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. ï. p. 244. (1799.)
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel, a while ! And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
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 stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply ;
The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, *Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's;
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win,
* Variation. To join yon river on the Strath.