It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O, that's the chiefest warld's treasure!
O, MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it mayna be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,
By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin love,
I lang, lang had denied?
How aften didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for aye be mine!
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast;
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O, wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare, and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!
AIR-O bonnie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack?
O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten,
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute 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 guid fellow and ta'en the churl.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.
O, wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a maiden!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!
O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy :
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile :
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
O, wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As mak
ye
Sae may it on your
fond heart mourn,
heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen,
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrily:
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o' the stream
The moom-beam dwells at dewy e'en ;
So trembling, pure was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'enin on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to her's he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
PHILLIS THE FAIR.
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;
O, canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do ?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa,
WHILE larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.
In each bird's careless song
Glad did I share;
While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
Such thy bloom! did I say,
Phillis the fair.
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