Her teeth are like the nightly snow
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen,
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
"Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her roguish een.
PRAYER FOR MARY.'
TUNE-"BLUE BONNETS.
POWERS celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair.
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own,-
Let my Mary's kindred spirit
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Soothe her bosom into rest;
Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the Poet's de parture to the West Indies.-Cromek.
YOUNG PEGGY.
Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.
TUNE "LAST TIME I CAM O'ER THE MUIR."
YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lase,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has grac'd them,
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
Of surly savage Winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful envy grins in vain,
The poison'd tooth to fasten.
Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,
From ev'ry ill defend her:
Inspire the highly favour'd youth
The destinies intend her;
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.
3 This was one of the poet's earliest compositions.-Cromek
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.
By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown:
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
TUNE "DAINTIE DAVIE."
THERE was a lad was born at Kyle,'
But what'n a day o' what'n a style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin.
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' she wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,-
I think we'll ca' him Robin.
1 Kyle, a district of Ayrshire.
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit 'till us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
But, sure as three times three mak nine,
I see, by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.
Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt ye, gar,
Ye gar the lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessins on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin.
TUNE-"EWE-BUGHTS, MARION."
WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across the Atlantic's roar?
O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine:
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn to the Heavens to be true:
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
Mary Campbell. In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl.-R. B.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time.
MARY MORISON.
TUNE " BIDE YE YET."
O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor;
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,1
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
66 Ye are na Mary Morison."
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
THE SODGER'S RETURN."
AIR "THE MILL, MILL, O."
WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
A soldier, passing by the window of an inn, suggested these touching lines. The Poet called him in, and asked him to relate his adventures.
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