THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move-
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
HE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae laverock sang on hillock green,
But Nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Through faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm or flow'ret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle.
OH, WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
H, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree;
Three blither hearts, that lee lang night,
Ye wadna find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
It is the moon-I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie:
She shines sae bright to wile us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa',
A cuckold, coward loon is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three !
THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.
GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew;
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonnie blue.
She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wiled;
She charm'd my soul-I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed,
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.
OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go ;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
Y heart is a-breaking, dear tittie!
Some counsel unto me come len',
To anger them a' is a pity;
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow,
In poortith I might mak a fen';
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen?
There's Lowrie the Laird o' Drummeller,
"Guid day to you, brute!" he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o' his siller;
But when will he dance like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o' young men ;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me ;
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ?
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
Oh, wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou' gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written-Tam Glen.
The last Hallowe'en I lay waukin'
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken :
His likeness cam up the house staukin'-
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. 97
Come counsel, dear tittie! don't tarry-
I'll gie ye my bonny black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly-Tam Glen.
GUIDWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN.
GANE is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon
And blude-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, guidwife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin;
Then, guidwife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun fecht and fen';
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
And ye drink but deep ye'll find him out.
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