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AULD ROB MORRIS.
THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon
glen, He's the king oʻguid fellows and wale o' auld He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and
kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the
lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.
But, oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a
laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house
and yard ; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be
The day comes to me, but delight brings me
nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my
Oh had she but been of a lower degree,
a I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon
[bliss, Oh, how past descriving had then been my As now my distraction no words can express.
AWA, WHIGS, AWA.
Awa, Whigs, awa!
Ye'll do nae good at a'.
And bonnie bloom'd our roses ;
And wither'd a' our posies.
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't, And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
Surpasses my descriving ;
And we hae done wi' thriving.
But we may see him wauken ; Guid help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin.
BANNOCKS O' BARLEY.
Bannocks o' barley;
Bannocks o' barley.
Will first cry a parley ?
The bannocks o' barley.
Bannocks o'barley ;
The bannocks o' barley !
Were loyal to Charlie ?-
The bannocks o' barley ?
BEHOLD THE HOUR.
Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest thou darling of my heart ! Sever'd from thee, can I survive ?
But fate has will’d, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail : “E'en here I took the last farewell;
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
Oh, tell me, does she muse on me!
BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL.
TUNE-The sweet lass that loes me.
On leeze me on my spinning-wheel,
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
TUNE-On a Bank of Flowers.
For summer lightly drest,
With love and sleep opprest;
Who for her favour oft had sued,
And trembled where he stood.
Were seal'd in soft repose;
It richer dy'd the rose.