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'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear !
So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer ;
At once 'tis music and 'tis love.
And art thou come?--and art thou true ?
Oh welcome, dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.
The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command ; When shall I see that honour'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here? How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom !
Tho' wandering now must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
TUNE-Bhannerach dhon na chri.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding
Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers
blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the
Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the
Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the
dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to
Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the
dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that
seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her
proud Rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering
THE BATTLE OF SHERRIFF-MUIR.
TUNE-Cameronian Rant. "Oh cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me my man?
And did the battle see, man!”
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
To meet them were na slaw man ; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush’d,
And mony a bouk did fa', man : The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords
clash'd, And through they dash'd, and bew'd and
smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man.
But had you seen the philabegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man ;
And covenant true blues, man;
They fled like frighted doos, man."
“Oh how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the North, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue
The horseman back to Forth, man ; And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man!”
“ My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
And so it goes, you see,
They've lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man:
Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man :
And Whigs to Hell did flee, man."
THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young
belles, The pride of the place and its neighbour
hood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would
guess, In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is
braw, There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss
Morton : But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.