My Lord a-hunting The Bonnie Moorhen HE heather was blooming, the meadows were THE mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn, I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells; Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill, He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the braeHis rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. I red, etc. They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, My Lord a-hunting Y lord a-hunting he is gane, MY But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane, By Colin's cottage lies his game, If Colin's Jenny be at hame. CHORUS. My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. My lady's white, my lady's red, Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, My lady's gown, etc. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, My lady's dink, my lady's drest, The Carles o' Dysart TUNE-"Hey, ca' thro'." UP wi' the carles o' Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the kimmers o' Largo, The Birks of Aberfeldy Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado; For we hae mickle ado. We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing; We'll live a' our days, And them that come behin', Let them do the like, And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' thro', etc. The Birks of Aberfeldy WOW simmer blinks on flowery braes, Nonder the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days CHORUS. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, etc. The braes ascend like lofty wa's, Bonnie lassie, etc. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, Bonnie lassie, etc. Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, Bonnie lassie, etc. Strathallan's Lament HICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling! THowling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Crystal streamlets gently flowing, In the cause of Right engag'd, Castle Gordon Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, ST TUNE-"Morag." Castle Gordon TREAMS that glide in Orient plains, Spicy forests, ever gay, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Wildly here without control, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood; Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, |