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WHEN WILD WAR’S DEADLY BLAST
Air, The Mill Mill o.'
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn),
And gentle peace returning,
And mony a widow mourning,
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
А poor and honest sodger.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
'pon my Nancy,
That caught my youthful fancy :
At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported ;
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
Wi' alterd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 0! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom!
And fain wad be thy lodger;
Take pity on a sodger.
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever :
Forget him shall I never :
Ye freely shall partake it,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.
She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose
Syne pale like ony lily ;
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By whom true love's regarded,
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o’er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we’se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly ;
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the dger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour ; The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger, Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.
MEG O' THE MILL.
Air, “O bonnie lass, will you lie in a Barrack ?'
O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten,
The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving :
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
Tane, 'Liggeram Cosh.'
BLIThE hae I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me;
As the breeze flew o'er me :
Mirth or sang can please me;
Care and anguish seize me.
Hopeless love declaring :
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
In my bosom swelling;
Soon maun be my dwelling.
Tune, 'Logan Water.'
O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide,
And years sinsyne has o'er us run,
Again the merry month o' May,
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
O wae upon you, men o'state,