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How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;

The joyless day how dreary! It was nae sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie:

For oh, &c.


Tune, ' Duncan Gray.'

LET not woman e'er complain,

Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain,

Fickle man is apt to rove :

Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange,

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies;

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can-

You can be no more, you know.



Tune, Deil tak the Wars.'

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature;

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy :
Now thro' the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods ;
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ;

The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o'er the breathing flower ;
The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.


Phæbus gilding the brow o' morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning :

Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,

The murky shades o' care
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky;

But when, in beauty's light,
She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart

Her beaming glories dart;
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy


But lately seen in gladsome green

The woods rejoice the day, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers

In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are Aed

On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,

Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe

Shall melt the snaws of age ;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,

Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,

Why com’st thou not again!


Tune, My Lodging is on the cold groun.'

My Chloris, mark how green the groves,

The primrose banks how fair : The balmy gales awake the flowers,

And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,

And o'er the cottage sings :
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,

To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string

In lordly lighted ha':
The shepherd stops his simple reed,

Blithe, in the birken shaw.

The princely revel may survey

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ;
But are their hearts as light as ours

Beneath the milk-white thorn?

The shepherd, in the flowery glen,

In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale,

But is his heart as true?

These wild-wood flowers I've pu’d, to deck

That spotless breast o'thine :
The courtiers' gems may witness love

But 'tis na love like mine.



It was the charming month of May, When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day,

The youthful, charming Chloe ;

From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o'er the flowery mead she goes,

The youthful, charming Chloe.


Lovely was she by the dawn,

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,

The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feather'd people you might see
Perch'd all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody,

They hail the charming Chloc;

Till, painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall’d by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.

Lovely was she, &c.


Tune, Rothemurche's Rant.'


Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,

Wilt thou be my dearie 0?

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