46. THE The Ewe-Buchtin's Bonnie HE ewe-buchtin's bonnie, baith e'enin' and morn, When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn; While we're milking, they're lilting, baith pleasant and clear; But my heart's like to break when I think on my dear. O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn, 47. FOR For Lack of Gold OR lack of gold she's left me, O, And to endless woe she has left me, O. And for glittering show she's left me, O. No cruel fair shall ever move 48. Ye powers above, I to your care COME Jemmy Dawson A. Austin OME listen to my mournful tale, And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, Young Dawson was a gallant boy, One tender maid, she lov'd him dear, But curse on party's hateful strife, O had he never seen that day! Their colours and their sash he wore, How pale was then his true love's cheek When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows So pale, or yet so chill appear. With faltering voice she, weeping, said, 'Yet might sweet mercy find a place, 'The gracious prince that gives him life Would crown a never-dying flame, And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lisp the giver's name. But though he should be dragg'd in scorn He shall not want one constant friend O then her mourning coach was call'd; Tho' borne in a triumphal car, She had not lov'd her favourite more. She follow'd him, prepar❜d to view And the last scene of Jemmy's woes Distorted was that blooming face, And sever'd was that beauteous neck, And ravish'd was that constant heart, Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, 'Yet, yet,' she cried, 'I'll follow thee. 'My death, my death alone can show The pure, and lasting love I bore: Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.' 49. The dismal scene was o'er and past, Tho' justice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty sheds is due; O Song from Aella SING unto my roundelay, W. Shenstone O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, |