For it's jet, jet black, an it's like a hawk, In vain to me the cowslips blaw, And maun I still, &c. The merry ploughboy cheers the team, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, And maun I still, &c. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shill; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, CHORUS. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her ee? TUNE-Roslin Castle. The gloomy night is gathering fast, The Autumn mourns her ripening corn She sees the scowling tempest fly: 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes! TUNE-Gilderoy. From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; They never, never can divide But the last throb that heaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh! TUNE-I had a horse, I had nae mair. Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fruitful fells; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, Thus every kind their pleasure find, Some solitary wander. The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry, But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear, We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer! TUNE-" Soldier's Joy." I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batteries, And there I left for witnesses an arm and a limb: Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. And now, though I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, Lal de daudle, &c. What though with hoary locks I must stand the windy shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. |