FAIR ELIZA. A GAELIC AIR. TURN again, thou fair Eliza, Rew on thy despairing lover; Canst thou break his faithful heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza; If to love thy heart denies, Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? Not the bee upon the blossom, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, TUNE ELIZA. -"Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c. FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling! O mem'ry, spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling. Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt nor canst relieve me; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, The music of thy voice I heard, THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the whyle; Low in your wint'ry beds, ye flow'rs, But here, alas! for me, nae mair Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile, Farewell the bonie banks of Ayr, Farewell, farewell! sweet Ballochmyle. GLOOMY DECEMBER. ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair! Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure; Wild as the Winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o' the Summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope and last comfort is gone. Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart' Sever'd from thee, can I survive? But fate has will'd, and we must part I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, MY NANIE'S AWA. TUNE"There'll never be peace," &c. Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, They pain my sad bosom so sweetly they blaw, Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, Come, Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, |