LOGAN BRAES.
TUNE-Logan Water.
OH Logan, sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers:
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy :
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile :
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Oh, wae upon you, men o'state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make many a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes.
LORD GREGORY.
OH mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?
How aften didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for aye be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of Heaven that flashest by
Oh wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my false love,
His wrangs to Heaven and me!
LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.
TUNE-Louis, what reck I by thee.
LOUIS, what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar loons to me--
I reign in Jeanie's bosom.
Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me :
Kings and nations-swith, awa!
Reif randies, I disown ye!
LOVELY DAVIES.
TUNE-Miss Muir.
O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try
The poet's occupation,
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours,
That whispers inspiration?
Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Or they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms o' lovely Davies,
Each eye it cheers, when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower The garden is adorning.
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart when we maun part
Frae charming lovely Davies.
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift,
That makes us mair than princes;
A scepter'd hand, a king's command,
Is in her darting glances:
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms,
Even he her willing slave is;
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign
Of conquering, lovely Davies.
My muse to dream of such a theme,
Her feeble powers surrender;
The eagle's gaze alone surveys
The sun's meridian splendour:
I wad in vain essay the strain,
The deed too daring brave is :
I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire
The charms o' lovely Davies.
LOVELY POLLY STEWART.
TUNE-Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart.
Oн lovely Polly Stewart!
Oh charming Polly Stewart!
There's not a flower that blooms in May That's half so fair as thou art.
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's,
And art can ne'er renew it;
But worth and truth eternal youth
Will give to Polly Stewart.
May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms
Possess a leal and true heart;
To him be given to ken the heaven
He grasps in Polly Stewart.
Oh lovely Polly Stewart !
Oh charming Polly Stewart !
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May
That's half so sweet as thou art.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
TUNE-M'Pherson's Rant.
FAREWELL, ye dungeous dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
Macpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
Oh, what is death but parting breath ?-
On many a bloody plain
I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
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