She summon'd every social sprite, That sports by wood or water, Were bound to stakes like kye, man : Clamb up the starry sky, man: Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter; The western breeze steals through the trees To view this Fête Champetre. How many a robe sae gaily floats! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony's enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. And make his ether-stane, man: But entrance found he nane, man: (353) He blushed for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi' humble prayer to join and share The Dumfries Volunteers. TUNE-Push about the Jorum. DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir; There's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsicon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally! Oh, let us not like snarling tykes The kettle o' the kirk and state, Our father's bluid the kettle bought, The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing "God save the King." Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing "God save the King' We'll ne'er forget the People. Fal de ral, &c. Oh, wert Than in the Cauld Blast. (354) TUNE-Lass o' Livistone. OH, wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea, To share it a', to share it a’. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Lovely Polly Stewart. TUNE-Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart. On lovely Polly Stewart! Oh charming Polly Stewart ! There's not a flower that blooms in May But worth and truth eternal youth May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms 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. Vestrern I had a Pint a' Wine. TUNE-Banks of Banna. A place where body saw na'; Ye monarchs tak the east and west, The Era Tig. TUNE-The Lea rig. WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star Return sae dowf and weary O; My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, The hunter loes the morning sun, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Bonnie Tesley. (355) TUNE-The Collier's Bonnie Lassie. OH saw ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed owre the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. And love but her for ever; Thy subjects we, before thee; The hearts o' men adore thee. That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return to Caledonie ! Will ye Go to the Indies, my Mary. (356) TUNE-The Ewe-buchts. WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight ine your lily-white hand; Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the cause that shall part us! My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing. I never saw a fairer, I never loe'd a dearer; And neist my heart I'll wear het On leeze me on my wee thing, Tho' warld's care we share o't Bighland Mary. (357) YE banks, and braes, and streams around Auld Rob Morris. THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, [men; He's the king o'guid fellows and wale o’auld He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay: [lea, As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But, oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a [and yard; laird, And my daddie has naught but à cot-house A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; [gane: The night comes to me, but my rest it is I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, [breast. And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Oh had she but been of a lower degree, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel Ilow sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary ! I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! [bliss, Oh, how past describing had then been my As now my distraction no words can express! Meg grew sick--as he grew heal, Something in her bosom wrings, And oh, her een, they speak sic things Duncan was a lad o' grace, Maggie's was a piteous case, Duncan could na be her death, Poortith Cauld. TUNE-I had a Horse. Он poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An 'twere na for my Jeanie. Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, This warld's wealth when I think on, That he should be the slave o't. Her een sae bonnie blue betray Oh wha can prudence think upon, How blest the humble cotter's fate! Gala Water. (358) THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindness, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure! Lord Gregory. Oн mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, At least some pity on me shaw, Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 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, Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Ye mustering thunders from above Mary Morison. (359) OH Mary, at thy window be It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: |