WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. JAMES HOGG. Air-"The blaithrie o't." COME, all ye jolly shepherds. That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken. What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the kye come hame, 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, There the blackbird bigs his nest And love 'tis a' the theme, When the bluart bears a pearl, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. Then the eye shines sae bright, When the kye come hame? See yonder pawky shepherd For his heart is in a flame When the kye come hame. Awa' wi' fame and fortune— What comfort can they gi'e?— And a' the arts that prey On man's life and libertie. Gi'e me the highest joy That the heart o' man can frame, My bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. K GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA. ROBERT TANNAHILL, born June 3, 1774, died May 17, 1810. 'Midst joys that never weary 0. Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods, And ilka thing is cheery O. Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie O. THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE. ROBERT TANNAHILL. This poet, a weaver in Paisley-an amiable but most unfortunate man-wrote upon many imaginary fair ones, and associated their names with places he had never seen. Arranteenie is a place unknown, but is supposed to have been intended for Ardentinny, a lovely spot on the shores of Loch Long, in Argyleshire, which Tannahill had never visited. FAR lone amang the Highland hills, Yon mossy rose-bud down the how Now from the mountain's lofty brow There avarice guides the bounding prow, Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurell'd favours many, Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Arranteenie. JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. ROBERT TANNAHILL. The music by R. A. SMITH. One of the most popular of the modern Scotch melodies. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, How sweet is the brier wi' its soft faulding blossom, She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, Till charm'd with young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, OH, ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE? ROBERT TANNAHILL. Air-" Sleepy Maggie." Он, are ye sleeping, Maggie, Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie. Mirk and rainy is the night, Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c. |