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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,

When the kye come hame ;
'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk,

When the kye come hame.

'Tis not beneath the burgonet,

Nor yet beneath the crown, 'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor yet on bed of down; 'Tis beneath the spreading birch,

In the dell without a name, Wi'a bonnie, bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.

There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he loves to see,
And up upon the tapmost bough,

Oh, a happy bird is he !
Then he pours his melting ditty,

And love 'tis a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.

When the bluart bears a pearl,

And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken gowan

Has fauldit up his ee.

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ROBERT TANNAHILL, born June 3, 1774, died May 17, 1810.

GLOOMY winter's now awa,
Saft the westling breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks of Stanley shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheery 0;
Sweet the crawflow'r's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie 0.
Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blythely spend the gowden day

'Midst joys that never weary 0.
Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lav'rocks fan the snaw-white clouds,
Siller saughs with downy buds

Adorn the banks sae briery 0.
Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feath’ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheery 0.
Trees may bud and birds may sing,
Flow’rs may bloom and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie 0.

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,

Midst nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens and woody glens,

With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,

The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are naught to me when gaun to thee,

Sweet lass o’ Arranteenie.
Yon mossy rose-bud down the how

Just opening fresh and bonn
It blinks beneath the hazel bough,

And's scarcely seen by ony.
Sae sweet amidst her native hills

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,

The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now from the mountain's lofty brow

I view the distant ocean ;
There avarice guides the bounding prow,

Ambition courts promotion.
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,

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloaming,

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier wi' its soft faulding blossom,

And sweet is the birk wi’ its mantle о'green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She’s modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny,

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

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

Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,

The sports of the city seem'd foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie,

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,

If wanting young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

OH, ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE ?

ROBERT TANNAHILL. Air" Sleepy Maggie.”

Oh, 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,

No a starn in a'the carry ;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.

Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.

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