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My head rins round and round about,

My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O’schule-time and othee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve !

O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,

Like simmer blossoms, sprang !

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its water croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud

The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud,

The burn sung to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies ;
And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’joy, till baith

Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled down your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane

Had ony power to speak !
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,

Unsyllabled-unsung !

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me!

Oh, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne!

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,

I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings far or near

Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way,
And channels deeper as it rins

The life of luve's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard

The music o’ your tongue ;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd

O' bygane days and me!

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND,

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake !
Oh, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane !
Oh, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane !

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun hae its will;
But let me rest upon your briest,

To sab and greet my fill.

Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never shall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair!
Oh, wae's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met !
Oh, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
Oh, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !
Oh, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame;
But, oh, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a world's shame!
Het tears are haillin' ower your cheek,

And haillin' ower your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow and for sin ?
I'm weary o' this world, Willie,

And sic wi' a' I see ;
I canna live as I hae lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine ;
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.
A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart ;
Oh, haud me up, and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa part.

Anither, and anither yet

How fast my life-strings break ! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirkyard Tread lichtly for my

sake.

The lavrock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But, oh, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be!
And, oh, think on the leal, leal heart

That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And, oh, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,

Ye never sall kiss mair!

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MAY-MORN SONG.

MOTHERWELL. From “Whistle Binkie." The grass is wet with shining dews,

Their silver bells hang on each tree ; While opening flower and bursting bud

Breathe incense forth unceasingly :
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw,

The throstle glads the spreading thorn,
And cheerily the blythesome lark
Salutes the rosy face of morn.

'Tis early prime ;

And hark, hark, hark,
His merry chime

Chirrups the lark.
Chirrup, chirrup! he heralds in
The jolly sun with matin hymn.

Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake

In pailfuls from each drooping bough,
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom

That breaks upon thy young cheek now.
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,

Aurora's smiles are streaming free;
With earth it seems brave holiday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee :

And it is right, love ;

For mark, love, mark,
How, bathed in light,

Chirrups the lark.
Chirrup, chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel

The voice of heaven within them thrill
In summer morn, when, mounting high,
This

merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell,

Where brightest wildflowers choose to be,
And where its clear stream murmurs on,
Meet type of our love's purity.

No witness there;

And o'er us, hark,
High in the air

Chirrups the lark.
Chirrup, chirrup ! away soars he,
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee.

MARY'S GANE.

John DONALD CARRICK, born 1787, died 1835. From “ Whistle Binkie."

Air—"Coming o'er the craigs o' Kyle.”

Oh, wae's my heart, now Mary's gane,

An' we nae mair shall meet thegither,
To sit an' crack at gloamin' hour,

By yon auld grey stane amang the heather :

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