Trysting-stane amang the heather, Trysting-stane amang the heather; How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour, By yon auld grey stane amang the heather! Her father's laird, sae gair on gear, He set their mailin to anither; Sae they've selt their kye, and ower the sea Her parting look bespake a heart Whase rising grief she couldna smother, As she waved a last farewell to me And Scotland's braes and blooming heather: 'Twas sair against the lassie's will A burning curse licht on the heads O' worthless lairds colleagued thegither To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans Frae their native hills and blooming heather: Native glens and blooming heather, Native glens and blooming heather; To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans Frae their native hills and blooming heather. I'll sell the cot my granny left, Its plenishing an' a' thegither, An' I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds, I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds, O POVERTY! ALEXANDER HUME, 1835. ELIZA was a bonnie lass, an', oh, she lo'ed me weel, I went unto her mother, an' I argued an' I fleech'd, I neist went to her brother, an' I told him a' my pain- O wealth! it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, But wait a wee; oh, love is slee, and winna be said nay, HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL, Modernised version of the older song. I WISH I were where Helen lies-- O Helen, fair beyond compare! Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And cursed the hand that fired the shot, Oh, think nae but my heart was sair On fair Kirkconnell lea. I laid her down, my sword did draw, Oh, that I were where Helen lies; O Helen fair, O Helen chaste! On fair Kirkconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies-- LUCY'S FLITTIN'. WILLIAM LAIDLAW, died 1846. Mr. Laidlaw was the steward, amanuensis, and tried and trusted friend of Sir Walter Scott. 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her— Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin', She heard the craw sayin't high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? Then what gars me wish ony better to be? Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, Though now he said naething but, Fare ye weel, Lucy! The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit, The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie: she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! MY AIN FIRESIDE. ELIZABETH HAMILTON, authoress of the "Cottagers of Glenburnie." I HAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been, Whare the grand shine o' splendour has dazzled my een; As the bonnie blythe blink o' my ain fireside. Oh, cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside! My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! Ance mair, Gude be thanket, round my ain heartsome ingle Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! When I draw in my stool on my cosey hearthstane, And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee; My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! =ཡ |