Trysting-stane amang the heather,

Trysting-stane amang the heather; How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour,

auld grey stane amang the heather!

By yon

Her father's laird, sae gair on gear,

He set their mailin to anither; Sae they've selt their kye, and ower the sea They've gane and left their native heather:

Left their native blooming heather,

Left their native blooming heather; They've selt their kye, and ower the sea

They've gane and left their native heather.

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 :

Scotland's braes and blooming heather,

Scotland's braes and blooming heather ; 'Twas sair against the lassie's will

To lea’ her native blooming heather. 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,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather :

Used to meet me amang the heather,

Used to meet me amang the heather; I'll seek her out ’mang foreign wilds,

Wha used to meet me amang the heather.

O POVERTY!

ALEXANDER HUME, 1835.

ELIZA was a bonnie lass, an', oh, she lo’ed me weel,
Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel ;
But I was poor, her father doure, he wadna look on me :
O poverty ! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I went unto her mother, an' I argued an' I fleech'd,
I spak' o' love an' honesty, an' mair an' mair beseech’d;
But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me :
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I neist went to her brother, an' I told him a' my pain-
Oh, he was wae, he tried to say, but it was a' in vain ;
Though he was weel in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me :
O poverty ! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
O wealth! it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,
An' canker'd

grey
locks

young again, gin he hae gear an' lan; To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearful ee : O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

But wait a wee; oh, love is slee, and winna be said nay,
It breaks a' chains except its ain, but it maun hae its way ;-
Auld age was blind, the priest was kind—now happy as can be:
O poverty ! O poverty! we're wed in spite of thee.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL,

Modernised version of the older song.

I WISH I were where Helen lies-
Night and day on me she cries ;
Oh, that I were where Helen lies,

On fair Kirkconnell lea !

O Helen, fair beyond compare !
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,

Until the day I die.

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And cursed the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died for sake o' me.

Oh, think nae but my heart was sair
When my love fell and spak’ nae mair;
I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

O Helen fair, O Helen chaste !
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou liest low and tak’st thy rest

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies--
Night and day on me she cries ;
I'm sick of all beneath the skies,

Since my love died for me.

0

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', And Martinmas dowie had wound up. the

year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear : For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer;

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';

Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see : Fare ye weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin',

Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang ;
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 ?

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee? If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ;

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,

Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga’e me; Yestreen, when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin',

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naething but, Fare ye weel, Lucy!

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He could nae say mair but just, Fare ye weel, Lucy!

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

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
Mang lords and fine ladies a'cover'd wi' braws;
At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been,
Whare the grand shine o' splendour has dazzled my een;
But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied
As the bonnie blythe blink o' my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, 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.
Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear,
But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer :
Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried,
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,
My heart loups sae light I scarce ken’t for my ain ;
Care's down on the wind-it is clean out of sight,
Past troubles they seem but as dreams of the night.
I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see,
And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee;
Nae fleetchings o' flattery, nae boastings of pride,

'
'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane’s ain fireside.

My ain fireside, my ain fireside,
Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane’s ain fireside !