On Richmond Hill there lives a lass

More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass,

A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,

Has won my right good-will ; I'd crowns resign to call her mine,

Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace;

An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rocken as the win' da blow, While she da sweetly sleep below,

In the stillness o' the night. An' dere at evemen I da goo,

A-hoppen auver ghiates an' bars,

By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da clumper to my shoe ;

An' zometimes we da slyly catch
A chat, an hour upon the stratch,
An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch,

In the stillness o' the night.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,

And wanton through the grove, O, whisper to my charming fair,

I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own ! 0, may her choice be fixed on me!

Mine's fixed on her alone.

An' zometimes she da goo to zome

Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace,

An' I da get a clue to triace
Her out, an' goo to zee her huomo,

An' I da wish a vield a mile,
As she da sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,

In the stillness o' the night.





O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 0, stay and hear! your true-love's coming

That can sing both high and low; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

O Mary, at thy window be !

It is the wished, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string

The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Though this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a',

“Ye are na Mary Morison." O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

What is love? 't is not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,

Youth's a stuff will not endure.




When first I saw sweet Peggy,

'T was on a market day : A low-backed car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass,

And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare

With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.



Ov all the housen o' the pliace

Ther 's gone wher I da like to call,

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes

of death in warlike cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market town,

As right and left they fly ;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart,
That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters

By far outnumber these ;
While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming god of Love ! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin',
As she sits in her low-backed car.

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em ;
But sure such folks could ne'er beget

So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
When she is by I leave my work,

I love her so sincerely ;
My master comes like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his bellyful,

I 'll bear it all for Sally ;
For she 's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt

The Saturday and Monday ;
For then I 'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally ;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,

Anil often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named :
I leave the church in sermon-time,

And slink away to Sally,
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,

0, then I shall have money! I'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

I'll give it to my honey ;
O, would were ten thousand pound !

I'd give it all to Sally ;
For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

0, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,

And a lady for my bride ;
For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar ;

O, my heart would beat high

At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car !



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Of all the girls that are so smart

There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.


O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the

best! If fifty girls were around you, I'd hardly see the

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ;


me still.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be | O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, where it will,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curSweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before tains fall;

O, might we live together in a cottage mean and

small, Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the a rock,

only wall ! How clear they are ! how dark they are ! and

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my disthey give me many a shock; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never a shower,

wish it less; Could ne'er express the charming lip that has The proudest place would fit your face, and I am me in its power.

poor and low,

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows may go!

tress ;

lifted up,



Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like

a china cup; Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and

THE POSIE. so fine, It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be in a twine.

O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ! The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

sae green : all before ;

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor;

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, was gay ;

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my

without a peer : heart away!

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.


When she stood up for dancing, her steps were I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in so complete,

view, The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her For it's like a balmykiss o' her sweet bonnie mou';

The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her

blue: so much praised,

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I 'll place the lily there;

The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air : And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. sing ; Your smile is always in my heart, your name be- The hawthorn I will pu’, wi' its locks o’ siller gray, side my tongue.

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o'day; But you've as many sweethearts as you 'd count But the songster's nest within the bu I winna

on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. finger stands.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star 0, you 're the flower of womankind, in country or in town;

And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. sae clear ; If some great lord should come this way and see The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to

your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

take away :

is near,


I 'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by

a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall

ne'er remove : And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

Though they deck no princely halls, In bouquets for glittering balls,

My gentle Mary Lee ! Richer hues than painted walls

Will make them dear to thee; For the blue and laughing sky Spreads a grandler canopy Than all wealth's golden skill,

My charming Mary Lee ! Love would make them dearer still,

That offers them to thee.



My wreathéd flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,

My bonny Mary Lee !
They may seem as trifles too,

Not, I hope, to thee;
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise ;
None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee ;
And can true love wish for more ?
Surely not, Mary Lee !


I HAVE traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,

My bonny Mary Lee !
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,

Gathered all for thee?
They are not flowers of Pride,
For they graced the dingle-side ;
Yet they grew in Ileaven's smile,

My gentle Mary Lee !
Can they fear thy frowns the while

Though offered by me?
Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,

My fairy Mary Lee !
All so spotless and so pale,

Like thine own purity.
And might I make it known,
'T is an emblem of my own
Love, -- if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.
Surely flowers can bear no blame,

My bonny Mary Lee.
Here's the violet's modest blue,
That ʼneath hawthorns hides from view,

My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I’m as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee ;
So I've brought the flowers to plead,

And win a smile from thee.


MAXWELTon braes are bonnie
Where early fa's the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'il me her promise true,
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be ;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw drift;
Her throat is like the swan ;
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,
That e'er the sun shone on ;
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud ;
Spring's beauty in its hood,

My bonny Mary Lee !
'T is the first in all the wood

I could find for thee. Though a blush is scarcely seen, Yet it hides its worth within, Like my love ; for I've no power,

My angel Mary Lee, To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like the winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet,
Her voice is low and sweet ;
And she's a' the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.




Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;
A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so ?
More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho !

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or syth,

And blither too ; For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?


Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting ;
And Jove hath made it of a kind,
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.

Why so ?
More we enjoy it, more it dies ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho !




WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender foars,
I would approach, but dare not move ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear ;
No other wit but hers approve ; —
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Ah! what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too ;
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest face to frown :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too ; For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire :

Ah then, ah then, If country love such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curd as doth the king his meat,

And blither too ; For kings have often fears when they sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup :

Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his beds of down,

More sounder too;

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