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Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping bough,
That breaks upon thy young cheek now.
Aurora's smiles are streaming free;
And it is right, love ;
For mark, love, mark,
Chirrups the lark.
They lack all heart who cannot feel
The voice of heaven within them thrill
merry minstrel sings his fill.
Where brightest wildflowers choose to le,
No witness there;
And o'er us, hark,
Chirrups the lark.
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,
By yon auld grey stane amang the heather :
Trysting-stane amang the heather,
Trysting-stane amang the heather ; How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour, auld
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 beart
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,
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.
ELIZA was a bonnie lass, an', oh, she lo'ed me weel,
I went unto her mother, an'I argued an' I fleech'd,
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,
TELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.
Modernised version of the older song.
I wish I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirkconnell lea!
O Helen, fair beyond compare!
Until the day I die,
Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And died for sake o' me.
Oh, think nae but my heart was sair
On fair Kirkconnell lea.
I laid her down, my sword did draw,
For her that died for me.
Oh, that I were where Helen lies;
“Oh, come, my love, to me!"
On fair Kirkconnell lea.
love died for me.
LUCY'S FLITTIN'. TIILLIAM 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
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.
Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang;
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 !