Oh for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.

I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek-
For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e

Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my e'e;

While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.
There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.
O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,
But there's ae light puts them all out,-
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' its hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on

the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There's naught now frae ruin my country can

save,

But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;

But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in

my e'e:

"I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." It's hame, an' its hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

MY NANIE, O.

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night, and rainie, O,
Though heaven and earth should mix in
storm,

I'll gang and see my Nanie, O;

My Nanie, O, my Nanie, O;

My kind and winsome Nanie, 0,

She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do't but Nanie, O.

In preaching time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonnie, 0,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,

For thieving looks at Nanie, O;
My Nanie, O, my Nanie, 0;

The world's in love with Nanie, O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie, O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely, O;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely, O;
My Nanie, O, my Nanie, O;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie, O; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie, O.

Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie, 0,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew,
When coming frae my Nanie, O;
My Nanie, O, my Nanie, O;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie, 0;
The stars and moon may tell't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie, O!

SATURDAY'S SUN.

O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile
On one who is weary and worn with his toil!-
Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns he gives;
His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh

run,

To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun: The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune,

Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down?

Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow

Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow.

Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e,

Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me.
I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine
On a form half so fair or a face so divine;
Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in
the ha';

I came and I won thee frae the wit o' them a'.

My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu',
My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I
lo'e;

My wife is the gold and delight of my e'e,
And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me.
O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew,
And no leave a sprout for kind Heaven to pu'?
Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump
of a tree,

Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be?

AWAKE, MY LOVE.

Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn
Came forth, the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now bush-
The gold-spink answered from the bush-
The plover, fed on heather crop,

Call'd from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lonely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark?
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love-
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE ROSE.

Full white the Bourbon lily blows,
And fairer haughty England's rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
His crest, when high the soldier bears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
O! there it blossoms-there it blows,-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

Bright like a steadfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,

From matchless Bruce till dauntless Græme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows;-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

What conquer'd ay, what nobly spared,
What firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill?
What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo?
That spirit which no terror knows;-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

I vow-and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less-
Men kinder at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth-more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true,
Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew.
Round flies the song-the flagon flows,-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countrie.

O! gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countrie.

O! it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my e'e, But the love I left in Galloway, Wi' bonnie bairnies three. My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, An' smiled my fair Marie; I've left my heart behind me In my ain countrie.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back-O never,

To my ain countrie.
I'm leal to the high Heaven,
Which will be leal to me,
An' there I'll meet ye a' sune
Frae my ain countrie.

BONNIE LADY ANN.

There's kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips, And gowd amang her hair;

Her breists are lapt in a holy vail;

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch,
Or what arm o' luve daur span,
The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,

Or the waist o' Lady Ann?

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her ladie mou'.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd,
Her jimpy waist maun span;

Oh! she's an armfu' fit for heeven-
My bonnie Lady Ann.

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,
Tied up wi' siller thread;

And comely sits she in the midst,

Men's langing een to feed:

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky, milky hand;

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger of

God,

My bonnie Lady Ann.

The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd,
Like my luve's broidered cap;
And on the mantle that my luve wears
Is mony a gowden drap.