BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonie Doon And I sae weary, fu' o' care? Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flow'ring thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed, never to return. Oft hae I rov'd my bonie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, THE DISCONSOLATE LOVER. Now Spring has clad the groves in green, While ilka thing in nature join O why thus all alone are mine The trout within yon wimpling burn My life was ance that careless stream, But love, wi' unrelenting beam, The little flowret's peaceful lot, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom; And now, beneath the withering blast, My youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, As little reckt I sorrow's pow'r, Until the flow'ry snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, O, had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' men and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, "Hope nae mair," SWEET fa's the eve on Cragie-Burn, I see the flowers and spreading trees, Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither. THE CHEERLESS SOUL. TUNE — “Jockey's Gray Breeks." AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues In vain to me the cowslips blaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Come then, enamor'd and fond of my anguish, ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. TUNE-"Where'll bonie Ann lie?" Or, "Loch Eroch side." O STAY, Sweet-warbling wood-lark, stay, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; Say, was thy little mate unkind, Thou tells of never-ending care; |