In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O, Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, The hunter lo'es the morning sun, THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. "TWAS ev'n the dewy fields were green, All nature list'ning seem'd the while, With careless step I onward stray'd, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy: Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in Autumn mild, When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild: But Woman, Nature's darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Ev'n there her other works are foil'd, By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. O, had she been a country maid, That ever rose in Scotland's plain! Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep Where fame and honors lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine: Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine, Wi' the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. BONIE LESLEY. O SAW ye bonie Lesley, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, And say, "I canna wrang thee." The Pow'rs aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves, sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonie. BONIE JEAN. THERE was a lass, and she was fair, And ay she wrought her mammie's wark, But hawks will rob the tender joys Young Robie was the brawest lad, He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As, in the bosom o' the stream, The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en, So, trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonie Jean. And now she works her mammie's wark, But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, The sun was sinking in the west, O Jeanie fair! I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me? At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me Now what could artless Jenny do? |