HIGHLAND MARY.
TUNE-Katharine Ogie.'
1 YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry:
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary!
2 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
3 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
4 Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye, the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.
1 THERE's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
2 She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
3 But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my
4 The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
5 Oh had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
1 DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blithe Yule night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
2 Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd:
Ha, ha, &c.;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin',
Spak' o' loupin' o'er a linn ;
Ha, ha, &c.
3 Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.;
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.
4 How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, &c.;
Meg grew sick-as he grew heal.
Ha, ha, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And oh, her e'en, they spak sic things!.
Ha, ha, &c.
5 Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, &c.;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't..
1 0 POORTITH cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between yc;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.
Oh why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on Fortune's shining?
2 This warld's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.
3 Her e'en sae bonny blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
Oh why, &c.
4 Oh wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
Oh wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
Oh why, &c.
5 How blest the humble cottar's fate!
He woos his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
Oh why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on Fortune's shining?
1 THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala water.
2 But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Gala water.
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