She summon'd every social sprite,

That sports by wood or water,
On th' bonnie banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête Champetre.
Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew,

Were bound to stakes like kye, man :
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',

Clamb up the starry sky, man: Reflected beams dwell in the streams,

Or down the current shatter;

The western breeze steals through the trees To view this Fête Champetre.

How many a robe sae gaily floats!

What sparkling jewels glance, man!

To Harmony's enchanting notes,

As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam's yett,
To hold their Fête Champetre.
When Politics came there to mix

And make his ether-stane, man:
He circled round the magic ground,

But entrance found he nane, man: (353) He blushed for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter,

Wi' humble prayer to join and share
This festive Fête Champetre.

The Dumfries Volunteers.

TUNE-Push about the Jorum. DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir; There's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsicon, And Criffel sink in Solway,

Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally!
Fal de ral, &c.

Oh, let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap, come in an unco loon,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among oursels united
;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted
Fal de ral, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't:
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our father's bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.
Fal de ral, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing "God save the King." Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing "God save the King' We'll ne'er forget the People. Fal de ral, &c.

Oh, wert Than in the Cauld Blast. (354)

TUNE-Lass o' Livistone.

OH, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around the blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a Paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

Lovely Polly Stewart.

TUNE-Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart. On lovely Polly Stewart!

Oh charming Polly Stewart !

There's not a flower that blooms in May
That's half so fair as thou art.
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's,
And art can ne'er renew it;

But worth and truth eternal youth
Will give to Polly Stewart.

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms
Possess a leal and true heart;

To him be given to ken the heaven

He grasps in Polly Stewart.

Oh lovely Polly Stewart!

Oh charming Polly Stewart!

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half so sweet as thou art.

Vestrern I had a Pint a' Wine.

TUNE-Banks of Banna.
YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,

A place where body saw na';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs tak the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah!
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take with Anna!
Awa, thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa, thou pale Diana !
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, night!
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a';
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi' Anna!
my

The Era Tig.

TUNE-The Lea rig.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field,

Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter loes the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo:
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie Q.

Bonnie Tesley. (355)

TUNE-The Collier's Bonnie Lassie.

OH saw ye bonnie Lesley,

As she gaed owre the border? She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And
say "I canna wrang thee."
The powers 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 bonnie.

Will ye Go to the Indies, my Mary. (356)

TUNE-The Ewe-buchts.

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across the Atlantic's roar?

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine ;

But a' the charms o' the Indies

Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary,

And plight ine your lily-white hand; Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;

And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing.
SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never loe'd a dearer;

And neist my heart I'll wear het
For fear my jewel tine.

On leeze me on my wee thing,
My bonnie blythesome wee thing;
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing,
I'll think my lot divine.

Tho' warld's care we share o't
And may see meikle mair o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And ne'er a word repine.

Bighland Mary. (357)
TUNE-Katharine Ogie.

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Auld Rob Morris.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, [men;

He's the king o'guid fellows and wale o’auld He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,

And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay: [lea,

As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But, oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a [and yard;

laird, And my daddie has naught but à cot-house A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be

my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; [gane: The night comes to me, but my rest it is I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, [breast.

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

Ilow sweetly bloomed 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.

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 !

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! [bliss, Oh, how past describing had then been my As now my distraction no words can express!

Meg grew sick--as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And oh, her een, they speak sic things
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, &c.

Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith;
Ha, ha, &c.

Poortith Cauld.

TUNE-I had a Horse.

Он poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; 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?

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.
Oh why, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
Oh why, &c,

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.

How blest the humble cotter's fate!
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
Oh why, &c.

Gala Water. (358)

THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his and he'll be mine,

The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird,

And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindness, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;

The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

Lord Gregory.

Oн mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempests roar ;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;

At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwine side,

Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for aye be mine;

And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
Oh wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to Heaven and me !

Mary Morison. (359)
TUNE-Bide ye yet.

OH Mary, at thy window be

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor: