Page:Four songs (16).pdf/3

 O come, my love, thy Colin's lay, With rapture calls, O come away ; Come, while the muse this wreath shall twine Around that modest brow of thine ; O hither haste, and with thee bring That beauty, blooming like the spring, Those graces that divinely shine, And charm this ravish'd heart of mine.

SURROUNDED wi' bent and wi' heather,
 * Whar muircocks and plivers are rife,

For mony lang towmond thegither,
 * There liv'd an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation,
 * The twasome they seldom were hiute ;

Bonaparte, the French, an' invasion.
 * Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, whan deep are the gutters,
 * An' night's gloomy canopy spread,

Auld Symon sat luntin his cuttie,
 * An' lousin his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, opt a-gazin,
 * To lock in the door was her care ;

She seein' our signals a-blazin,
 * Came runnin in rivin her hair.