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THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH.

My love was once a bonnie lad;

He was the flow'r of a' his kin;

The absence of his bonnie face

Has rent my tender heart in twain.

I day nor night find no delight-

In silent tears I still complain ;

And exclaim 'gainst those, my rival foes,

That hae ta'en frae me my darling swain.

Despair and anguish fill my breast,

Since I have lost my blooming rose:

I sigh and moan while others rest;

His absence yields me no repose.

To seek my love I'll range and rove

Thro' every grove and distant plain ;

Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days

T'ear tidings from my darling swain.

There's nothing strange in nature's change,

Since parents show such cruelty ;

They caus'd my love from me to range,

And know not to what destiny.

The pretty kids and tender lambs

May cease to sport upon the plain;

But I'll mourn and lament, in deep discontent,

For the absence of my darling swain.



HUZZA! HUZZA! FOR THE HIGHLAND LADS

Air" Johnnie Cope." Keynote G minor.

Huzza ! huzza! for the Highland lads,

Wi' their bonnets blue, and tartan plaids,

Who march away with shining blades,

To fight for bonnie Scotland;

With banners waving in the wind,

The foe before, their heels behind,

Ere they would flee, or traitors be,

They'd die for bonnie Scotland.

Then, huzza, &c.

There's not a heart, or Scottish maid,

But warms to see the tartan plaid,

And would march away with a white cockade,

For love of bonnie Scotland;

Let tyrants rule, and slaves obey,

If freedom once but point the way,

There's not a hand would shun the fray,

But would proudly draw for Scotland.

Then, huzza, be.