Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/317

Rh There, as she mark'd the sportive fishes

Upward spring wi' quiv'ring fin,

I slyly stole some melting kisses,

Frae the lassie o' the glen.

O the birken, &c.

What bliss! to sit, and nane to fash us,

In some sweet wee bowery den;

Or fondly stray amang the rashes,

Wi' the lassie o' the glen.

O the birken, &c.

And though I wander now unhappy,

Far firae scenes we haunted then,

I'll ne'er forget the—bank sae grassy,

Nor—the lassie o' the glen.

O the birken, &c.

[J. .—Tune, "Jockie's far awa'."]

winter! wi' thy storms,

Thy frosts, an' hills o' sna';

Dismantle nature o' her charms,

For I maun lea' them a'.

I've mourn'd the gowan wither'd laid

Upon its wallow bier;

I've seen the rose-bud drooping fade

Beneath the dewy tear.

Then fare ye weel, my frien's sae dear,

For I maun lea'e you a'.

O will ye sometimes shed a tear

For me, when far awa'?

For me, when far frae hame and you,

Where ceaseless tempests blaw,

Will ye repeat my last adieu,

An' mourn that I'm awa'?

I've seen the wood, where rude winds rave,

In gay green mantle drest,

But now its leafless branches wave

Wild whistling in the blast:

So perish'd a' my youthfu' joy,

An' left me thus to mourn:

The vernal sun will gild the sky,

But joy will ne'er return.

Then fare ye weel, &c.

In vain will spring her gowans spread

Owre the green swairded lea:

The rose beneath the hawthorn shade

Will bloom in vain for me:

In vain will spring bedeck the bowers

Wi' buds and blossoms braw—

The gloomy storm already lowers

That drives me far awa'.

Then fare ye weel, &c.

O winter! spare the peacefu' scene

Where early joys I knew:

Still be its fields unfading green,

Its sky unclouded blue.

Ye lads and lasses! when sae blythe

The social crack ye ca'—

O spare the tribute of a sigh

For me, when far awa'!

Then fare ye weel, &c.

[.—Tune, "A' body's like to get married but me."]

my dear lassie short syne in yon dale,

But deep was her sigh, and her cheek it was pale;

And sad the saft smile that was heaven to see:

Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.

A feverish heat has deprived o' their bloom

Her lips, ance sae rosy, exhaling perfume;

An' changed is the glance o' her blythe hazel e'e,—

Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.

'Twas thus a fair floweret adorn'd my lone walk,

But chill blew the east on its tender green stalk:

No more its sweet blossoms allure the wild bee—

Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.

If I were but destined to ca' her my ain,

I'd shield her sae fondly frae sna', win', an' rain;

And, nightly, this bosom her pillow wad be:—

Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.

Detraction and malice—society's pest!

I know 'tis your venom that pains her pure breast;

But, O for that haven, 'yont life's stormy sea,

Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me!