Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/371

Rh I red you beware at the hunting, young men,

I red you beware at the hunting, young men;

Tak' some on the wing,

And some as they spring,

But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-hen.

Old Phœbus, himself, as he peeped o'er the hill,

In spite at her plumage he tried his skill:

He levelled his rays where she basked in the brae,

His rays were outshone, and but marked where she lay.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,

The best o' our lads wi' the best o' their skill;

But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,

Then, whirr! she was over a mile at a flight.

but a lassie yet,

Her age is no twice nine;

She lang has been her mammie's pet—

I wish that she were mine!

She's licht o' heart, and licht o' foot—

She's blythe as blythe can be;

She's dear to a' her friends about,

But dearer far to me!

A fairer face I may ha'e seen,

And passed it lightly by;

Louisa's in her tartan sheen,

Has fixed my wandering eye:

A thousand beauties there I trace,

That ithers canna see;

My blessings on that bonnie face—

She's a' the world to me!

Oh, love has wiles at his command!

Whene'er we chance to meet,

The slightest pressure o' her hand

Mak's my fond bosom beat;

I hear the throbbing o' my heart

While nought but her I see;—

When shall I meet, nae mair to part,

Louisa, dear, wi' thee?

weary long this lonely night

An' dowie dark the starless skies,

Like my poor heart that hath nae light,

But comes from my beloved's eyes,

An' thine, dear babe, in lightest sleep,

Unbroken as the summer's deep.

Roll on, thou cold and stilly hours,

Roll on like waves that gently fan

The morning with her honied flowers,

When leaves grow brighter, every one,

An' the soft air, like silver bells,

Sings in the broom that gems our dells.

I hear the gentle rush of wings—

I see the light of wandering stars,

And many a budding hope upsprings,

Guttering with gowden dots and bars;

But ah! woe's me, 'tis in my mind

A peopled world, where all are blind.

And now, ah! now, the vision fades,

The colours fly—the lights are gone—

The inmates hang their weary heads,

Their features freeze—are turn'd to stone,

Alas, alas! my baby boy,

Awake and give thy mother joy.

is a bonnie blushing flower,

But ah; I darena breathe the name!

I fain would steal it frae its bower,

Though a' should think me sair to blame.

It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,

Like brightest star where ithers shine;

Fain would I place it in my breast,

And make this bonnie blossom mine.