Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/406

388 Oh, where is the maid that like thee ne'er can cloy,

Whose wit can enliven each dull pause of joy;

And when the short raptures are all at an end,

From beautiful mistress turn sensible friend?

In vain do I praise thee, or strive to reveal,

(Too nice for expression,) what only we feel:

In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien,

The graces in waiting adorn you unseen.

When I see you, I love you; when hearing, adore;

I wonder and think you a woman no more:

Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain,

And, kissing your lips, you turn woman again.

With thee in my bosom how can I despair?

I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa' care;

I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles opprest,

Which never displeases, but always is best.

In all that I write I'll thy judgment require;

Thy wit shall correct what thy charms did inspire.

I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er,

And then live in friendship, when passion's no more.

[T. M. .]

Clouden, as ye wander,

Hills, an' heughs, an' muirs amang,

Ilka knowe an' green meander,

Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!

Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,

Howms whare rows the gowden wave:

Blissful scenes! fareweel for ever!

I maun seek an unco grave.

Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,

Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,

That some faithfu' hand might kindly

Lay't amang my native mools.

Cronies dear, wha late an' early,

Aye to soothe my sorrows strave,

Think on ane wha lo'es you dearly,

Doom'd to seek an unco grave.

Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains,

Far frae a' that's dear to dwall,

Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains,

Sings a dirk in my puir saul.

Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,

Howms whare row the gowden wave,

Blissfu' scenes, fareweel for ever,

I maun seek an unco grave!

[ by the late to a Gaelic air, which is given in the sixth volume of Smith's Scottish Minstrel. Raven's stream is in the neighbourhood of Greenock.]

love, come let us wander,

Where Raven's streams meander,

And where in simple grandeur,

The daisy decks the plain.

Peace and joy our hours shall measure;

Come, oh come, my soul's best treasure!

Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,

Raven's braes will be, my dearie.

The silver moon is beaming,

On Clyde her light is streaming,

And, while the world is dreaming,

We'll talk of love, my dear,

None, my Jean, will share this bosom,

Where thine image loves to blossom,

And no storm will ever sever

That dear flower, or part us ever.

[.—Music by R. A. Smith.]

your harp, my Mary,

Its loudest liveliest key,

And join the sounding Correi

In its wild melodie.

For burn, and breeze, and billow,

Their sang are a' the same,

And every waving willow

Sounds, "Cameron's welcome hame."

O list yon thrush, my Mary,

That warbles on the pine!

Its strain so light and airy,

Accords in joy with thine