Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/594

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star of the morning still lingers

Amid the deep blue of the sky,

O! it waits for the sun and my Mary

To light up the green earth with joy.

Then haste, love, the fair lily's weeping,

The young rose is drooping in dew;

The lark, in its sweet dream, is sleeping,

Till wakened by nature and you!

There's joy when the soft morning blushes,

And sunbeams on bright streamlets play,

When the deep glen and dark misty mountain

Rejoice at the coming of day:

But not the gay gladness of nature,

When summer and morning are young,

Can equal that rapture of bosom,

When you are the theme of my song.

Yon bright star of morn is departing

To skies of a lovelier hue,

To sparkle on lands that are fairer,

But on maid never fairer than you!

The golden sun now walks in glory,

And gladdens with smiles flower and tree;

Like you who, in joy or in sorrow,

Still gladdens this bleak world to me!

[.—This song was written for an ancient Scottish air to be found in the Skene collection of tunes, and entitled "Bonnie Jean makis meikle of me."]

Lorde Kilspindie's crappe is in,

Sae hail may skyte, an' rain may pour;

The norlan' blaste frae yonte the binne

May skelpe an' dadde fu' snelle an' dour:

I've noucht till doe but tende my flouir,

As lang as heaven sall health bestow mee;

My life's ane rosie sun-licht hour,

For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

Thy bewtie is baith riche an' rare,—

Thy cheeke's the rose, thy teethe's the pearle,

Love sportes amang thy coal-blacke hair,

An' in thine eyne, my winesome girle!

Her voice is musick frae the merle,

Or mavis in the glen below me;—

I'm happier than Kilspindie's Karle,

When bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

Mess Jhone, our sanctimonious frier,

Screedes frae the altar ilka Lente,

That laicks a' were placed here

To practise pennaunce, an' repente;—

But frae sic doctrines I dissent,

An' spurn his cauldriffe dogmas fro' mee;

This warl's a' wi' flouris besprente,

For bonnie Jean mak's muckle o' mee.

I bous'd an' birl't at the yill,

At bikkeris aye I bure the gree;

The roarin' channel-stane stude still

Upo' the yee withoutten mee:

But now adieu to barley-bree,

Whilke frae my balance aft did throw mee,

For I've forfsworn it a', ye see,

Since bonnie Jean made muckle o' mee.

, you're muckle deservin'

A' the sangs that are sung in your praise,

An' me ye've been scrvin' an' servin'

A' the blythest an' best o' my days;

But we ne'er prize our pleasures eneuch

Till we see that frae us they'll be torn,

Sae I'm singing o' freedom the nicht.

For I'm to be married the morn.

Married at last the morn—

Buckled sae fast the morn;

Sae I'm singing o' freedom the nicht,

For I'm to be married the morn.

But I trow ye I wadna be buckled

Gin I saw it could otherwise be,

For I ken that whan twa folk are coupled

Nor ane nor the ither is free;