5
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feeding their fawns, love, for you.
There the loud roaring floods they are fallin',
By crags that are furrow'd and grey;
To her young there the eagle is callin'.
Or gazin' afar for her pray.
Or low by the birks on the burnie,
Whare the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest;
There oft I would lead thee, my Mary,
Whare the black-bird has builded her nest.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin'
When shepherds return frae the hill,
Around by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill
Right sweet is the low-setting sun-beam,
On the lake's bosom quiv'ring seen;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.
THE LASSIE I LO'E BEST OF A'.
Hae ye seen, in the calm dewy morning,
The red-breast wild warbling sae clear;
Or the low dwelling, snow-breasted gowan,
Sur-charged wi' mild e'ening's soft tear?
