But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,
Aboon the warrior's cairn;
An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,
Aneath the waving fern!
My Mary.
[Robt. Tannnahill.— Air, "Invercauld's Reel."]
My Mary is a bonnie lassie,
Sweet as the dewy morn,
When Fancy tunes her rural reed,
Beside the upland thorn.
She lives ahint yon sunny knowe,
Where flow'rs in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.
'Tis no the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bow'rs,
That gars me wait in solitude
Among the wild-sprung flow'rs;
But aft I cast a langing e'e,
Down frae the bank out-owre the lea,
There haply I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours.
Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie
Coming frae the town,
We raptur'd sunk in ither's arms
And prest the breckans down;
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The rye-craik rispt his clam'rous throat,
While there the heav'nly vow I got,
That erl'd her my own.
The Rantin' Highlandman.
[Written by John Hamilton, for many years a musicseller and teacher of music in Edinburgh, and the composer of several melodies. He died at Edinburgh in September, 1814, aged 53.]
Ae morn, Last ouk, as I gaed out
To flit a tether'd yowe and lamb,
I met, as skiffing ower the green,
A jolly rantin' Highlandman.
His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,
And ilka smile my favour wan;
I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad,
As this young rantin' Highlandman.
He said, My dear, ye're sune asteer;
Cam' ye to hear the laverock's sang?
O, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,
And wed a rantin' Highlandman?
In summer days, on flowery braes,
When frisky is the ewe and lamb,
I'se row ye in my tartan plaid,
And be your rantin' Highlandman.
With heather bells, that sweetly smells,
I'll deck your hair sae fair and lang,
If ye'll consent to scour the bent
Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.
We'll big a cot, and buy a stock,
Syne do the best that e'er we can;
Then come, my dear, ye needna fear
To trust a rantin' Highlandman.
His words sae sweet gaed to my heart,
And fain I wad ha'e gi'en my han',
Yet durstna, least my mother should
Dislike a rantin' Highlandman.
But I expect he will come back;
Then, though my kin' should scauld and ban,
I'll ower the hill, or where he will,
Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
Earl March.
[Thomas Campbell.]
Earl March look'd on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her—
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour,
His coming to discover;
And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover.
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
And am I then forgot—forgot?—
It broke the heart of Ellen.
