In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes,
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.
Ae Happy Hour.
[Alexander Laing.]
The dark gray o' gloaming,
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the ringdove,
The scent o' the haw,
The brae o' the burnie,
A' blooming in flower,
An' twa faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' sweet smiling babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
And health to endure,
Make time row around aye
The ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,
Whom av'rice can move,
To woo, an' to marry,
For a' thing but love,
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken nae the pleasures
O' ae happy hour.
My Johnnie.
[John Mayne.—Air, "Johnnie's grey breeks."]
Jenny's heart was frank and free,
And wooers she had mony, yet
Her sang was aye, Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnnie yet.
For, air and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheerie, that
I wish to be, before I die,
His ain kind dearie yet.
Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,
Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
And few or nane in a' the place
Had gowd and gear more plenty, yet
Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,
Had gart her aft look eerie, yet
She sung wi' glee, I hope to be
My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.
What tho' he's now gaen far awa',
Where guns and cannons rattle, yet
Unless my Johnnie chance to fa'
In some uncanny battle, yet
Till he return, my breast will burn
Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
For I hope to see, before I die,
His bairns to him endear me yet.
Tak' tent now, Jean.
[Ivan.]
Tak' tent now, Jean,—ye mind yestreen
The tap that raised ye frae your wheel.
Your wily e'e, that glanced on me,
Ha! lass, the meaning I kent weel.
But I ha'e tint thy kindly glint,
And lightly now ye geek at me;
But, lass, tak' heed, you'll rue the deed,
When aiblins we'll be waur to 'gree.
Tak' tent now, Jean,—the careless mein,
And cauldrife look, are ill to dree;
It's sair to bide the scornfu' pride
And saucy leer o' woman's e'e.
Ah! where is now the bosom-vow,
The gushing tear of melting love,
The heav'nly thought, which fancy wrought,
Of joy below, and bliss above?
Tak' tent now, Jean,—thae twa sweet een
Fu' light and blithely blink I trow;
The hinney drop on the red-rose top
Is nae sae sweet as thy wee mou':
But though thy fair and faithless air
Hath wrung the bosom-sigh frae me,
A changing mind, and heart unkind,
May chill a breast as dear to thee.
