Her hair is like the curling mist
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her forehead 's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flow'ry scene,
Just op'ning on its thorny stem;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen,
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phœbus sinks behind the seas;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she 's twa sparkling, rogueish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Though matching beauty's fabled queen,
'Tis the mind that shines in every grace;
An' chiefly in her rogueish een.
Young Jocky.
[Two or three lines of this song are old. The rest is by Burns. The tune is given in Oswald with the title "Young Jocky was the blythest lad in a' our town."]
Young Jocky was the blythest lad,
In a' our town or here awa';
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu' lichtly danced he in the ha'!
He roosed my een sae bonnie blue,
He roosed my waist sae genty sma';
And aye my heart cam' to my mou',
When ne'er a body heard or saw.
My Jocky toils upon the plain,
Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw;
And ower the lee I look fu' fain,
When Jocky's owsen hameward ca'.
And aye the nicht comes round again,
When in his arms he taks me a',
And aye he vows he'll be my ain
As lang as he has breath to draw.
The lad that's far awa'.
[The first verse of this song is old. The rest was written by Burns for the Museum, to the tune of "The bonnie lad that's far awa'." The words also sing to the old air of "O'er the hills and far awa'." "This little lamentation of a desolate damsel," says Jeffrey, "is tender and pretty."]
O, how can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa'?
It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my e'e
To think on him that's far awa'.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they ha'e disown'd me a';
But I ha'e ane will take my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa'.
A pair o' gloves he ga'e to me,
And silken snoods he ga'e me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa'.
The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw
And my sweet babie will be born,
And he'll come hame that's far awa'.
