Hey the Hielan Heather.
[John Imlah. Music by A. Lee.]
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Dear to me, and aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan heather;
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Dear to me, and aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan heather.
There light o' heart and light o' heel,
The lads and lasses trip thegither;
Native norlan' rant an' reel,
Amang the bonnie Hielan heather.
Singing, hey! for the Hielan heather,
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Dear to me, and aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan heather.
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Dear to me, and aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan heather.
The broom and whin, by loch and linn,
Are tipp'd with gowd in simmer weather,
Sweet and fair, but meikle mair,
The purple bells o' Hielan heather.
Singing, hey! for the Hielan heather,
Hey! for the Hielan heather,
Dear to me, and aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan heather.
They’re a’ teasing me.
[Written and arranged by W. Kirby.]
O wha is he I love sae well?
Who has my heart an' a',
O wha is he, 'tis sair to tell,
He's o'er the seas awa'.
There's Charlie, he's a sodger lad,
And Davie blythe is he;
And Willie in his tartan plaid,
They're a' a' teasing me.
O they're a' tease teasing,
They're a' a' teasing me;
They're a' tease teasing,
O they're a' a' teasing me.
There's Carl the chief o' Daftne glen,
And he has land in store,
With flow'ry mead and shady fen,
And siller o'er and o'er:
Quoth he, sweet lass, I'll marry thee,
(Yestreen in yonder shaw;)
And thou my ain sweet bride shall be
And Queen o' Daftne ha'!
O they're a' tease teasing, &c.
But when my Jamie comes again,
Young Carl will then descry,
That siller is but empty gain,
To hearts no gowd can buy.
My Jamie's brave, my Jamie's braw,
My Jamie's a' to me,
And tho' his siller store be sma',
Yet married we will be.
For they're a' tease teasing, &c.
The Lass o’ Preston Mill.
[Air, "Good night and joy be wi' ye a'."]
The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell saft, the wind was lown,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers,
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' dewn,
The dappled swallow had left the pool,
The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
As I met amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass o' Preston mill.
Her naked feet amang the grass
Seem'd like the dew-gemm'd lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Black curling o'er her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich in bloomy youth,
Her lips were like a honey-well,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een—
The lovely lass o' Preston mill.
Quo' I, sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where moor cocks craw, and plovers cry;
Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep—
Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye.
I have a lad wha's far awa',
That weel could win a woman's will;
She hung her head like a dew-beut rose—
The lovely lass o' Preston mill.
