The little wild bird's merry lay,
That wont my lightsome heart to cheer,
In murmuring echoes dies away,
And melts like sorrow on my ear.
The voice of joy no more can cheer,
The look of love no more can warm,
Since mute for aye's that voice so dear,
And clos'd that eye alone could charm.
Kind Robin lo’es me.
[The old original words to the beautiful Scottish melody of "Kind Robin lo'es me" are scarce fit for insertion here. The following version of the song appears in Herd's collection, 1776.]
Robin is my only jo,
Robin has the art to lo'e,
So to his suit I mean to bow,
Because I ken he lo'es me.
Happy, happy was the shower,
That led me to his birken bower,
"Whare first of love I felt the power,
And kend that Robin lo'ed me.
They speak of napkins, speak of rings,
Speak of gloves and kissing strings,
And name a thousand bonnie things,
And ca' them signs he lo'es me.
But I prefer a smack of Rob,
Sporting on the velvet fog,
To gifts as lang's a plaiden wob,
Because I ken he loe's me.
He's tall and sonsy, frank and free,
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me,
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd die,
Because my Robin lo'es me.
My titty, Mary, said to me,
Our courtship but a joke wad be,
And I, or lang, be made to see,
That Robin did na lo'e me.
But little kens she what has been,
Me and my honest Bob between,
And in his wooing, O sae keen,
Kind Robin is that lo'es me.
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away,
And hasten on the happy day,
When "join your hands," Mess John shall say,
And mak' him mine that lo'es me.
Till then, let every chance unite,
To weigh our love, and fix delight,
And I'll look down on such wi' spite,
Who doubt that Robin lo'es me.
O hey, Robin, quo' she,
O hey, Robin, quo' she,
O hey, Robin, quo' she.
Kind Robin lo'es me.
Loch Cathrine.
Amid Loch Cat'rine's scenery wild,
Is seen my lassie's dwelling,
Where cavern'd rocks on mountains pil'd
Howl to the sea-breeze swelling:—
She's purer than the snaw that fa's
On mountain's summit airy;
The sweetest mountain flow'r that blaws
Is not so fair as Mary.
'Tis sweet when woodland echo rings,
Where purling streams meander,
But sweeter when my Mary sings,
As through the glens we wander.
The wild deer on the mountain side,
The fabled elf or fairy,
Or skiff, that skims the crystal tide,
Moves not more light than Mary.
From Lowland plains I've wandered far,
In endless search of pleasure;
Till guided by some friendly star,
I found this lovely treasure.
Although my native home has charms,
Amang these hills I'll tarry;
And while life's blood my bosom warms,
I'll love my dearest ilary.
Lullaby.
[John Sim.—Air, "Bonnie Wood o' Cragie Lee."]
Rest, lovely babe, on mother's knee,
Rest, lovely babe, on mother's knee,
And cry na sae to fill wi' wae
The heart that only beats for thee.
Thou hast, my babe, nae father now,
To care for thee when I am gone;
And I ha'e ne'er a friend sae true
As would my bonnie baby own,
Rest, lovely babe, &c.
