There, as she mark'd the sportive fishes
Upward spring wi' quiv'ring fin,
I slyly stole some melting kisses,
Frae the lassie o' the glen.
O the birken, &c.
What bliss! to sit, and nane to fash us,
In some sweet wee bowery den;
Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
Wi' the lassie o' the glen.
O the birken, &c.
And though I wander now unhappy,
Far firae scenes we haunted then,
I'll ne'er forget the—bank sae grassy,
Nor—the lassie o' the glen.
O the birken, &c.
The Farewell.
[J. Burtt.—Tune, "Jockie's far awa'."]
O welcome winter! wi' thy storms,
Thy frosts, an' hills o' sna';
Dismantle nature o' her charms,
For I maun lea' them a'.
I've mourn'd the gowan wither'd laid
Upon its wallow bier;
I've seen the rose-bud drooping fade
Beneath the dewy tear.
Then fare ye weel, my frien's sae dear,
For I maun lea'e you a'.
O will ye sometimes shed a tear
For me, when far awa'?
For me, when far frae hame and you,
Where ceaseless tempests blaw,
Will ye repeat my last adieu,
An' mourn that I'm awa'?
I've seen the wood, where rude winds rave,
In gay green mantle drest,
But now its leafless branches wave
Wild whistling in the blast:
So perish'd a' my youthfu' joy,
An' left me thus to mourn:
The vernal sun will gild the sky,
But joy will ne'er return.
Then fare ye weel, &c.
In vain will spring her gowans spread
Owre the green swairded lea:
The rose beneath the hawthorn shade
Will bloom in vain for me:
In vain will spring bedeck the bowers
Wi' buds and blossoms braw—
The gloomy storm already lowers
That drives me far awa'.
Then fare ye weel, &c.
O winter! spare the peacefu' scene
Where early joys I knew:
Still be its fields unfading green,
Its sky unclouded blue.
Ye lads and lasses! when sae blythe
The social crack ye ca'—
O spare the tribute of a sigh
For me, when far awa'!
Then fare ye weel, &c.
Poor Mary.
[Angus Fletcher.—Tune, "A' body's like to get married but me."]
I met my dear lassie short syne in yon dale,
But deep was her sigh, and her cheek it was pale;
And sad the saft smile that was heaven to see:
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
A feverish heat has deprived o' their bloom
Her lips, ance sae rosy, exhaling perfume;
An' changed is the glance o' her blythe hazel e'e,—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
'Twas thus a fair floweret adorn'd my lone walk,
But chill blew the east on its tender green stalk:
No more its sweet blossoms allure the wild bee—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
If I were but destined to ca' her my ain,
I'd shield her sae fondly frae sna', win', an' rain;
And, nightly, this bosom her pillow wad be:—
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.
Detraction and malice—society's pest!
I know 'tis your venom that pains her pure breast;
But, O for that haven, 'yont life's stormy sea,
Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me!
