Sure heaven has fitted for delight
That beauteous form of thine,
And thou'rt too good its law to slight,
By hind'ring the design.
May all the powers of love agree,
At length to make thee mine;
Or loose my chains and set me free
From every charm of thine.
The Country Lass.
[This ditty, which breathes so much homely sense and rural contentment, is marked as an old song in the Tea-Table Miscellany. It is at least older than the beginning of last century, as it appears in "Pills to Purge Melancholy" (2d vol. circa 1700,) where it is erroneously directed to be sung to the tune of "Cold and Raw." The genuine old air of "The Country Lass" is given in Johnson's Museum. The comparatively modern tune of "Sally in our alley" somewhat resembles it.]
Although I be but a country lass,
Yet a lofty mind I bear, O;
And think mysel' as rich as those
That rich apparel wear, O.
Although my gown be hame-spun grey,
My skin it is as saft, O,
As them that satin weeds do wear,
And geek their heads aloft, O.
What though I keep my father's sheep,
The thing that maun be done, O;
With garlands o' the finest flowers,
To shade me frae the sun, O?
When they are feeding pleasantly,
Where grass and flowers do spring, O;
Then, on a flowery bank, at noon,
I set me down and sing, O.
My Paisley piggy, corked with sage,
Contains my drink but thin, O;
No wines did e'er my brains engage,
To tempt my mind to sin, O.
My country curds and wooden spoon,
I think them unco fine, O;
And on a flowery bank, at noon,
I set me doun and dine, O.
Although my parents cannot raise
Great bags of shining gold, O,
Like them whase daughters, now a-days,
Like swine, are bought and sold, O:
Yet my fair body it shall keep
An honest heart within, O;
And for twice fifty thousand crovns,
I value not a prin, O.
I use nae gums upon my hair,
Nor chains about my neck, O,
Nor shining rings upon my hands,
My fingers straight to deck, O.
But for that lad to me shall fa',
And I have grace to wed, O,
I'll keep a braw that's worth them a';
I mean my silken snood, O.
If cannie fortune give to me
The man I dearly love, O,
Though he want gear, I dinna care,
My hands I can improve, O;
Expecting for a blessing still
Descending from above, O;
Then we'll embrace, and sweetly kiss,
Repeating tales of love, O.
Amang the Heather.
[William Cross.—Here first printed.—Tune, "O'er the muir amang the heather."]
Amang the braes aboon Dunoon,
In vernal May's delightfu' weather,
I met at e'en a bonnie lass
Alane amang the blooming heather.
A hame-spun gown and westlin' plaid
Was dress enough, she had nae ither,
But blythe and comely was her lace,
And light her step amang the heather.
I spake her fair, and speert her name,
To tell me true she didna swither,
But modestly she hung her head,
And blush'd an red's the blooming heather.
A bonnie lass and free-han'd lad
Maun ha'e a crack when they forgather,
Sae down we sat beside a burn
That wimpled through the blooming heather.
We spake o' kirks, we spake o' fairs,
The sprouting corn, the bonnie weather;
O' every thing we talk'd but love,
Though love was a' our thoughts thegither.
