O lassie I lo’e dearest.
[J. Burtt.]
O lassie I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest;
How sweet to think o' thee;
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.
An' while the honied dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss't for sake o' thee;
An' when by stream, or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.
When the sun's red-rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
An' tardy-footed gloamin',
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.
When soughs the distant billow,
An' night blasts shake the willow,
Stretch'd on my lanely pillow
My dreams are a' o' thee.
Then think when frien's caress thee,
O think when cares distress thee,
O think when pleasures bless thee,
O' him that thinks o' thee!
Advice to the Lasses.
[J. Burtt.]
Lasses, lookna sourly meek,
But laugh an' love in youth's gay morn:
If ance the bloom forsake your cheek,
Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.
The secret favour that you meet,
Or the favour ye return,
If vainly ye let ithers see't,
Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.
Wi' care the tender moments grip,
When your cautious lovers burn
But if you let that moment slip,
Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.
Be on your guard wi' Sir or Laird;
A' ties but that o' marriage spurn;
For if ye grant what he may want,
Fareweel your heuks, your hairst is shorn.
The lad that's wi' your siller ta'en,
Reject his vows wi' honest scorn;
For ance the glitterin' ore's his ain,
Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.
Widows rest you as ye are—
Nae lover now dare crook his horn;
But mak' him master o' your gear—
Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.
Lasses that nae lads ha'e got,
But live in garrets lane and lorn,
Let ilk be carefu' o' her cat—
Ne'er think o' heuks—your hairst is shorn.
Lay of the Hopeless.
[The two following beautiful lyrics are the production of Robert Miller, who died in Sept. 1834, at the early age of twenty-five. He was a native of Glasgow, and brought up to the profession of the law. He never published any collected volume, but he contributed various poetical pieces of great merit to the periodicals of the day. It is remarkable, that his "Lay of the Hopeless," in which he expresses so deep a heart-weariness of life, was written not many days before he was suddenly cut off.]
Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now
O'er the restless and weary wave,
Were swaying the leaves of the cypress-bough
