The Campsie Lassie.
[Steele.—Tune, "Miss Forbes's Farewell."]
I'll ne'er forget yon bonnie glen,
'Mang Campsie fells sae vernal green,
For there I met the sweetest lass
Yon towering hills had ever seen.
The smile of love sat on her lips,
And twinkled in her sparkling e'e,
And while I fondly gazed on her,
I wish'd she had been born for me.
My thoughts are wandering 'mang yon braes,
And aye the lass I think I see,
Wha trippet o'er yon craggy rocks,
Ae joyful summer day wi' me.
There's nane can tell what's yet to come,
But round my heart I will entwine
The hope that time will bring the day,
When I can ca' yon lassie mine.
My Jeanie and I.
[The original of this song was written by Tom D'Urfey, and published in 1702. Ramsay altered and pruned it for his Miscellany, and since his day it has been pruned still farther. It is sung to different tunes.]
My Jeanie and I have toil'd
The live-lang summer's day,
Till we were almost spoil'd
At making of the hay.
Her kurchy was o' Holland clear,
Tied to her bonnie brow;
I whisper'd something in her ear,—
But what is that to you?
Her stockings were o' kersey green,
And tight as ony silk;
O, sic a leg was never seen!
Her skin was white as milk;
Her hair was black as ane could wish;
And sweet, sweet was her mou'!
Ah! Jeanie dantily can kiss—
But what is that to you?
The rose and lily baith combine
To make my Jeanie fair:
There is nae benison like mine;
I have amaist nae care.
But when another swain, my fair,
Shall say you're fair to view;
Let Jeanie whisiier in his ear—
Pray what is that to you?
The Folk at Lindores.
[This originally appeared in "The Portfolio of British Song," Glasgow, 1824. It was written by James Stirling, at the time schoolmaster of St. James's parish, Glasgow,—now resident in Canada.—Tune, "Eppie Macnab."]
O weel may I mind on the folk at Lindores;
Though it's lang sin' I had onie troke at Lindores;
For the blythe winter night
Flew o'er us fu' light,
Wi' the sang, an' the crack, an' the joke at Lindores.
The auld wife an' the lasses would spin at Lindores;
An' the auld man to tales would begin at Lindores,
How in days o' his youth
The red rebels cam' south,
An' spulzied the feck o' his kin at Lindores.
An' he'd tell monie strange says and saws at Lindores;
How he hated the dominie's tawse at Lindores,
How i' the lang-day
The truan' he'd play,
An' set aff to herrie the craws at Lindores.
An' he'd sing monie an auld warld rhyme at Lindores;
An' tell o' the covenant time at Lindores;
How Clavers, fell chiel'!
Was in league wi' the deil,
How a ball stottit ance aff his wame at Lindores.
They were kind to ilk body that came to Lindores,
To the puir, an' the blind, an' the lame at Lindores;
Wi' handful's o' meal,
An' wi' platefu's o' kale,
An' the stranger was sure o' a hame at Lindores.
But the auld man's departed this life at Lindores;
An' a tear's in the e'e o' the wife at Lindores;
I dinna weel ken
Whan I'll be there again,
But sorrow, I'm fearin', is rife at Lindores.
