Love that raises sic a clamour,
Drivin' lads and lasses mad;
Waes my heart! had coost his glamour,
O'er poor Colin, luckless lad.
Cruel Jenny, lack a daisy!
Lang had gart him greet and grane,
Colin's pate was hafflins crazy,
Jenny laugh'd at Colin's pain.
Slawly, up his duds he gathers,
Slawly, slawly trudges out,
An' frae the fauld he drives his wedders,
Happier far than Colin Clout.
Now the sun, rais'd frae his nappie,
Set the orient in a lowe,
Drinkin' ilka glancin' drappie,
I' the field, an' i' the knowe.
Mony a birdie, sweetly singin',
Flaffer'd briskly round about;
An' monie a daintie flowerie springin',
A' were blythe but Colin Clout.
What is this? cries Colin glow'rin',
Glaiked like, a' round about,
Jenny! this is past endurin':
Death maun ease poor Colin Clout.
A' the night I toss and tumble,
Never can I close an e'e,
A' the day I grane an' grumble,
Jenny, this is a' for thee.
Ye'll ha'e nane but farmer Patie,
'Cause the fallow 's rich, I trow,
Aiblins though he shouldna cheat ye,
Jenny, ye'll ha'e cause to rue.
Auld, and gley'd, and crooked backed,—
Siller bought at sic a price,—
Ah, Jenny! gin ye lout to tak' it,
Folk will say ye're no o'er nice.
The Lady of my Love.
[This and the following song originally appeared in "The Portfolio of British Song," with the initials, "Q. K."]
From off this sunny mountain's top
I look, with ardent eyes,
To one romantic little spot,
That holds the all I prize.
'Tis yon old mansion down the dell,
Half hid behind the grove,
Where, calm and innocent, doth dwell
The lady of my love, my love,
The lady of my love.
Oh! I could muse for ever here,
Unwearied of the scene,
Content to see my love appear
On balcony or green;
A happy solitary wight,
I would not seek to rove,
But feast my eyes, from morn till night,
With visions of my love, my love,
With visions of my love.
The sky above, the earth below,
Are studded each with flowers;
It recks not to what place we go—
We see them at all hours;
For night, that shades the flowers below,
Opes those that shine above,
As sleep, that shuts my present show,
Brings dreams of her I love, I love,
Brings dreams of her I love.
Far, far away.
[Tune, "The Highland Watch."]
Far, far away, in strange country,
The soldier watch is keeping,
Beneath some tower, at midnight hour,
When all besides are sleeping.
The moon is half,—her chilly rays
On hill-tops are reclining:
The sea is calm,—it soothing plays
A soft and sweet repining.
Save this, and the proud soldier's tread,
That is with echo hounding,
All else is stilly as the dead
In hill and plain surrounding.
Say, as he goes his weary round,
What is the thought that rises?
Where are his dark eyes gazing found?
What is the wish he prizes?
Oh! thinks he not of native home,
With memory's thrilling feelings?—
Of scenes where he in youth did roam,
