A zephyr gently curled the stream,
An' did her lovely image hide;
Then all the osier boughs would seem
Bending to her by Locher's side.
When I beheld a' nature pay
Such homage to this charming maid,
I deem'd she might be Queen of May—
Had come to visit Locher's shade.
I'd made a garland for her breast,
Of every wild flower I could view:
But could nae mair her charms resist;
So silently from her withdrew.
My soul a moment's pleasure knew;
I fear the like will ne'er return;
Except, when spring the fields renew,
I meet this lass by Locher burn.
The Weaver.
Where Kelvin rins to join the Clyde,
There lives a lad whose honest pride
Can match wi' a' the kintra side,—
He is a gallant weaver.
His cheeks are tinged wi' rosy hue,
His een are o' the bonniest blue;
But, oh! his heart, it is sae true,
I love my gallant weaver.
Let others wed for sake o' gear;
Gin we get health, I ha'e nae fear,
That poortith ever will come near
My eident lad, the weaver.
True line will mak' our labour light;
'Twill keep us blythe frae morn till night,
And happiness will shine fu' bright
Upon my gallant weaver.
When wintry win's, sae cauld and blae,
Mak' a' the face o' nature wae,
At e'en, a canty fire I'll ha'e
To cheer my gallant weaver.
Then haste ye, Time; oh dinna bide;
Bring round the day I'll be his bride,
Then smoothly sweet the hours will glide
O'er Jeanie and her weaver.
Away to the mountains.
[William Glen.]
See, the city enshrouded in pestilent smoke,
Not a health-breeze is there to be found;
It lies as if still under winter's dark yoke,
While the spring decks the country around.
That riches are gain'd in the city—'tis true;—
But this is the young month of May—
If I stay to scrape wealth, a grave I'll get too;—
Away to the mountains, away!
Who treads on the heather will ne'er feel the gout,
Though to health he has been a wild sinner;
Nor die of a surfeit, though after a bout
With some chief at a true highland dinner.
The clear highland spring, mii'd with pure mountain dew,
Is a drink fit for emperors, they say;
Thus we've health and high pleasure for ever in view—
Away to the mountains, away!
In the land of the hills sits the goddess of health,
Enthroned in sublimest of grandeur;
The breeze, lake, and mountain are stored with her wealth,
But she's lonely in midst of her splendour.
Her votaries fly to her, 'neath the impulse of fear;
When she smiles, then no longer they stay;
But I will adore her for many a year—
Away to the mountains, away!
The Highland Maid.
Again the laverock seeks the sky,
And warbles, dimly seen;
And simmer views wi' sunny joy
Her gowany robe o' green.
But, ah! the simmer's blythe return,
In flowery pride array'd,
Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,
Or charm the Highland Maid.
My true love fell by Charlie's side,
Wi' mony a clansman dear;
That fatal day—oh, wae betide
