To frisk like a gawky,
When naebody sees,
An' jouk like a maukin
Amang the green trees.
O! the sweets o' the gloamin',
How delicious they are!
O! the young lover's dream
Is behint them by far.
When ye gang through the streets
O' our blethrin' wee town,
Your best ye maun try a
Lang face to ha'e on
In the gloamin' ye sen'
A' sic havers awa',
In the micht o' your freedom
Fu' crousely ye craw.
O! the sweets, &c.
And should you some lo'ed ane,
When wandering, meet,
The shake o' the han', O!
How cordial, how sweet!
Ye feel, then, true pleasure,
Unmixed wi' alloy,
Warld's things ye forget
In th' excess o' your joy.
O! the sweets, &c.
I canna smile.
[James Murray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "I canna leave my Highland hame."]
I canna smile, I canna sing,
I ha'e nae heart for lightsome glee,
I downa thole the mirth o' spring,
Sin' they ha'e ta'en my lad frae me.
I fain wad sigh and sab again,
'Twad maybe help to soothe my care;
I fain wad greet to drown my pain,
For, oh! my heart is beating sair.
When wandering up the flowery dell,
To meet wi' him that's far away,
I heard a widow'd mavis tell
Its sorrows in a doolfu' lay.
I could ha'e wept till day's decline,
To hear its note of wild despair—
Now a' that birdie's grief is mine,
And I can sab and greet nae mair.
Aince mair I'll seek our trysting tree,
And wander o'er our haunts again;
Aince mair I'll climb the height sae hie,
And look far o'er the pathless main—
I'll look to where the welkin dark
Seems resting on the azure sea,
Where last I saw the fading bark
That wafted far my love frae me.
Ye bonnie haughs.
[William Motherwell.]
Ye bonnie haughs and heather braes,
Where I ha'e past youth's blythest days,
Ane idle dream o' bliss ye be,
That gars me sigh for my ain countrie.
O bauld we rade through Stirling toun,
Wi' pistol, sword, and musquetoon,
And banner braid display'd had we,
Like brave men halding companie.
We left our luves, we left our hames,
We left our bairns and winsome dames,
And we drew our swords right manfully
To back the king o' our ain countrie.
But Carlile yetts are wat wi' blude,
Micht matches richt, and dooms the gude;
And gentle blude o' ilk degree
Ha'e stain'd the hearths o' my ain countrie.
And dwyning in this fremit land,
Does feckless mak' baith heart and hand,
And gars thir tears drap frae my e'e,
That ne'er sail fa' in my ain countrie.
O Carron brig is auld and worn,
Where I and my forbears were born;
But bonnie is that brig to see
By ane flemit frae his ain countrie.
And gladly to the listening ear
Is borne the waters cruning clear,
Making a moan and melodie
That weds my heart to my ain countrie.
O gin I were a wee wee bird,
To light adown at Randiefuird,
And in Kirk-o'-Muir to close my e'e,
And fald my wings in my ain countrie!
