Leddie Anne.
[By John Dougal, formerly of Paisley, now of Montreal.]
The primrose blooms beneath the brae,
The burn rins rowin' clear;
The laverock lilts nae sound o' wae,
But wha my heart sall cheer;
Or wha will tent my bonnie bairn,
Sae like my fause, fause luve?
Or wha, when I am dead and gane,
Its tender plaints will muve?
Yestreen they ca'd me leddie Anne,
The bonniest o' them a';
The day my cheeks are howe an' wan,
An' this wild glen's my ha':
Yestreen I had six bower maidens
To do what I thocht meet,
The day I lie on the cauld green grass,
An' hear my baby greet.
An' its a' for thee, my fause, fause luve,
That I maun dree sae sair,
An' for my cruel father's wrath,
Wha I maun ne'er see mair.
But it's little pain ha'e I to thole,
Or grief ha'e I to dree,
The grave is calm; but wha will heed,
My bonnie bairn, for thee.
Let the wounded doe skipp ower the mead,
Bring comfort to despair,
But she wha tines her maiden fame
Can ne'er taste pleasure mair;
Then, gracious heaven, be not wroth
Wi' ane sae sair beguil'd,
Forgive them a' that did me wrang,
An' save, O, save my child!
The Waits.
[Richard Gall.—The Waits are little bands of musicians, who perambulate the streets at midnight, for some time before and after the Christmas and New-Year festivities.]
Wha's this, wi' voice o' music sweet,
Sae early wakes the weary wight?
O weel I ken them by their sough,
The wand'ring minstrels o' the night.
O weel I ken their bonnie lilts,
Their sweetest notes o' melody,
Fu' aft they've thrill'd out through my saul,
And gart the tear fill ilka e'e.
O, sweetest minstrels! weet your pipe,
A tender soothin' note to blaw;
Syne souf the "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
Or "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa'.
They bring to mind the happy days,
Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear:—
Ah! now ye touch the very note,
That gars me sigh, and drap a tear.
Your fremit lilts I downa bide,
They never yield a charm for me:
Unlike our ain, by nature made,
Unlike the saft delight they gi'e;
For weel I ween they warm the breast,
Though sair oppress'd wi' poortith cauld;
An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer,
He tines the thought that he is auld.
O, sweetest minstrels! halt a wee,
Anither lilt afore ye gang;
An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e,
Enraptured wi' your bonnie sang.
They're gane! the moon begins to dawn;
They're weary paidlin' through the weet:
They're gane! but on my ravished ear,
The dying sounds yet thrill fu' sweet.
O Nancy’s hair.
[To an old Border melody.]
Oh Nancy's hair is yellow like gowd,
An' her een, like the lift, are blue;
Her face is the image o' heavenly luve,
An' her heart is leal and true.
The innocent smile that plays on her cheek,
Is like the dawning morn;
An' the red, red blush, that across it flees,
Is sic as the rose ne'er has worn.
If it's sweet to see the flickerin' smile
Licht up her sparklin' e'e,
Its holier far to see it dimm'd
Wi' the gushin' tear's saut tree.
