My luve’s in Germany.
[This, to the tune of "Ye Jacobites by name," was first published as a single sheet song by N. Stewart & Co., Edinburgh, and was said to have been written by a lady on the death of an officer, in 1794. Hector Macneill, however, claimed it as his own.]
My luve's in Germanie;
Send him hame, send him hame:
My luve's in Germanie;
Send him hame.
My luve's in Germanie,
Fighting brave for royalty;
He may ne'er his Jeanie see,
Send him hame, send him hame,
He may ne'er his Jeanie see;
Send him hame.
He's as brave as brave can be;
Send him hame, send him hame;
Our faes are ten to three;
Send him hame.
Our faes are ten to three;
He maun either fa' or flee,
In the cause of loyalty;
Send him hame, send him hame;
In the cause of loyalty;
Send him hame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Bonnie dame, winsome dame;
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Winsome dame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
But he fell in Germanie,
Fighting brave for loyalty
Mournfu' dame, mournfu' dame;
Fighting brave for loyalty,
Mournfu' dame.
He'll ne'er come ower the sea;
Willie's slain, Willie's slain;
He'll ne'er come ower the sea;
Willie's gane!
He will ne'er come ower the sea,
To his luve and ain countrie.
This warld's nae mair for me;
Willie's gane, Willie's gane;
This warld's nae mair for me:
Willie's gane!
Winter, wi’ his cloudy brow.
[Robert Tannahill.—Air, "Forneth House."]
Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
Is far ayont yon mountains,
And spring beholds her azure sky
Reflected in the fountains.
Now, on the budding slaethom bank,
She spreads her early blossom,
And wooes the mirly-breasted birds
To nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,
Sae darksome, dull, and dreary,
Now lavrocks sing, to hail the spring,
And nature all is cheery.
Then let us leave the town, my love,
And seek our country dwelling,
Where waving woods, and spreading flow'rs,
On every side are smiling.
We'll tread again the daisied green,
Where first your beauty moved me;
We'll trace again the woodland scene,
Where first ye own'd ye loved me.
We soon will view the roses blaw
In a' the charms of fancy,
For doubly dear these pleasures a',
When shared with thee, my Nancy.
Land of my Fathers.
[Written by Dr. John Leyden. Set to music by R. A. Smith.]
Land of my fathers! though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor lucious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free
Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain.
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might:
Dear native valleys! may ye long retain
