I'll watch ye wi' a lover's care,
And wi' a lover's e'e, lassie
I'll weary heaven wi' mony a prayer,
And ilka prayer for thee, lassie.
'Tis true I ha'e na mickle gear;
My stock it's unco sma', lassie;
Nae fine-spun foreign claes I wear,
Nor servants tend my ca', lassie.
But had I heir'd the British crown,
And thou o' low degree, lassie,
A rustic lad I wad ha'e grown,
Or shared that crown wi' thee, lassie.
Whenever absent frae thy sight,
Nae pleasure smiles on me, lassie;
I climb the mountain's towering height,
And cast a look to thee, lassie.
I blame the blast blaws on thy cheek;
The flower that decks thy hair, lassie,
The gales that steal thy breath sae sweet,
My love and envy share, lassie.
If for a heart that glows for thee,
Thou wilt thy heart resign, lassie,
Then come, my Nancy, come to me—
That glowing heart is mine, lassie.
Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers,
Down by yon woody glen, lassie,
My cottage stands—it shall be yours,
Gin ye will be my ain, lassie.
The Scotch Blue-bell.
[Alex. Maclagan.—Here first printed.]
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
O! I wadna gi'e the Scotch blue-bell
For a' the flowers I see.
I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,
I hail thee, floweret fair;
Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,
Or waves mid mountain air—
Blythe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,
Or fountain's flowery brink:
Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,
The deer descend to drink.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook
Beside love's trystin' tree;
I see thee bend to kiss the brook,
That kindly kisseth thee.
'Mang my love's locks ye're aften seen,
Blythe noddin' o'er her brow,
Meet marrows to her lovely een
O' deep endearin' blue!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
When e'enin's gowden curtains hing
O'er moor and mountain grey,
Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring
A dirge to deein' day;
But when the light o' mornin' wakes
The young dew-droucket flowers,
I hear amid their merry peals
The mirth o' bridal hours!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
How oft wi' rapture have I strayed
The mountain's heather crest,
There aft wi' thee ha'e I array'd
My Mary's maiden breast:—
Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells
Her bosom fa' an' rise,
Like snawy cloud that sinks an' swells
'Neath summer's deep blue skies.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
O! weel ye guess, when mornin' daws,
I seek the blue-bell grot;
And weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's,
Sae sweet, I leave it not,—
And when upon my tremblin' breast
Reclines my maiden fair,
Thou knowst full well that I am blest,
And free frae ilka care.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
O! I wadna gi'e the Scotch blue-bell
For a' the flowers I see.
