Though he's an unco body,
Oh, he's a kindly body,
The wee drap maut is a' his faut—
I like a drap mysel' in toddy.
Twa score an' ten has cool'd his bluid,
And whiles he needs a drap to warm him,
But when he tak's 't to do him guid,
He whiles forgets, and tak's 't to harm him.
Though he's an unco body,
O he's a takin' body,
Ilka year mak's him mair dear,
Though it may mak' his cheek less ruddy.
When twa ha'e wrought, an' twa ha'e fought
For thretty year sae leal thegither,
A faut or flaw is nought ava',
They may weel gree wi' ane anither.
Though he's an unco body,
O he's a loving body,
For a' that's gane he's aye my ain,
An' I maun just his failing study.
The leal light heart.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
A leal light heart's ne'er sad, my jo,
A leal light heart's ne'er sad, my jo;
The e'e we ken will tell the tale,
Whene'er the heart is sad, my jo.
The miser to his heaps o' gold
Anither heap may add, my jo,
But if the truth be fairly told,
We'll find his heart's aft sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
Content will keep the han's aye free
Frae every thing that's bad, my jo,
While in her bright and smiling e'e
We read her heart's ne'er sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
Pale envy may affect to smile,
And seem like ane that's glad, my jo,
But in her breast she wears the while
A heart that's aye been sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
A lord may own baith rigs and gear,
An' be in ermine clad, my jo;
But mark his e'e for ae short year,
An' say if he's ne'er sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
The truly blythe aroun' his hearth
Will swear ambition's mad, my jo,
An' drown in rosy social mirth,
Whate'er wad mak' him sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
The lass we lo'e, the frien's we prize,
When such are to be had, my jo;
Will lend to life the rainbow dyes,
That flee the heart that's sad, my jo.
A leal light heart, &c.
O come with me.
[John Finlay.—Here first printed. Tune, "Roslin Castle."]
O come with me, for the queen of night
Is thron'd on high in her beauty bright:
'Tis now the silent hour of even,
When all is still in earth an' heaven;
The cold flowers which the valleys strew
Are sparkling bright wi' pearly dew,
And hush'd is e'en the bee's saft hum,
Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.
The opening blue bell—Scotland's pride
In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;
The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,
The wild thyme, and the primnse pale,
Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,
Of these a fragrant wreath I'll make,
And bind them mid' the locks that flow
In rich luxuriance from thy brow.
O! love, without thee what were life,
A bustling scene of care and strife;
A waste, where no green flowery glade
Is found, for shelter or for shade.
But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share,
We can with calm composure bear;
For the darkest nicht o'care and toil
Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.
