He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,
I never can please him, do a' that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows,
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan,
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him,
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
Some love to roam.
[Poetry by C. Mackay. Music by Henry Russell.]
Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam,
Where the shrill winds whistle free;
But a chosen band, in a mountain land,
And a life in the woods for me.
When morning beams o'er the mountain streams,
Oh! merrily forth we go,
To follow the stag to his slippery crag,
And to chase the bounding roe.—Ho! ho! ho! ho!
Some love to roam, &c.
The deer we mark in the forest dark,
And the prowling wolf we track;
And for right good cheer, in the wild woods here,
Oh! why should a hunter lack?
For with steady aim at the bounding game,
And hearts that fear no foe,
To the darksome glade, in the forest shade,
Oh! merrily forth we go.—Ho! ho! ho! ho!
Some love to roam, &c.
Lassie, would ye lo’e me.
[Music by J. W. Holder.]
Oh, gin I were a baron's heir,
And could I braid wi' gems your hair,
And make ye braw as ye are fair,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?
And could I tak' ye to the town,
And shaw ye braw sights mony a ane,
And busk ye fine in silken gown,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?
Or should ye be content to prove,
In lowly life unfading love,
A heart that nought on earth could move,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?
And ere the lav'rock wing the skie,
Say, wad ye to the forest hie,
And work wi' me sae merrilie,
Lassie, could ye lo'e me?
And when the braw moon glistens o'er,
Our wee bit bield and heathery muir,
Will ye na greet for ye're sae puir,
Lassie, though I lo'e ye?
For I ha'e nought to offer ye,
Nae gowd frae mine, nae pearl frae sea,
Nor am I come o' hie degree,
Lassie, but I lo'e ye.
My Lowland Bride.
[Charles Jeffreys.—Music by S. Nelson.]
By the light of the moon,
The bonnie harvest moon,
On the beautiful banks of the Clyde,
I have wander'd along,
And sung the Highland song
Which my sire oft sang by his own burn-side.
For, though born ayont the Tweed,
I love the meanest weed
That has sprung by the heather in its pride;
And earth owns no dearer spot
Than the ivy-mantled cot,
Where the moments lightly pass with my bonnie Lowland bride.
Caledonia, with thee,
My bosom boundeth free;
And, wherever my footsteps may roam,
The lowland valley still,
Or the heather-blooming hill,
Shall the dear haven be of my heart's best home.
To that loved and gentle form,
Which hath braved me with life's storm,
I will sing of our cottage by the Clyde,
Till the joyous smile she wore,
In the happy days of yore,
Shall beam upon the brow of my bonnie Lowland bride.
