We'll gang doun by Cluden side,
Through the hazels spreading wide
O'er the waves that sweetly glide,
My bonnie dearie.
Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
Where, at moonshine midnight hours.
O'er the dewy budding flowers
The fairies dance sae cheerie.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear:
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stoun my very heart;
I can die—but canna part,
My bonnie dearie.
The widow’s ae bit Lassie.
[Thomas C. Latto.—Tune, "My only jo and dearie, O."—Here first printed.]
O guess ye wha I met yestreen,
On Kenly banks sae grassy, O,
Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?
The widow's ae bit lassie, O.
She brak my gloamin-dream sae sweet,
Just whar the wimplin' burnies meet:
The smother'd laugh,—I flew to greet
The widow's ae bit lassie, O.
They glintit slee,—the moon and she,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O,
On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me,
She is a dear wee lassie, O.
How rapture's pulse was beating fast,
As Mary to my heart I clasp't,
O bliss divine,—owre sweet to last,
I've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O.
She nestled close, like croodlin' doo,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O,
My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou',
The widow's ae bit lassie, O;
Unto my breast again, again,
I prest her guileless heart sae fain,
Sae blest we're baith, now she's my ain,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O.
Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O,
My heart wad break gin I should tyne
The widow's ae bit lassie, O;
Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight,
The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
On me and her, my soul's delight,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O.
Gather in.
[Written by Robert Gilfillan for Burns's Anniversary. Set to music by Peter Macleod, in his "Original Melodies of Scotland."]
Gather in, gather in, ane an' a', ane an' a',
Gather in, gather in, ane an' a';
The night, ever dear, claims a cup and a tear
To the memory of Burns that's awa!
Auld Scotland's had bards ane or twa, ane or twa,
Auld Scotland's had bards ane or twa,
But the minstrel that sang Coila's wild braes amang,
Oh! he was the sweetest of a',
Oh! he was the sweetest of a'.
He came like the flow'rets that blaw, that blaw,
He came like the flow'rets that blaw;
But his bright opening spring, nae summer did bring,
For soon, soon he faded awa'.
But short though he sang 'mang us a', 'mang us a',
But short though he sang 'mang us a',
His name from our heart will never depart,
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa',
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa'.
I kenna what’s come o’er him.
[Rev. Thomas Brydson of Levern church, Renfrewshire.—Air, "O, wat ye wha's in yon town."]
I kenna what's come ower him,
He's no the lad he used to be;
I kenna what's come ower him,
