How soothing it is, when we bumper it up,
To a friend on a far distant shore,
Or how sweetly it tastes, when we flavour the cup,
With the name of the maid we adore!
Then here's to the maid, then, and here's to the friend,
May they always prove true to their plight,
May their days glide as smooth and as merrily round,
As the bumpers we pledge them to-night.
Thou gloomy Feberwar.
[The first stanza of this song is a fragment by Tannahill: the others are by Patrick Buchan.]
Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
Oh! gin thou wert awa'!
I'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,
I'm wae to see thy snaw;
For my bonnie braw young Hielandman,
The lad I lo'e sae dear,
Has vow'd to come and see me,
In the spring o' the year.
A silken ban' he gae me,
To bin' my gowden hair;
A siller brooch and tartan plaid,
A' for his sake to wear:
And oh! my heart was like to break,
(For partin' sorrows sair,)
As he vow'd to come and see me,
In the spring o' the year.
Aft, aft as gloaming dims the sky,
I wander out alane,
Whare buds the bonnie yellow whins,
Around the trystin' stane:
'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,
And kiss'd awa' the tear,
As he vow'd to come and see me,
In the spring o' the year.
Ye gentle breezes saftly blaw,
And cleed anew the wuds;
Ye lav'rocks lilt your cheery sangs,
Amang the fleecy cluds;
Till Feberwar and a' his train,
Affrighted disappear—
I'll hail wi' you the blythsome change,
The spring-time o' the year.
Julia.
[Dugald Moore.]
She was a sunbeam in the storm,—
A star that gently lifted
Above the dark its beauteous form,
When the dull tempest shifted.
She loved—that passion like a spell
With her young dreams was blended:
The flowerets from youth's chaplet fell
Before her spring-time ended.
In yon church-yard, the flowers are fair
Beneath heaven's blue expansion:—
But a sweeter gem is lying there,
In dark oblivion's mansion;
The bud of promise to all eyes—
O'er whom the wild wind dashes,—
But she shall flourish in the skies,
When stars and worlds are ashes.
The Deceiver.
With tuneful pipe and hearty glee,
Young Watty wan my heart;
A blyther lad ye couldna see,
All beauty without art.
His winning tale
Did soon prevail
To gain my fond belief;
But soon the swain
Gangs o'er the plain,
And leaves me full, and leaves me full,
And leaves me full of grief.
Though Colin courts with tuneful sang,
Yet few regard his mane,
The lasses a' round Watty thrang,
While Colin's left alane:
In Aberdeen
Was never seen
A lad that gave sic pain;
He daily wooes,
And still pursues,
Till he does all, till he does all,
Till he does all obtain.
