But soon as he has gain'd the bliss,
Away then does he run,
And hardly will afford a kiss,
To silly me undone:
Bonnie Katy,
Maggy, Beaty,
Avoid the roving swain,
His wyly tongue
Be sure to shun,
Or you like me, or you like me,
Like me will be undone.
To Arms.
To arms! to arms! to arms, my lads:
To arms! to arms! to arms!
Care, that canker'd loon,
Is lurking in the town
To charge us wi' fierce alarms.
To arms! to arms! to arms, my lads!
To quell his hatefu' power,
By way of a shield,
This bowl we will wield,
The liquor will soon gar him skour.
Charge, charge, charge, charge, charge him home, my lads!
Charge him home, charge him home, see he flees!
A glass in your hand,
Care never will stand,
You may kill him whenever you please.
The month of July.
[Fragment from Herd's Collection.]
There gaed a fair maiden out to walk
In a sweet morning of July;
She was gay, bonnie, coy, and young,
But met wi' a lad unruly.
He took her by the lily-white hand,
And swore he loo'd her truly;
The man forgot but the maid thought on;
O it was in the month of July!
Sweet is the dawn.
[David Vedder.—From the Edinburgh Literary Gazette.]
Sweet is the dawn of vernal morn,
And doubly sweet to me
That moment when the lamp of day
Emerges from the sea,
And lightens up the glowing skies
As erst he lighted paradise.
But sweeter far to view thy face
Suffused with beauty's glow;
'Tis like the morning's rosy rays
Shining on Alpine snow,—
And, oh! the radiance of those eyes
To me, is more than paradise.
Oh, sweet the mavis' matin hymn—
The merle's song at even;
And sweet the lark's wild melody
When soaring up to heaven;
But music sweeter than thy voice
Was never heard in paradise.
Oh, Mary! let one heavenly ray
Beam from thy beauteous face,
'Twill light my clouded spirit up,
And fill my soul with peace;
'Twill dissipate my mental gloom,
And round me paradise shall bloom.
Sanct Mungo.
[Alex. Rodger.]
Sanct Mungo wals ane famous sanct,
And ane cantye carle wals hee,
He drank o' ye Molendinar burne,
Quhan bettere hee culdna prie!
Zit quhan he could gotte stronger cheere,
He neuer wals wattere drye,
Butte dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme,
And loot ye borne rynne bye.
