Sanct Mungo wals ane merrye sanct,
And merryle hee sang;
Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge,
Ye very Firre Parke rang;
Butte thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge,
And mak' sweet melodye,
He chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes,
Quhan prymed wi' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct,
Farre-famed for godlye deedis,
And grete delyte hee daylye took
Inn countynge owre hys beadis,
Zit I, Sanct Mungo's youngeste sonne,
Can count als welle als hee;
Butte ye beadis quilk I like best to count
Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane jolly sanct:—
Sae weele hee lykit gude zil,
Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture,
Wi' dribblands o' ye still;
Butte I, his maist unwordye sonne,
Haue gane als farre als hee,
For ance I tynde my gamiente skirtis,
Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree.
The Quern Lilt.
[Robert Jamieson.]
The cronach stills the dowie heart
The jurram stills the bairnie;
The music for a hungry wane
Is grinding o' the quernie.
And loes me o' my little quemie!
Grind the gradden, grind it:
We'll a' get crowdie whan it's done,
And bannocks steeve to bind it.
The married man his joy may prize;
The lover prize his arles;
But gin the quernie gangna round,
They baith will soon be sareless.
Sae loes me, &c.
The whisky gars the bark o' life
Drive merrily and rarely;
But graddan is the ballast gars
It steady gang and fairly.
Then loes me, &c.
Though winter steeks the door wi' drift,
And o'er the ingle hings us;
Let but the little quernie gae,
We're blythe, whatever dings us.
Then loes me, &c.
And how it cheers the herd at e'en,
And sets his heart-strings dirlin',
When, comin' frae the hungry hill,
He hears the quernie birlin'!
Then loes me, &c.
Though sturt and stride wi' young and auld,
And flytin' but and ben be;
Let but the quernie play, they'll soon
A' lown and fidgin'-fain be.
Then loes me, &c.
Sweet May.
[Patrick Maxwell.—Air, "Miss Graham of Inchbrachie."]
Sweet May! sweet May! revives again
The buds and blossoms of the year;
And, clad anew, each hill and plain
In emerald green appear.
How bright the view from yonder bank,
Of primroses and daisies fair,
Where high o'er head the joyous lark
Makes vocal all the air;
And round and round the spangled mead
The bounding lambkins frisk and play,
And little rills, like living light,
Gleam in the sunny ray.
But what were nature's fairest scenes,
Though graced with a' her gayest flowers,
Unless we loved, unless we felt,
One fond, fond heart, were ours!
Then come, my own dear Mary, come.
My all on earth I prize most dear;
And in yon blooming hawthorn shade,
The glowing landscape near,
I'll tell to thee my hopes and fears,
And all my heart to thee confess,
And if thou giv'st me love for love,
I'll own no higher bliss.
