This lovely youth of whom I sing,
Is fitted for to be a king;
On his breast he wears a star:
You'd tak' him for the god of war.
Ochon, &c.
O! to see this princely one
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear;
Then begins the jub'lee year.
Ochon, &c.
Connel and Flora.
[Written by Alexander Wilson of Paisley, the great American ornithologist. Music arranged by J. Roberston.]
Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore;
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.
For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep,
O would you but waft me across the wild deep!
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.
Allen-a-dale.
[Song in Sir Walter Scott's poem of "Rokeby."]
Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,
Allen-a-dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning;
Yet Allen-a-dale has red gold for the winning.
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
The mere for his net, and the lamb for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the dear of the vale,
Are less free to lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Tho' his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil;
Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother she asked of his household and home;—
"Tho' the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still,
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles!" said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone,
They lifted the latch and bade him be gone.
But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry—
He had laughed on the lass with his bonnie black eye;
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
O, saw ye the lass.
[Written by Richard Ryan. Arranged and sung by Sinclair.]
O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een?
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen,
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween,—
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green.
The home of my love is below in the valley,
Where wild flowers welcome the wandering bee;
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen,
Is the maid that I love, wi' the bonnie blue een.
O saw ye the lass, &c.
When night overshadows her cot in the glen,
She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again;
And when the moon shines on the valley so green,
I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonnie blue een.
As the dove that has wandered away from his sweet nest,
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best,
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene,
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonnie blue een.
O saw ye the lass, &c.
