The Book of Scottish Song/Leddie Anne

Leddie Anne.

[By John Dougal, formerly of Paisley, now of Montreal.]

The primrose blooms beneath the brae,
The burn rins rowin' clear;
The laverock lilts nae sound o' wae,
But wha my heart sall cheer;
Or wha will tent my bonnie bairn,
Sae like my fause, fause luve?
Or wha, when I am dead and gane,
Its tender plaints will muve?

Yestreen they ca'd me leddie Anne,
The bonniest o' them a';
The day my cheeks are howe an' wan,
An' this wild glen's my ha':
Yestreen I had six bower maidens
To do what I thocht meet,
The day I lie on the cauld green grass,
An' hear my baby greet.

An' its a' for thee, my fause, fause luve,
That I maun dree sae sair,
An' for my cruel father's wrath,
Wha I maun ne'er see mair.
But it's little pain ha'e I to thole,
Or grief ha'e I to dree,
The grave is calm; but wha will heed,
My bonnie bairn, for thee.

Let the wounded doe skipp ower the mead,
Bring comfort to despair,
But she wha tines her maiden fame
Can ne'er taste pleasure mair;
Then, gracious heaven, be not wroth
Wi' ane sae sair beguil'd,
Forgive them a' that did me wrang,
An' save, O, save my child!

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