My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;

The world's in love with Nanie-o;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie-o.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely-o;

I

guess

what heaven is by her eyes,

They sparkle sae divinely-o;

My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o;

Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, I dwell with Nanie-o.

Tell not, thou star at gray day light,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew
When coming frae my Nanie-o;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie-o;
The stars and moon may tell't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie-o!

KNOW YE THE FAIR ONE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Know ye the fair one whom I love?
High is her white and holy brow;
Her looks so saintly-sweet and pure,
Make men adore who come to woo,
Her neck, o'er which her tresses hing,
Is snow beneath a raven's wing.

Her lips are like the red-rose bud,
Dew-parted in a morn of June,
Her voice is gentler than the sound
Of some far heard and heavenly tune,
Her little finger, white and round
Can make a hundred hearts to bound.

My love's two eyes are bonnie stars,
Born to adorn the summer skies;
And I will by our tryste-thorn sit,

To watch them at their evening rise:
That when they shine on tower and tree,
Their heavenly light may fall on me.

Come, starry eve, demure and gray,

Now is the hour when maidens woo,
Come shake o'er wood, and bank, and brae
Thy tresses moist with balmy dew:
Thy dew ne'er dropt on flower or tree,
So lovely or so sweet as she.

The laverock's bosom shone with dew,
Beside us on the lilied lea,

She sung her mate down from the cloud
To warble by my love and me;
Nor from her young ones sought to move,
For well she saw our looks were love.

HAME, HAME, HAME.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!

( hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the

tree,

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie;

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!

O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But we'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And green it will graw in my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There's nocht now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs, wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save;
The green grass is growing abune their bludie grave;
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e.
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be! ( hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

[This song is noticed in the introduction of "The Fortunes of Nigel," and part of it is sung by Richie Moniplies. It is supposed to come from the lips of a Scottish Jacobite Exile. From Cromek's Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810.]

PHEMIE IRVING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Gay is thy glen, Corrie,
With all thy groves flowering;

Green is thy glen, Corrie,

When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter

Than winter when snowing;

Her meek voice is milder

Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.

The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
With sighing and suing;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She's a floweret too lovely
To bloom for my pu'ing.

O were I yon violet,

On which she is walking! O were I yon small bird,

To which she is talking! Or yon rose in her hand,

With its ripe ruddy blossom! Or some pure gentle thought, To be blest with her bosom !

THE SAILOR'S LADY.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Come busk you gallantlie,
Busk and make you ready,

Maiden, busk and come,
And be a sailor's lady.
The foamy ocean's ours,

From Hebride to Havannah, And thou shalt be my queen,

And reign upon it Anna.