LOCHABER NO MORE

Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind,

No tempest can equal the storm in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves

roar,

There's naething like leavin' my love on the shore.

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd;

But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be

gain'd:

And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;

And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my

excuse;

Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee; And losing thy favor I'd better not be.

I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame; And if I should chance to come glorious hame,

I'll bring a heart to thee with love running

o'er,

And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no

more.

HAP ME WI' THY PETTICOAT

XXI

HAP ME WI' THY PETTICOAT

(ALLAN RAMSAY)

O BELL, thy looks ha'e kill'd my heart,
I pass the day in pain;

When night returns, I feel the smart,
And wish for thee in vain.

I'm starving cold, while thou art warm;
Have pity and incline,

And grant me for a hap that charming petticoat of thine.

My ravish'd fancy in amaze

Still wanders o'er thy charms,
Delusive dreams ten thousand ways
Present thee to my arms.

But waking, think what I endure,
While cruel thou decline

Those pleasures, which alone can cure
This panting breast of mine.

I faint, I fall, and wildly rove,

Because you still deny

The just reward that's due to love,
And let true passion die.

MARY MORISON

Oh! turn, and let compassion seize
That lovely breast of thine;
Thy petticoat could give me ease,
If thou and it were mine.

Sure heaven has fitted for delight
That beauteous form of thine,
And thou'rt too good its law to slight,
By hind'ring the design.

May all the powers of love agree
At length to make thee mine;
Or loose my chains and set me free
From every charm of thine.

XXII

MARY MORISON

(ROBERT BURNS)

Он, Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor; How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL

Yestreen when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Tho' this was fair, an' that was braw, An' yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, an' said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison."

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt nae gie,
At least be pity on me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

XXIII

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL

(JOHN MAYNE)

I WISH I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries,

And like an angel to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL

For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wished to be a bride;
For me in Life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,

A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me;

My love, to disappoint the foe,

Rushed in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell,

I curse the hand by which she fell—
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me;

For if, where all the graces shine-
Oh, if on earth there's aught divine,
My Helen! all those charms were thine,
They centred all in thee!

Ah, what avails in that amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain;
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me;