O, a saint's faith may vary, And Mary lo'es me. Red, red as the rowan Her smiling wee mou'; And white as the gowan Her breast and her brow! Wi' a foot o' a fairy She links o'er the lea: O! well I lo'e Mary, And Mary lo'es me. THE NAMELESS LASSIE. BY JAMES BALLANTYNE. 'HERE'S nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's THE name, There's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame; Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, She's gentle and she's bonnie, an' she's modest as she's fair, Whene'er she shows her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; But when wi' other's sorrow touched, the tear starts to her ee, Within my soul her form's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, MARY DHU. BY DAVID MACBETH MOIR. WEET, sweet is the rose-bud SWE Bathed in dew; But sweeter art thou, My Mary Dhu. Oh! the skies of night, Are not so bright As my Mary Dhu. Whenever thy radiant face I see, The clouds of sorrow depart from me: From day's bright eye, Sad, sad is my heart, When I sigh, adieu ! Or gaze on thy parting, Then for thee I mourn, Bids my bosom burn My Mary Dhu. I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills, I muse but on thee by the moorland rills. In the morning light, In the moonshine bright, Thou art still in my sight, My Mary Dhu. Thy voice trembles through me That ruffles, in gladness, The leafy trees; "Tis a wafted tone From Heaven's high throne, Making hearts thine own, My Mary Dhu. Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet, May life's rose decay In the west wind's sway- JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. BY ROBERT TANNAHILL. HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben-Lomond, THE And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny; Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charmed with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, THE BANKS OF THE LEE. BY THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. H, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, There's not in the land a lovelier tide, And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride. There's a down on her cheek, And her skin is as sleek As a butterfly's wing; Then her step would scarce show On the fresh-fallen snow, And her whisper is low, But as clear as the spring. Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, Oh, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, So mild is the mist and so rich is the beam, That beauty should never to other lands roam, But make on the banks of our river its home! When, dripping with dew, The roses peep through, 'Tis to look in at you They are growing so fast; 'Tis poured in such showers When my Mary goes past. Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me! Oh, Mary for me, Mary for me, And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee! THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. T BY SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. HE shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage-door. |