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Oft has the lark sung o'er my head,

And shook the dew-draps frae her wing: Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed,

And round their shepherd form'd a ring Their looks condole the lee-lang day,

While mine are fix'd and canna vary : Oft hae they listen’d to my lay

Of faith and love to Bonny Mary.

When Phæbus mounts frae Crawford-muir,

His gowden locks a' streaming gaily ; When morn has breath'd its fragrance pure,

And life and joy rings through the valley ; I drive my flocks to yonder brook,

The feeble in my arms I carry; Then every lammie's harmless look

Brings to my mind my Bonny Mary.

When gloamin' o'er the welkin steals,

And haps the hills in sober gray ; And bitterns, in their airy wheels,

Amuse the wanderer on his way ; Regardless of the wind and rain,

With cautious step and prospect wary, I often trace the lonely glen

To get a sight of Bonny Mary.

When midnight draws her curtain deep,

And lays the breeze amang the bushes,

And Scaur, wi' mony a winding sweep,

O'er rocks of reddle raves and rushes ; Tnough sunk in short and restless sleep,

My fancy wings her flight so airy To where sweet guardian spirits keep

Their watch around the couch of Mary.

The exile may forget his home,

Where blooming youth to manhood grew; The bee forget the honeycomb,

Nor with the spring his toil renew; The sun may lose his light and heat ;

The planets in their rounds miscarry ; But my fond heart shall cease to beat

When I forget my Bonny Mary.

MY BLYTHE AN' BONNY LASSIE.

Tune-Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky.

How sair my heart nae man shall ken
When I took leave o' yonder glen,
Her faithful dames, her honest men,

Her streams sae pure an' glassy, 0:
Her woods that skirt the verdant vale,
Her balmy breeze sae brisk an' hale,

Her flower of every flower the wale,

My blythe an' bonny lassie, 0 !

The night was short, the day was lang,
An'ay we sat the birks amang,
Till o'er my head the blackbird sang

Gae part wi' that dear lassie, O.
When on Lamgaro's top sae green
The rising sunbeam red was seen,
Wi' aching heart I left my Jean,

My blythe an' bonny lassie, 0.

Her form is gracefu' as the pine ;
Her smile the sunshine after rain ;
Her nature cheerfu', frank, an' kind,

An' neither proud nor saucy, 0.
The ripest cherry on the tree
Was ne'er sae pure or meek to see,
Nor half sae sweet its juice to me

As a kiss o' my dear lassie, O.

Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Yon glen shall ay be dear to me ;
Her banks an' howms sae fair to see ;

Her braes sae green an' grassy, 0 : For there my hopes are centred a'; An' there my heart was stown awa: An' there my Jeanie first I saw,

My blythe an' bonny lassie, O.

THE BRAES OF BUSHBY.

AE glentin' cheerfu' simmer morn,
As I cam o'er the riggs o' Lorn,
I heard a lassie all forlorn

Lamentin' for her Johnny, 0.
Her wild notes pour’d the air alang;
The Highland rocks an' woodlands rang;
An'ay the o’erword o' her sang

Was Bushby braes are bonny, 0.

On Bushby braes where blossoms blow, Where blooms the brier an’ sulky sloe, There first I met my only joe,

My dear, my faithfu' Johnny, 0. The grove was dark, sae dark an' sweet! Where first my lad an' I did meet; The roses blush'd around our feet :

Then Bushby braes were bonny, 0.

Departed joys, how soft! how dear!
That frae my e'e still wrings the tear!
Yet still the hope my heart shall cheer

Again to meet my Johnny, 0.
The primrose saw, an' blue hare-bell,
But nane o' them our love can tell,
The thrilling joy I felt too well,
When Bushby braes were bonny, 0.

My lad is to the Baltic gane
To fight the proud an' doubtfu' Dane.
For our success my heart is fain ;

But 'tis maistly for my Johnny, 0.
Then, Cupid, smooth the German sea,
An' bear him back to Lorn an' me!
An' a' my life I'll sing wi' glee,

The Bushby braes are bonny, 0.

BLYTHE AN' CHEERY.

TUNE-Blythe, blythe, an' merry was she.

On Ettrick clear there grows a brier,

An' mony a bonny bloomin' shaw;
But Peggy's grown the fairest flower

The braes o' Ettrick ever saw.
Her cheek is like the woodland rose ;

Her e'e the violet set wi' dew;
The lily's fair without compare,

Yet in her bosom tines its hue.

Had I as muckle goud an' gear

As I could lift unto my knee, Nae ither lass but Peggy dear

Should ever be a bride to me.

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