MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. But there's a braw time coming yet, O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet, She's neither proud nor saucy yet,' She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty lassie yet. But O her artless smile's mair sweet Than hinny or than marmalete; An' right or wrang, Ere it be lang, I'll bring her to a parley yet. I'm jealous o' what blesses her, The very breeze that kisses her, The flowery beds On which she treads, Though wae for ane that misses her. 231 Then O to meet my lassie yet, Up in yon glen sae grassy yet; For all I see Are nought to me, Save her that's but a lassie yet! THE MOON. SHEPHERD. Here, sir, tak the prospeck, an' gie's a screed o' philosophy, for I'm gaun to gie ye anither sang. Now fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon, Wi' thy still look o' majestye; For though ye hae a queenly face, Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base, Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell; Yet still thou bear'st a human face, Some emblem there I fain wad trace Of Him that made baith you an' me. But fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon, There's neither stop nor stay for me; But when this joyfu' life is done, I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee. THE WITCH O' FIFE; ANOTHER balloon song, notable for nothing save its utter madness. HURRAY, hurray, the jade's away, Like a rocket of air with her bandalet! I'm up in the air on my bonny grey mare, But I see her yet, I see her yet. I'll ring the skirts o' the gowden wain An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane,— Away, away, o'er mountain an' main, |