The morning's gem-the star of love, And all its glories, only thee. Ah! Marion Graham! 'tis e'en ower true, Get up, ye little wily knave! I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering, You like to hear your lover rave, An' gar him trow ye dinna hear him; Yet weel this homage you'll repay, Get up, my love, an' come away! THE FLOWER WAS published in the Forest Minstrel, upwards of twenty years ago, and has been partially popular ever since.—It was beautifully harmonized to a Gaelic air, by Miss C. Forest, in a single sheet. O SOFTLY blaw, thou biting blast, And spare yon sweet and tender bud Exposed to every gale! Long has she hung her drooping head, Despairing to survive; But partial sunbeams through the cloud Still kept my flower alive. One evening, when the sun was low, Their music wild convey'd. The sunbeam lean'd across the shower, The rainbow girt the glen, There first I saw my lovely flower Far from the walks of men. Her cheek was then the ruddy dawn, The whitest feather from the swan Her mould of modest dignity Was form'd the heart to win; The dewdrop glist'ning in her eye, But frost on cold misfortune borne, And ruthless fate hath rudely torn Each kindred branch away. That wounded stem will never close, But bleeding still remain; Relentless winds, how can you blow, And nip my flower again! BIRNIEBOUZLE. Ir is said "the multitude never are wrong;" so be it. Well, then, this has been a popular street song for nearly thirty years. How does the instance justify the adage? Not well. However, bowing with humility to the public voice, in preference to my own judgment, I give it a place. AIR-Braes of Tullimett. WILL ye gang wi' me, lassie, To the braes o' Birniebouzle? Baith the yird an' sea, lassie, Will I rob to fend ye. I'll hunt the otter an' the brock, The hart, the hare, an' heather cock, An' pu' the limpet aff the rock, To batten an' to mend ye. If ye'll gang wi' me, lassie, To the braes o' Birniebouzle, Till the day you dee, lassie, Want shall ne'er come near ye. Sae canty will we be, lassie, At the braes o' Birniebouzle, Donald Gun and me, lassie, Ever sall attend ye. Though we hae nowther milk nor meal, We'll fank the porpy and the seal, An' ye sall gang sae braw, lassie, At the kirk o' Birniebouzle, Wi' littit brogues an' a', lassie, Wow but ye'll be vaunty! |