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Where fient a stand in a' the land,

Your Whigs can mak ava, Geordie. Then tak leg-bail, an' fare-ye-weel,

Your motley group an' a', Geordie; There's mony a ane has rued the day That ye cam here ava, Geordie.

Up an' rin awa', Geordie,

Up an' rin awa', Geordie, For fient a stand in all England

Your Whigs dare mak ava, Geordie !


Is sung by the country people to a fine ballad air, but has never been set to music. It is introduced in character in one of my printed dramas, but I have forgot which, and cannot find it.

My love's bonny as bonny can be,
My love's blithe as the bird on the tree;
But I like my bonny lass, an' she loes me,

An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
O, how I will cling unto my love's side,
And I will kiss my bonny, bonny bride;
And I'll whisper a vow,

whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.

Her breath is as sweet as the fragrant shower
Of dew that is blawn frae the rowan-tree flower;
Oh! never were the sweets of vernal bower,

Like my love's cheek in the morning.

Her eye is the blue-bell of the spring, Her hair is the blackbird's bonny wing ; To her dear side, oh ! how I'll cling,

On our greenwood walk in the morning.


Is one of my very earliest songs. The futile efforts of an untutored muse to reach the true pathetic are quite palpable, and bordering on the ridiculous.— It has never been set to music.

The gloamin' frae the welkin high

Had chased the bonny gouden gleam;
The curtain'd east, in crimson die,

Lay mirror'd on the tinted stream;
The wild-rose, blushing on the brier,

Was set wi' draps o' pearly dew,
As full and clear the bursting tear

That row'd in Ellen's een o'blue.

She saw the dear, the little cot,

Where fifteen years flew sweetly by,
An' sair she wail'd the hapless lot

That forced her frae that hame to fly.

Though blithe an' mild the e'ening smiled,

Her heart was rent wi' anguish keen; The mavis ceased his music wild,

And wonder'd what her plaint could mean.

A fringe was round the orient drawn,

A mourning veil it seem'd to be;
The star o' love look'd pale and wan,

As if the tear were in her ee.
The dowy dell, the greenwood tree,

With all their inmates, seem'd to mourn; Sweet Ellen's tears they doughtna see,

Departing never to return.


Alas! her grief could not be spoke,

There were no words to give it name; Her aged parents' hearts were broke,

Her brow imbued with burning shame. That hame could she ne'er enter mair,

Ilk honour'd face in tears to see, Where she so oft had join'd the prayer

Pour'd frae the heart so fervently.

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