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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 !
MY LOVE'S BONNY
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,
An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
To my little flower in the morning.
Her breath is as sweet as the fragrant shower
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;
Lay mirror'd on the tinted stream;
Was set wi' draps o' pearly dew,
That row'd in Ellen's een o'blue.
She saw the dear, the little cot,
Where fifteen years flew sweetly by,
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;
As if the tear were in her ee.
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.