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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

Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit;
An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane,

An' I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, away, o'er mountain an' main,

To sing at the morning's rosy yett;
An’ water my mare at its fountain clear,-

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, thou bonny witch o' Fife,

On foam of the air to heave an' flit, An' little reck thou of a poet's life,

For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet.

1

ROW ON, ROW ON,

Was written to an old Border air, ycleped“ Tushilaw's Lines," which has never been published. The words were meant to suit the plaintive notes of the tune.

Row on, row on, thou cauldrife wave,

Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumbleWeel may you to the tempest rave

And down your briny mountains tumble; For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,

Of firmest friend and fondest lover, Who lie in thy dark bosom pall’d,

The garish green wave rolling over.

Upon thy waste of waters wide,

Though ray'd in a'the dyes o' heaven!
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven ;

For then on ane that loe'd me weel

My heart will evermair be turning ; An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel

That nought remains for me but mourning.

For whether he's alive or dead,

In distant land for maiden sighing, A captive into slavery led,

Or in thy beds of amber lying, I cannot tell;—I only know

loved him dearly, and forewarn’d him; I gave him thee in pain and woe,

And thou hast never more return'd bim.

Still thou rowest on with sullen roar

A broken heart to thee is nothing ; Thou only lovest to lash the shore,

And jabber out thy thunder, frothing. Thy still small voice send to this creek,

The wavy field of waters over ; Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak!

And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!

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