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0, let me lie, and weep my fill

O’er wounds that heal can never; And O, kind Heaven! were it thy will,

To close these eyes for ever ;

For how can maid's affections dear

Recall her love mistaken?

Or how can heart of maiden bear

To know that heart forsaken?

0, why should vows so fondly made,

Be broken ere the morrow,

To one who loved as never maid

Loved in this world of sorrow?

The look of scorn I cannot brave,

Nor pity's eye more dreary ; A quiet sleep within the grave

Is all for which I weary !

Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,

And banks of broom so yellow! Too happy has this bosom been Within your arbours mellow.

That happiness is fled for aye,

And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,

And the dear home beyond them!

As a note to the above song, I may quote a stanza from another poem written at the same time :

Woe to the guileful tongue that bred

This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain ! on his head

A minstrel's malison remain !
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,

Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart

That ever bow'd to nature's sway!

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Written for, and published in, Albyn's Anthology.

Hey, John, ho, John,

Hey, John o' Brackadale ;
Auld John, bauld John,

Brave John o' Brackadale !



o'er by Moravich,
Saw ye John o' Brackadale,
At his nose a siller queich,

At his knee a water-pail ?
Copper nose an' haffets grey,

Bald head an' bosom hale,
John has drunken usquebae
Mair than a' Loch Brackadale !

Hey, John, ho, John, &c.

Sic a carle ! to wear away,

An' lye down quiet i' the yird, Just when the glorious usquebae

Is growing cheaper by a third ;It winna do—I'll no believe it,

For ne'er was carle sae blithe an' hale;
Then hey for routh o' barley bree,
An’ brave John o’ Brackadale !
Hey, John, ho, John,

Hey, John o’ Brackadale;
Auld John, bauld John,

Brave John O'Brackadale!


Is a rant which I composed for my own singing, in the broken Highland dialect, when I was a shepherd.

AIR, Whigs o' Fife.

Her name pe Bauldy Frazer, man,
She's puir and oult, and pale and wan;
She proke her shin, and tint a han',

Upon Cullotin's lea, man.
Our Heelant clans pe creat forworn,
Els tem hat geen te loons ter corn;
But sic a tey was nefer porn

For Heelant mans to tee, man.

Och, sic a hurly-purly rase,
Te fery lift was in a plase,
As all te teils had won ter ways,

On Heelant mans to flee, man.

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