Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend Than that his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end While Heaven preserves my Highland laddie. O my bonnie, &c. OWER THE MUIR TO MAGGY. ALLAN RAMSAY. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany." I'LL Ower the muir to Maggy; Her wit and sweetness call me, If she love mirth, I'll learn to sing; If she admire a martial mind, Beauty can wonders work with ease, If in her breast that flame shall burn AN' THOU WERE MY AIN THING. AN' thou were my ain thing, I would lo❜e thee, I would lo'e thee; An' thou were my ain thing, How dearly would I lo'e thee! I would clasp thee in my arms, Of race divine thou needs must be, The gods one thing peculiar have, To merit I no claim can make, My passion, constant as the sun, Like bees that suck the morning dew Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou', And gar the gods envy me. An' thou were, &c. Sae lang's I had the use of light, How fair and ruddy is my Jean, I'd An' thou were, &c. grasp thee to this breast of mine, Around my stronger limbs should twine, An' thou were, &c. Time's on the wing, and will not stay; Oh, let nae scorn undo thee. While love does at his altar stand, Ha'e there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand, This song appears in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," with the signature X., indicating that he did not know who the author was. The air is very beautiful, and is traced to as early a period as 1627, but is supposed to be much older. The last six stanzas were written by Allan Ramsay, and appended to the original song. BARBARA ALLAN. ANONYMOUS. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany." Ir was in and about the Martinmas time, He sent his man down through the town Oh, hooly, hooly, rase she up To the place where he was lyin', It's oh I'm sick, I'm very very sick, Oh, dinna ye mind, young man, she said, That ye made the healths gae round and round, He turn'd his face unto the wa', And slowly, slowly rase she up, She hadna gane a mile but twa, When she heard the deid-bell ringin', Oh, mother, mother, mak' my bed, I'll die for him to-morrow. A version of this celebrated old song has been inserted in Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry;" but it seems to be generally acknowledged that the Scottish is the original, upon which the English has been founded, without being improved. The author of the song is unknown; but we are indebted to Allan Ramsay for it preservation. |