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Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair*,
Shall ever be my muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my highland lassie, o.

Within the glen sae bushy, 0,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0,
I set me down wi' right good will,
To sing my highland lassie, 0.

O were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, O.

Within the glen, c.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea ;
But while my crimson currents flow
l'll love my highland lassie, 0.

Within the glen, d*c.

Altho thro’ foreign climes range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful highland Jassie, 0.

Within the glen, dc.

For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
'That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my highland lassie, O.

Within the glen, &c.

* Gentle is used here in opposition to simple, in the Scottish and old English sense of the word. Nae gentle dames-no high-blooded dames.


She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band !
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, 0 !
Farewell the plan sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go
To sing my highland lassie, O* !



Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desart were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

* This is an early production, and seems to have been written on Highland Mary.


Tune, " Push about the Jorum.”

April, 1795.

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?

Then let the loons beware, sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon*,

And Criffel sink in Solwayt, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!

Fall de rall, &C.

O let us not like snarling tykes

In wrangling be divided ;
'Till slap come in an unco loon,

And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,

Amang oursels united ;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.

Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,

Perhaps a claut may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loon

Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our fathers' blude the kettle bought,

And wha wad dare to spoil it ;
By heaven the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fall de rall, &c.

* A high hill at the source of the Nith.

† A well-known mountain at the mouth of the same river.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the inob aboon the throne,

May they be damned together. Who will not sing “ God save the king,"

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; But, while we sing " God save the king,"

We'll ne'er forget the people.


Tune, “ Morag."

O wha is she that lo'es me,

And has my heart a keeping ?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,

As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rose buds steeping.


O that's the tassie o' my heart,

My lassie ever dearer,
that's the queen of woman kind,
Aud ne'er a ane to peer her

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Ere while thy breast sae warming
Had ne'er sic powers alarming.

O that's, &c.

If thou hadst heard her talking,

And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,

But her by thee is slighted ;
And thou art all delighted.

O that's, wc.

If thou hast met this fair one ;

When frae ber thou hast parted,
If every other fair one

But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken hearted.

O that's the lassie o' my heart,

My lassie ever dearer,
O that's the queen o' woman kind,

And ne'er a ane to peer her.


Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss,

O'er the mountains he is gane ; And with him is a' my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain.

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,

Drifting o'er the frozen plain.

When the shades of evening creep

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep,

Sweetly blythe his waukening be!

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