And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing, And at night she'll return to her nest back again. I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. I'll aye ca' in by yon town. And by yon garden green, again; I'll aye ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sall ken, there's nane sall guess, But she my fairest, faithfu' lass, And stownlins* we sall meet again. She'll wander by the aiken tree, WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. First when Maggy was my care, Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Nearest to heaven ;-sweet emblem of his songt, Stownlins-By stealth. + Trystin-time-The time of appointment. Burns. -Wiser men than me's beguil'd; Whistle o'er the lave o't. How we live, my Meg and me, -Whistle o'er the lave o't. Wha I wish were maggot's meat, YOUNG JOCKEY. Young Jockey was the blythest lad He roos'd my waist sae genty sma; My Jockey toils upon the plain, Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. An' aye the night comes round again, An' aye he vows he'll be my ain M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong, The gaud-at the plough. M'Pherson's time will not be long Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, He play'da spring and danc'd it round, Oh, what is death but parting breath A- I've dar'd his face, and in this place Sae rantingly, &c. Untie these bands from off my hands, I've lived a life of sturt and strife; It burns my heart I must depart, Sae rantingly, &c. Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, May coward shame distain his name, SONG. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be of care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And comes not aye when sought, man.. SONG. Tune-Braes o' Balquhidder. I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee o'er again, My bonnie Peggy Alison! Ilk care and fear, when they are near, When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, And by thy e'en she bonnie blue, SONG*. Tune-If he be a butcher neat and trim. On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en. She's fresher than the morning dawn She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, she's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. Her looks are like the sportive lamb, Her hair is like the curling mist That shades the mountain side at e'en, Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, This song was an early production. It was recovered by the editor from the oral communica tion of a lady residing at Glasgow, whom the bard in early life affectionately admired. |