HE. As songsters of the early year An' charming is my Philly. SHE. As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes an' fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. HE. The milder sun an' bluer sky That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly. SHE. The little swallow's wanton wing, HE. The bee that thro' the sunny hour Chloris. SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet, When evening shades in silence meet, As is a kiss o' Willy. HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, SHE. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? CHLORIS. TUNE-"The Caledonian Hunt's delight." WHY, why tell thy lover Bliss he never must enjoy? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie? 197 Oh, why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, FAREWELL, THOU STREAM THAT WINDING FLOWS. TUNE-"Nancy's to the greenwood gane." FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows, Around Eliza's dwelling! And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, oh! Eliza, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me! Here is the Glen. 199 The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; HERE IS THE GLEN. TUNE "The banks of Cree." ["I got an air pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 'The banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."-Burns to Thomson.] HERE is the glen, and here the bower, The village bell has toll'd the hour, 'Tis not Maria's whispering call; It is Maria's voice I hear! So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer; And art thou come?—and art thou true? THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. TUNE-"Neil Gow's lament." ["The air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine.”— Burns.] THERE's a youth in this city, it were a great pity That he frae our lasses should wander awa'; For he's bonnie an' braw, weel favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; His fecket is white as the new driven snaw; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin'; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted, and braw; |