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An' when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O.
When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, An' talk o' love, my dearie, O.
An' when the howling wintry blast
MY SPOUSE, NANCY.
TUNE-"My jo, Janet."
‘HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho' I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir."
"One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man, or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy?"
My spouse, Nancy.
"If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
"Sad will I be, so bereft,
Yet I'll try to make a shift,
My spouse, Nancy."
"My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it; When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think how you will bear it."
"I will hope and trust in heaven,
Strength to bear it will be given,
"Well, sir, from the silent dead,
"I'll wed another like my dear,
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy."
MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O.
WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
Altho' the night was ne'er sae wild,
The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
It mak's my heart sae cheery, O,
Contented wi' little.
POWERS celestial! whose protection
your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.
TUNE-"Lumps o' pudding."
CONTENTED wi' little, an' cantie wi' mair,
I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, an' life is a faught:
My mirth an' good humour are coin in my pouch, An' my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
Blind chance, let her snapper an' stoyte on her way; Be 't to me, be 't frae me, e'en let the jade gae; Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain, My warst word is—“Welcome, an' welcome again!"
FROM THEE, ELIZA.
["To the heroine of this song the poet's thoughts turned when, rejected by Jean Armour, he wrote his pathetic 'Lament.'
name was Elizabeth Barbour, handsome rather than beautiful, very lively, and of ready wit."-Cunningham.]
FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore,
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar: