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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:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!
THERE's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better;
And I'll be his and he 'll be mine,
Altho' his daddie was nae laird,
We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
TUNE-"Johnnie's gray breeks."
AGAIN rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
An' maun I still on Menie doat,*
An' bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' like a hawk, An' winna let a body be.
"This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh-a particular friend of the author's."-R. B. "Menie" is the common abbreviation for "Marion."
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
n' when the lark, 'tween light an' dark,
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,