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Contented wi little.
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
Let my Mary be your care:
Fair and faultless as your own,
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast,
Soothe her bosom into rest:
When in distant lands I roam;
Make her bosom still my home!
CONTENTED WI LITTLE.
TUNE—“Lumps o' pudding.” CONTENTED wi' little, an' cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow an' care, I gi'e them a skelp, as they 're creepin' alang, Wi' a cog o'gude swats an' an auld Scottish sang.
I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
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.
Tune—“Gilderoy; or Donald.” [" To the heroine of this song the poet's thoughts turned when, rejected by Jean Armour, he wrote his pathetic ' Lament.'
Her 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,
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me, They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
We part to meet no more!
While death stands victor by,
And thine that latest sigh!
THERE 's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.
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,
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water.
Altho' his daddie was nae laird,
And tho' I ha’e na meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure: The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure!
AGAIN rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
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,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amarg the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blest but I.
The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
An' owre the moorland whistles shrill ; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
n' when the lark, 'tween light an' dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, An' mounts an' sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
An' raging bend the naked tree:
When nature all is sad like me!