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But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ! May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie 's my ain !
TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON.
TUNE—“Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'.”
ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie !
Companions of my social joy:
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
Oft have I met your social band,
An' spent the cheerful, festive night;
Presided o'er the sons of light:
Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Those happy scenes when far awa'.
May freedom, harmony, and love
Unite you in the grand design,
The glorious Architect divine !
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
And you, farewell ! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
To masonry and Scotia dear!
When yearly ye assemble a',
To him, the Bard that's far awa'.
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
TUNE_“Miss Forbes's farewell to Banff,” or “Johnnie's gray breeks.”
'Twas even—the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
An' bore its fragrant sweets alang:
All nature list’ning seem'd the while,
The Lass Ó' Balloch myle.
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy: Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd, passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild; When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild; But woman, nature's darling child !
There all her charms she does compile; Ev’n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle!
Oh, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
' With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle!
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
Or downward seek the Indian mine;
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
THEIR GROVES O’SWEET MYRTLE.
TUNE—“Humours of Glen.”
Their groves o’sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o'green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell an' gowan lurk lowly unseen ; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
An' cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud
palace, What are they?—the haunt of the tyrant and slave! 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin.
The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters—the chains o' his Jean!
'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE E’E WAS
TUNE—“Laddie, lie near me.
(“For this beautiful song we are indebted to Jean Lorimer. It is true that Mary is wrought into the texture of the verse; but copies have been seen with the first line of the last verse running thus:-Jeanie, I'm thine,' &c.”—Cunningham.]
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o'kindness.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,