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 !

THE FAREWELL

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 !
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,

Companions of my social joy:
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart and brimful eye

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,

An' spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,

Presided o'er the sons of light:
An' by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write

Those happy scenes when far awa'.

May freedom, harmony, and love

Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,

The glorious Architect divine !
That you may keep th' unerring line,

Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim,

Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,

To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request perrnit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a',
One round-I ask it with a tear-

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,
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,

An' bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature list’ning seem'd the while,

The Lass Ó' Balloch myle.

93

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;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,

Or downward seek the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine

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.

95

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

MY RUIN.

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,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou ’rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.