TAM GLEN. TUNE-"Tam Glen." My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie ! But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie, the Laird o' Drumeller, "Gude day to you, brute!" he comes ben; He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, Oh, wha will I get but Tam Glen? How cruel are the Parents. Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, The last Halloween I was waukin' Come counsel, dear tittie! don't tarry— Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS! TUNE-"John Anderson, my jo." [Altered from an old English song.] How cruel are the parents Poor woman sacrifice! Has but a choice of strife,—— 97 The rav'ning hawk pursuing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, THE BANKS OF NITH. TUNE-"Robie donna gorach." THE Thames flows proudly to the sea Where Cummins ance had high command: When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear? Must wayward fortune's adverse hand How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? Tho' wandering now must be my doom, Far frae thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume Amang the friends of early days! 99 O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. CHORUS. Oh let me in this ae night, For pity's sake this ae night, Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, And shield me frae the rain, jo. The bitter blast that round me blaws The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause H HER ANSWER. Sung to the same Tune. OH tell na me o' wind and rain, CHORUS. I tell you now, this ae night, The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That's trusted faithless man, jo. The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed; Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo. The bird that charm'd his summer day, How aft her fate's the same, jo. |