« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie !
Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity,
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ?
I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow
In poortith I might make a fen’; What care I in riches to wallow,
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,
He 'll gi’e me gude hunder marks ten; But if it's ordained I maun tak’ him,
Oh, wha will I get but Tam Glen ?
How cruel are the Parents.
Yestreen at the valentine's dealing,
My heart to my mou' gi’ed a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written-Tam Glen.
The last Halloween I was waukin'
My droukit sark sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness cam' up the house staukin',
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!
Come counsel, dear tittie! don't tarry-
will advise me to marry
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS!
TUNE—“John Anderson, my jo."
[Altered from an old English song. ]
Who riches only prize,
Poor woman sacrifice!
Has but a choice of strife,--.
Become a wretched wife.
The rav’ning hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
Awhile her pinions tries :
No shelter or retreat,
And drops beneath his feet.
THE BANKS OF NITH,
TUNE—“Robie donna gorach.”
The Thames flows proudly to the sea
Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,
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
For ever, ever keep me here?
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 !
O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET?
TUNE—“Let me in this ae night.”
O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet?
And I would fain be in, jo.
Oh let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
Oh rise and let me in, jo!
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
The bitter blast that round me blaws
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
Sung to the same Tune.
Oh tell na me o' wind and rain,
I winna let you in, jo!
I tell you now, this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
I winna let you in, jo.
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,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
The bird that charm’d his summer day,
How aft her fate's the same, jo.