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THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

SECOND VERSION.

MRS. COCKBURN, born about the year 1710, died 1794.

I'VE seen the smiling

Of fortune beguiling ;

I've felt all its favours, and found its decay:
Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing;

But now 'tis fled-fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorn'd the foremost

With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay;
Sae bonnie was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming;

But now they are wither'd and weeded away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,

And loud tempest storming before the mid-day;
I've seen Tweed's silver streams

Shining in the sunny beams

Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his way.

O fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting;

Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?
Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,

Nae mair your frowns can fear me;

For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

This song is an imitation, but not a good one, of Miss Elliot's, and appeared originally in Herd's Collection in 1776.

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THE moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale and hollow ee;
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save;
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!"
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said,

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

LOGIE O' BUCHAN.

GEORGE HALKET, died 1756.

O LOGIE O' Buchan, O Logie the laird!

They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma',
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'.

He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa';
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa';
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a’.

Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;
Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him wi' the houses and land.

He said, Think na lang, &c.

My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor:
Though I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do,
They're na haef sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.
He said, Think na lang, &c.

I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,

And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but ae saxpence, he brak' it in twa,
And gi'ed me the haef o't when he gade awa'.

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',

And ye'll come back and see me in spite o' them a'.

Mr. Peter Buchan states that this song was written by a schoolmaster at Rathen in Aberdeenshire, of the name of George Halket, who died in 1756. Mr. Halket was a Jacobite, and wrote some squibs after the "Forty-five," which gave such offence to the Duke of Cumberland that he offered a reward of 100l. for the author's head. The poet, however, escaped the danger, and died peaceably in his bed. The hero of the piece was a James Robertson, gardener at Logie.

LOW DOWN I' THE BRUME.

JAMES CARNEGIE. From "The Lark," a collection of Scottish Songs, 1765.

My daddie is a cankert carle,
He'll no twine wi' his gear;
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife,
Hauds a' the house asteer.

But let them say, or let them do,

It's a' ane to me;

For he's low doun, he's in the brume,

That's waitin' on me :

Waitin' on me, my love,

He's waitin' on me :

For he's low doun, he's in the brume,
That's waitin' on me.

My auntie Kate sits at her wheel,

And sair she lightlies me;

But weel ken I it's a' envy,

For ne'er a joe has she.
But let them say, &c.

My cousin Kate was sair beguiled
Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen;
And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware
O' fause deluding men!

But let them say, &c.

Gleed Sandy he cam' wast yestreen,
And speir'd when I saw Pate;
And aye sinsyne the neebors round
They jeer me air and late.
But let them say, &c.

MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS.

JOHN LAPRAIK. 1780.

WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane wha ance were twain.

A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss : Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss.

Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee!
I ken thy wish is me to please;
Our moments pass sae smooth away,
That numbers on us look and gaze;
Weel pleased they see our happy days,
Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame;

And aye when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest;
And if that aught disturb my dear,
I'll bid her laugh her cares away,

And beg her not to drop a tear.

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