Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye^

Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me ?

MY NANIE'S AWA.

TUNE — “There'll never be peace,” &c.

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless-my Nanie's awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
They pain my sad bosom so sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nanie- and Nanie's awa.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',
Give over, for pity-my Nanie's awa.

Come, Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay:
'The dark, dreary Winter, and wild-driving snaw
Alane can delight me now Nanie's awa.

BANKS O' DOON.

YE banks and braes o' bonie Doon
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flow'ring thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed, never to return.

Oft hae I rov'd my bonie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And fondly sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause lover stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

THE DISCONSOLATE LOVER.

Now Spring has clad the groves in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers:

While ilka thing in nature join
Ther sorrows to forego,

O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of wo!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn,
Defies the angler's art:

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

The little flowret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom;

And now, beneath the withering blast, My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blithe her dewy wings,

In morning's rosy eye;

As little reckt I sorrow's pow'r,

Until the flow'ry snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O, had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' men and nature leagu'd my foes,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whase doom is, "Hope nae mair"

What tongue his woes can tell? Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell.

SWEET fa's the eve on Cragie-Burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow;
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt love anither,

When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,

Around my grave they'll wither.

THE CHEERLESS SOUL.

TUNE

"Jockey's Gray Breeks.”

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues ; Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dewa

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry;
The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,

Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,