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Thou too, if e'er thy youthful ear
Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave;
CCLVIII. ROBERT BURNS, 1759—1796,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
But nought can glad the weary wight
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
The merlè, in his noontide bower,
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn.
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
But as for thee, thou false woman,
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
The weeping blood in woman's breast
Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe
My son my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns
And in the narrow house o' death
And the next flowers that deck the spring,
2. HIGHLAND MARY.
Ye banks and braes, and streams around
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers.
There simmer first unfald her robes,
For there I took the last fareweel
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
As underneath their fragrant shade
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
3. BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOLDIERS.
Or to victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See approach proud Edward's power—
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Let him turn and flee!