O POORTITH cauld, and restless love, Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An ’twere na for my Jeanie. Chorus.-O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life’s dearest bands
A Tale “Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.” -Gawin Douglas. When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An’ folk begin to tak’
THE SMALL birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale; The primroses blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale:
O BONIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man; And bonie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e’enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How
FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains, Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear! My Jean’s heart-rending throe! Farewell, my Bess! tho’
STAY my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel to deceive me; Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go! Cruel charmer, can you go! By my love so
O HOW can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonie lad that I lo’e best Is o’er the hills and far awa! It’s no the
LIFE ne’er exulted in so rich a prize, As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow, As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low. Thy form and
There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, An’ they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and ploughed him down, Put clods
MY Sandy gied to me a ring, Was a’ beset wi’ diamonds fine; But I gied him a far better thing, I gied my heart in pledge o’ his ring. Chorus.-My Sandy O, my
THE BLUDE-RED rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me. Refrain.-To daunton me, to daunton me,
AS Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When
WHERE Cart rins rowin’ to the sea, By mony a flower and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant Weaver. O, I had wooers aught or nine,
Chorus.-Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi’ him. Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. I GAED up to Dunse, To warp a wab o’ plaiden, At his daddie’s yett, Wha
I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M’Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away ‘Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An’ wad hae
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