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SONG OF DEATH.

I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody;
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.

53

SONG OF DEATH.

SCENE-a Field of Battle; Time of the Day-EVENING: the Wounded and Dying of the victorious Army are supposed to join in the following Song.

A Gaelic Air.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,

Now gay with the bright setting sun;

Farewell,loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our Our King and our country to save- [hands, While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O! who would not rest with the brave!

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

I never saw a fairer,

I never loe'd a dearer,

And niest my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing.
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;

Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,

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AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o'guid fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my

dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O, had she but been of lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN Gray came here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blithe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ;

Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, &c.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to--France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.

O POORTITH.

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg grew sick- -as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, &c.

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan couldna be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

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O POORTITH.

TUNE-I had a Horse.

O POORTITH cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 't werena for my Jeanie.

O, why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?

This warld's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;

Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.
O, why, &c.

VOL. II.

F

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