O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber :
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.
And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's guid watch o'er them;
And here's to them we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
And here's to, &c.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her ee :
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's ee!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

A RED, RED ROSE.

TUNE-WISHAW'S FAVOURITE.'

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN?

TUNE- THE BONIE LASS IN YON TOWN.'

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon ?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,

She wanders by yon spreading tree : How blest, ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

How blest, ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear!

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr ;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit all else below,

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest is her form,

She has the truest, kindest heart.

A VISION.

TUNE 'CUMNOCK PSALMS.'

As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa' flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care;

CHORUS.

A lassie, all alone was making her moan,
Lamenting our lads beyond the sea :

In the bluidy wars they fa', and our honour's gane

an' a',

And broken-hearted we maun die.

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa',
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roarings swell and fa'.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me:
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain
The sacred posy-Libertie !

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,

He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,

I winna venture't in my rhymes.

0, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

TUNE- THE LASS OF LIVINGSTONE.'

O, WERT thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.