SONGS. THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. TUNE- Miss Forbes's Farew ll to Banff, or Ettrick Banks.' 'TWAS even-the dewy fields were On every blade the pearls hang; All nature listening seem'd the while : With careless step I onward stray'd, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle! Fair is the morn in flowery May, But Woman, Nature's darling child! O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, That ever rose on Scotland's plain! The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, To tend the flocks or till the soil, SONG OF DEATH. A GAELIC AIR. SCENE. A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song. FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the broad 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, Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark ! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 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, Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; Along the burn to steer, my jo; AULD ROB MORRIS. THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me; Altho' his daddie was nae laird, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace or plea. sure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, LORD GREGORY. O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, Where first I own'd that virgin-love, How aften didst thou pledge and vow, And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see! But spare, and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! WITH ALTERATIONS. OH, open the door, some pity to shew, Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, |