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My blue bonnet abune my bree,
And shaw me the man that'll danton me!

It's nae the battle's deadly stoure,
Nor friends proved false, that'll gar me cower ;
But the reckless band o' povertie,
0, that alane can danton me.
High was I born to kingly gear,
But a cuif cam in my cap to wear;
But wi' my braidsword I'll let him see
He's nae the man to danton me.

0, I hae scarce to lay me on,
Of kingly fields were ance my ain,
Wi' the muir-cock on the mountain bree;
But hardship ne'er can danton me.
Up cam the gallant chief Lochiel,
And drew his glaive o' nut-brown steel,
Says, Charlie, set your fit to me,
And shaw me wha will danton thee!



TUNE-Roslin Castle.

'Twas in that season of the year,
When all things gay and sweet appear,
That Colin, with the morning ray,
Arose and sung bis rural lay.
Of Nannie's charms the shepherd sung :
The hills and dales with Nannie

While Roslin Castle heard the swain,
And echoed back his cheerful strain.

Awake, sweet Muse! The breathing spring
With rapture warms : awake, and sing !
Awake and join the vocal throng,
And bail the morning with a song:
To Nannie raise the cheerful lay;
O, bid her haste and come away ;

In sweetest smiles herself adorn,
And add new graces to the inorn!

O look, my love! on every spray
A feather'd warbler tunes his lay;
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting song:
Then let the raptured notes arise :
For beauty darts from Nannie's eyes ;
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.

Oh, come, my love! Thy Colin's lay
With rapture calls : 0, come away!
Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twine
Around that modest brow of thine.
O! hither haste, and with thee bring
That beauty blooming like the spring,
Those graces that divinely shine,
And charm this ravish'd heart of mine ! *



'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', -And Martinmas dowie had wound


year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

And left ber auld maister and neebours sae dear: For Lucy had served in the Glen a' the simmer ; She cam there afore the flower blumed on the

pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her,

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. * Richard Hewit, the author of this song, was employed by the blind poet Blacklock to act as his leader or guide during his residence in Cumberland; and for some years afterwards he served him as his amanuensis. I have not been able to perceive the song in any older collection than that of Herd, 1776. The air was composed by Oswald, about the beginning of the eighteenth century.

t It is a somewhat remarkable circumstance regarding this exquisitely pathetic and beautiful little poem, that its author has written hardly any other thing of any description.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';

Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see: Fare ye weel, Lucy! quo Jamie, and ran in;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae bis ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin',

Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',

And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

ony better,

Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter ?"

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee? If I wasna ettled to be

Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ;

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy!

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He could nae say mair but just, Fare ye weel, Lucy!

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;

The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea: But Lucy likes Jamie ;- she turn'd and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young


dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return !




TUNE_The jollie beggar. There was a jollie beggar, and a beggin' he was boun', And he took up his quarters into a landwart toun. And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin', a-rovin' in the

nicht, And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin', boys, let the moon

sbine ne'er sae bricht: And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin'.

He wad neither lie in barn, nor yet wad he in byre,
But in ahint the ha' door, or else afore the fire.

The beggar's bed was made at e’en wi' gude clean strae

and bay, And in ahint the ba' door, and there the beggar lay.

Up rose the gude man's dochter, and for to bar the door; And there she saw the beggar, standin' i' the floor.

He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed he ran; O, hoolie, hoolie, wi' me, sir; ye'll wauken our gude


The beggar was a cunnin' loon, and ne'er a word he

spak, Until the cock began to craw; syne he began to crack.

Is there ony dowgs into this toun ? maiden, tell me

true. And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinnie and my

dow ?

They'll ryve a' my meal-pocks, and do me mickle wrang. Oh, dule for the dooin' o't! are ye the puir man?

Then she took up the meal-pocks, and flang them ower

the wa';

The deil gae wi' the meal-pocks, my maidenhead, and a'!

I took ye for some gentleman, at least the Laird o'

Brodie; Oh, dule for the doin' o't! are ye the puir bodie ? He took the lassie in his arms, and gae ber kisses three, And four-and-twenty hunder merks, to pay the nourice


He took a horn frae his side, and blew baith loud and

shrill, And four-and-twenty beltit knichts came skippin' ower

the hill.

And he took out his little knife, loot a' his duddies fa', And he was the brawest gentleman that was amang

them a'.

The beggar was a clever loun, and he lap shouther-hicht, And, aye for siccan quarters as I gat yesternicht! And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin', a-rovin' in the

nicht, And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin', boys, let the moon

shine ne'er sae bricht: And we'll gang nae mair a-rovin'. *



TUNE—The Gaberlunyie man.
The pawky auld carle cam ower the lee,
Wi' monie gude-e'ens and days to me,
Saying, Gudewife, for your courtesie,

Will ye lodge a silly puir man?
The nicht was cauld, the carle was wat,
And doun ayont the ingle he sat;
My douchter's shouthers be 'gan to clap,

And cadgily ranted and sang.

* From Herd's Collection, 1776.

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