Ay wauking, O!
Wauking aye, and weary, Sleep I can get nane
For thinking o' my deary.
Simmer's a pleasant time,
Flowers of every colour,
The water rins ower the heugh-
And I lang for my true lover.
When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I'm eerie ;
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking o' my deary.
Lanely night comes on;
A' the lave are sleeping; I think on my love,
And blear my een wi' greeting.
Feather-beds are soft,
Painted rooms are bonnie;
But a kiss o' my dear love
Is better far than ony.
O for Friday's night,
Friday at the gloaming!
O for Friday's night!
Friday's lang o' coming.
AYE WAUKIN', OH!
CAS ALTERED BY BURNS.
Oн, spring's a pleasant time !
Flowers o' every colour-
The sweet bird builds her nest,
And I lang for my lover.
When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk' I'm eerie,
Rest I canna get,
For thinkin' o' my dearie.
Aye wakin, oh!
Wakin' aye and weary;
Come, come, blissful dream,
Bring me to my dearie.
Darksome nicht comes doun-
A' the lave are sleepin';
I think on my kind lad,
And blin' my een wi' greetin'.
Aye wakin', oh!
Wakin' aye and wearie;
Hope is sweet, but ne'er
Sae sweet as my dearie!
I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.
TUNE-My lodging is on the cold ground.
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane;
He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me;
He's willing to mak me his ain;
And his ain I am willing to be.
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue,
And a pair o' mittens o' green;
The first eight lines, along with other eight not here printed, are said to have been written by the late Rev. Mr Clunie, minister of Borthwick.
The price was a kiss o'
my mou' ;
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land, and their lordly degree;
I carena for ought but my dear,
For he's ilka thing lordly to me:
His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa!
I listen-poor fool! and I greet;
Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!
Dear lassie, he cries wi' a jeer,
Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we've little to brag o'-ne'er fear What's gowd to a heart that is wae? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he's dwining wi' care; Now we, though we've naething but health, Are cantie and leal evermair.
O Marion the heart that is true,
Has something mair costly than gear; Ilk e'en it has naething to rueIlk morn it has naething to fear. Ye warldlings, gae hoard up your store, And tremble for fear ought you tyne; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine!
He ends wi' a kiss and a smile-
Wae's me, can I tak it amiss!
My laddie's unpractised in guile,
He's free aye to daut and to kiss!
Ye lasses wha loe to torment
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks-I hae gi'en my consent,
And this night I am Jamie's for life.
TUNE-The Country Lassie.
In summer, when the hay was mawn,
And corn waved green in ilka field;
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield;
Blythe Bessie in the milkin'-shiel,
Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will :
Out spak a dame in runkled eild,
O' gude advisement comes nae ill.
It's ye hae wooers mony a ane,
And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and canny wale
A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen-
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre;
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
It's plenty beets the lover's fire.
For Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen,
I dinna care a single flee;
He lo❜es sae weel his craps and kye,
He has nae love to spare for me:
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's ee,
Aweel I wat he lo'es me dear;
Ae blink o' him I wadna gie
For Buskie Glen and a his gear.
Oh, thoughtless lassie, life's a faught,
The canniest gait the strife is sair;
But aye fu' haun't is fechtin' best-
A hungry care's an unco care:
But some will spend, and some will spare,
And wilfu' folk maun hae their will;
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink your yill.
O, gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender heart o' leesome love
The gowd and siller canna buy.
We may be puir, Robie and I;
Licht is the burden luve lays on:
Content and love bring peace and joy;
What mair hae kings upon a throne?
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
TUNE-The Flowers of the Forest.
I'VE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and grey;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
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