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She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving:
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving;
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin'!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle.
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

THE WHIGS O' FIFE.

TUNE-The Whigs o' Fife.

O WAE to a' the Whigs o' Fife,
The brosy tykes, the lousy tykes,
O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,
That e'er they cam frae hell!

There's gentle John, and Jock the slorp,
And skellied Jock, and bellied Jock,
And curly Jock, and burly Jock,
And lying Jock himsell.

Deil claw the traitors wi' a flail,
That took the middens for their bail,
And kiss'd the cow ahint the tail,

That keaved at kings themsell.

At sic a sty o' stinking crew

The fiends themselves were like to spew ;
They held their nose, and crook'd their mou',
And doughtna bide the smell.

But gin I saw his face again,

Thae hounds hae hunted ower the plain,
Then ilka ane should get his ain,

And ilka Whig the mell.

O for a bauk as lang as Crail,
And for a rape o' rapes the wale,
To hing the tykes up by the tail,
And hear the beggars yell!

O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,
The brosy tykes, the lousy tykes,
O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,
That e'er they cam frae hell!*

O LICHT IS THE HEART AND THE EE.

LAING.

TUNE-I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane.

O LICHT is the heart and the ee,
When the laddie we loe is our ain;
And licht is the toil o' the day,

When trysted to meet him at e'en :
And sweet is the smile o' the sun,
When lichting the landscape anew;
But sweeter the blink o' the mune,
When lichtin' our lover in view.

From the Scottish Minstrel, a collection of united songs and airs, by Mr R. A. Smith, 6 vols. 1823-8.

Yestreen, by the howe in the vale,
My laddie was waitin' on me;
Though fond as my laddie himsell,
Yet waitin' I wish'd him to be.
He pu'd me low down on his knee,
His arms he around me did twine;
And press'd at my hand for a wee,
And lean'd his warm cheek upon mine.

Dear lassie, he whisper'd, now we
Hae stown this moment our lane;
But had we the Martinmas fee,

We'll e'en hae a house o' our ain.
Though we hae nae gowd to gae through,
We hae what the gowd canna buy;
He gied me a kiss o' his mou',

And tell'd me the lave in a sigh.

My bosom a' lowin' wi' love,

I sigh'd and said naething ava; And Ŏ that sweet nicht was above The sweetest that ever did fa'! And sae will I lovingly strive

To follow his wishes wi' mine, That yet, when in years we arrive, He'll think wi' delight on yestreen.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree;
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright;

The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree.

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot or to sage be due.
The myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give.
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green:
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing-bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.

Yes, twine for me the cypress-bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and loved my last !
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue—

Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree !

O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOUN.

BURNS.

TUNE-I'll gang nae mair to yon toun.

O WAT ye wha's in yon toun
Ye see the e'ening sun upon ?
The fairest maid's in yon toun,
That e'ening 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 ee.

How blest, ye birds, that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!

And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Jeanie dear!

The sun blinks blythe on yon toun,
Amang yon broomy braes sae green;
But my delight, in yon toun,

And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.
Without my love, not a' the charms
Of Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Jeanie in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's drearie sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Though raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon toun,

The sinking sun's gane down upon;

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