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O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand,
To sing you a sang which you did me command;
But my memory's sac bad, I had almost forgot
That ye ca'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't.

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride,
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride;
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot,
And far afore the gear and the blaithrie o't.

Tho' my lassie has nae scarlets or silks to put on,
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne,
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she came in her smock
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't

Tho' we hae neither horses nor menzie at command,
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand;
And when wearied for rest, we'll find it sweet in ony spot,
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.

If we ha'e ony babies we will count them as lent,
Ha'e we less, ha'e we mair, we will aye be content ;
For they say they ha'e mair pleasure wha win but a groat,
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't.

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the queen,
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim,
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still remote,
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't.

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The smoke from yon cottage no longer is rising,

For night in her mantle the world has shrouded; Some calmly are sleeping, some fondly devising

New schemes to gild over the hopes that are clouded.

The moon thro' the blue sky in splendour is sailing,

The stars in the noon of their brightness are glowing, But these, tho' so lovely, ah! how unavailing

To soothe the lone heart that's with sorrow o'erflowing,

When love still remains where sweet hope is a stranger,

The present how bitter the future how lonely! Yet this tho' I feel—I ne'er pause at the danger,

But bid my heart beat, Love! for thee, and thee only.

Soon the red clouds of morn in the east will be blushing,

And thousands will hail the long-wish’d-for to-morrow, But transient my joy, as the cheek’s hectic flushing,

That bids us to hope but to add to our sorrow.

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The gloamin frae the welkin high,

Had chas'd the bonny gowden beam ;
The curtain'd east, in crimson dye,

Hung heavy owre the tinted stream:
The wild rose blushing on the brier,

Was set wi' draps o' shining dew
As big and clear, as th' bursting tear

That glow'd in Betty's e'e sae blue !

She saw the dear—the little cot,

Where fifteen years flew sweetly by! And mourn'd her shame, and hapless lot,

That forc'd her frae that hame to fly. Tho' sweet and mild the e'ening smil'd,

Her heart was rent wi' anguish keen; The mavis ceas'd his music wild,

And wonder'd what her sobs could mean,

It wasna kind to rob my mind

Of a' its peace for evermair;
To blot my name wi' burning shame,

And mak my parents' heart sae sair.
My hame how dare I enter now,

Ilk honour'd face in tears to see; Where oft I kneel'd to hear the vow,

Was offer'd frae the heart for me!

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Well! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too, For still my heart regards thy weal,

Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest—and 'twill impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass-moh ! how my heart

Would hate him if he lov'd thee not !

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break, But when th' unconscious infant smil'd,

I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it—and repress'd my sighs,

Its father in its face to see ; But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

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