Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie1!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Duncan Gray came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost1 her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh",
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh";
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;
Ha, ha, &c.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, &c.
Meg grew sick-as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, &c.
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd' his wrath;
Now they're crouse and cantie 2 baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD.
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And comena unless the back-yett be a jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye werena comin to me.
And come as ye werena comin to me.
O whistle, &c.
At Kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye caredna a flie:
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye werena lookin at me.
Yet look as ye werena lookin at me.
Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But courtna anither, tho' jokin ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O whistle, &c.
BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Tune-'Hey tuttie tattie.'
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Let him on wi' me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
Tune-'Wishaw's Favourite.'
My luve is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
My luve is like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair thou art, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho it were ten thousand mile.
Tune-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes Hame.'
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
But to me it's delightless-my Nanie's awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn:
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nanie-and Nanie's awa
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