Then the laverock frae the blue lift Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.

Then the eye shines sae bright,
The haill soul to beguile,
There's love in every whisper,
And joy in every smile.
Oh, who would choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss a bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame?

See yonder pawky shepherd
That lingers on the hill-
His yowes are in the fauld,
And his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to rest,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame.

Awa' wi' fame and fortune

What comfort can they gi'e?—

And a' the arts that prey

On man's life and libertie.

Gi'e me the highest joy

That the heart o' man can frame,

My bonnie, bonnie lassie,

When the kye come hame.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, born June 3, 1774, died May 17, 1810.
GLOOMY winter's now awa',

Saft the westling breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks of Stanley shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheery O;
Sweet the crawflow'r's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie O.
Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blythely spend the gowden day

'Midst joys that never weary O.

Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lav'rocks fan the snaw-white clouds,
Siller saughs with downy buds
Adorn the banks sae briery O.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheery O.
Trees may bud and birds may sing,
Flow'rs may bloom and verdure spring,

Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie O.

THE LASS O'ARRANTEENIE.

ROBERT TANNAHILL. This poet, a weaver in Paisley-an amiable but most unfortunate man-wrote upon many imaginary fair ones, and associated their names with places he had never seen. Arranteenie is a place unknown, but is supposed to have been intended for Ardentinny, a lovely spot on the shore of Loch Long, in Argyleshire.

FAR lone amang the Highland hills,
'Midst nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rose-bud down the how
Just opening fresh and bonny,
It blinks beneath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony.
Sae sweet amidst her native hills
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now from the mountain's lofty brow
I view the distant ocean;

There avarice guides the bounding prow,

Ambition courts promotion.

Let Fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurell'd favours many,

Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass o' Arranteenie.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

ROBERT TANNAHILL. The music by R. A. SMITH. One of the most popular of the modern Scotch melodies.

THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloaming,
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier wi' its soft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny,
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports of the city seemed foolish and vain ;
I ne'er saw a nymph I could ca' my dear lassie,

Till charm'd with young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

OH, ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

ROBERT TANNAHILL. Air-"Sleepy Maggie."

Он, are ye sleeping, Maggie,

Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie?

Let me in, for loud the linn

Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.

Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry ;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.

Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.

Fearful soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary;
Loud the iron yate goes clank,

And cry of howlets makes me eerie.
Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.

Aboon my breath I darna speak,

For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie ;
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek,—

Oh, rise, rise, my bonnie ladye!

Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.

She opt the door, she let him in,
He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie.
"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye."

Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie;
What care I for the howlet's cry,

For boortree bank, or warlock craigie?

LOUDON'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

"LOUDON'S bonnie woods and braes,

I maun leave them a', lassie ;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes

Would gi'e to Britons law, lassie ?
Wha wad shun the field o' danger;
Wha to fame would live a stranger?
Now when freedom bids avenge her,
Wha should shun her ca', lassie ?
Loudon's bonnie woods and braes
Hae seen our happy bridal days,,
And gentle hope shall soothe thy waes,
When I am far awa', lassie."