THE SOCIAL CU P. CHARLES GRAY. The gloamin saw us a' sit down, But sic a nicht we never saw. The auld kirk bell has chappit twal; Wha cares though she had chappit twa ! We're licht o' heart, and winna part, Though time and tide should rin awa. Tut! never speir how wears the morn, Then fill us up a social cup, And never mind the dapple dawn; Just sit a while, the sun may smile, And light us a' across the lawn. AE HAPPY HOUR. ALEXANDER LAING. The dark gray o' gloamin, A kind winsome wifie, And health to endure, Ye lost to affection, Whom avarice can move To woo and to marry THE GREEN BOWERS OF BARGENY. HEW AINSLIE. I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair I left ye like a wanton lamb That plays 'mang Haydart heather; I've found ye now a sober dame, A wife, and eke a mither. Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see; Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie ;But oh! I'd rather met wi' thee 'Mang the green bowers of Bargeny. HE IS GONE, HE IS GONE! I WILLAM MOTHERWELL. He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree; Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea. He is fled, the light-hearted! He is fled! he is fled! Like a gallant so free, Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers fluttered, Surely something he muttered, He at least must have uttered A farewell to me! He's away! he's away, To far lands o'er the sea And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances, Amid thronging lances, Sure he'll think of the glances That love stole from me! He is gone! he is gone! But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me! For I dream of him ever, O POVERTY. ALEXANDER HUME. liza was a bonnie lass, an' O, she lo'ed me weel,— Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel; But I was poor, her Faither dour, he wadna look on me, O poverty! O poverty! that Love should bow to thee! I went unto her Mither: an' I argued, an' I fleeched, I spak o' love an' honesty, an' mair an' mair beseeched, But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me, O poverty! O poverty! that Love should bow to thee! I neist went to her brother, an I tauld him o' my pain, O he was wae! he tried to say, but it was a' in vain; Though he was weel in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me, O poverty! O poverty! that Love should bow to thee! O wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, An' canker'd grey locks young again, gin he hae gear an' lan', To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' ee, O poverty! O poverty! that Love should bow to thee! |