MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET.

But there's a braw time coming yet,
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee

O' joys to be,

When fa's the modest gloaming yet,

She's neither proud nor saucy yet,'

She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,

Bonny blinking,

Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O her artless smile's mair sweet

Than hinny or than marmalete;

An' right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,

I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her,

The very breeze that kisses her,

The flowery beds

On which she treads,

Though wae for ane that misses her.

231

Then O to meet my lassie yet,

Up in yon glen sae grassy yet; For all I see

Are nought to me,

Save her that's but a lassie yet!

THE MOON.

SHEPHERD.

Here, sir, tak the prospeck, an' gie's a screed o' philosophy, for I'm gaun to gie ye anither sang.

Now fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon,

Wi' thy still look o' majestye;

For though ye hae a queenly face,
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.

Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,

Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Your eebrow like the Grampian range,
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.

Yet still thou bear'st a human face,
Of calm an' ghostly dignity;

Some emblem there I fain wad trace

Of Him that made baith you an' me. But fare-ye-weel, bonny Lady Moon, There's neither stop nor stay for me; But when this joyfu' life is done, I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee.

THE WITCH O' FIFE;

ANOTHER balloon song, notable for nothing save its utter madness.

HURRAY, hurray, the jade's away,

Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!

I'm

up

in the air on my bonny grey mare,

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

I'll ring the skirts o' the gowden wain
Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit;

An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane,—
An' I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, away, o'er mountain an' main,
To sing at the morning's rosy yett;
An' water my mare at its fountain clear,-
But I see her yet, I see her yet.