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THE LEA-RIG.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, Tells bughtin time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrowed field, Return sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen 1 gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain-deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheerie O
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

THE

LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.

"TWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature list'ning seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd, passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

:

Fair is the morning in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild;
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain
With joy, with rapture, I would toil :
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honors lofty shine:
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
Wi' the bonie lass of Ballochmyle.

BONIE LESLEY

O SAW ye bonie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther:

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever: For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee:
He'd look into thy bonie face,

And say, "I canna wrang thee."

The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha'na steer thee;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!

That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonie.

BONIE JEAN *

THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen,
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark
And ay she sang sae merrilie ;

The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
Andlang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream,

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain;

Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love.
An e'enin on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove :
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love.

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