When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, etc.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest,
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi' the, etc.

FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY

FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY

My heart is sair—I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for Somebody;

I could wake a winter night
For the sake o' Somebody.
O-hon! for Somebody!
O-hey! for Somebody!

I could range the world around,
For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on Somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my Somebody!
O-hon! for Somebody!

O-hey! for Somebody!

I wad do what wad I not?
For the sake o' Somebody.

BEHOLD, MY LOVE, HOW GREEN THE GROVES 1

BEHOLD, my love, how green the groves,

The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flowing hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings:
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To Shepherds as to Kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' strings,
In lordly lighted ha':

The Shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe in the birken shaw.

The Princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn;

But are their hearts as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white thorn?

1 Written to Chloris, Jean Lorimer.

BEHOLD, MY LOVE, HOW GREEN THE GROVES

The shepherd, in the flowery glen;

In shepherd's phrase, will woo:

The courtier tells a finer tale,

But is his heart as true?

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck

That spotless breast o' thine;

The courtier's gems may witness love,
But, 'tis na love like mine.

THE LEA-RIG 1

WHEN o'er the hill the e'ening star
Tells bughtin' time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where birken buds
Wi' dew are hangin' clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O;

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae weary O,
I'll 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 takes the glen
Adown the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' gray,

It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

'An old pasture field.