For first they took my brethren twain, Then wiled my love frae me. Woe, woe unto the cruel wars In Low Germanie I saw him when he sail'd away, In many a glittering line: the waves, The guns came flashing free, Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen, An eye that flashes fierce for all, But ever mild to me?— Oh that's the lad who loves me best In Low Germanie. Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard, Where'er the trumpet blast is blown, And horses rush to war r; The blithest at the banquet board, And first in war is he, The bonnie lad, whom I love best, In Low Germanie. I sit upon the high green land, And think I see my true-love's sail With ae bairn at my bosom, and In Low Germanie. NORA'S VOW. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Hear what highland Nora said: I would not wed the Earlie's son. A maiden's vows, old Callum spoke, Yet, Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son. The swan, she said, the lake's clear breast The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made, No highland brogue has turned the heel; She's wedded to the Earlie's son. LOGAN BRAES. JOHN MAYNE, ESQ. By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep, Nae mair at Logan kirk will he At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, THE SAILOR'S LADY. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Come busk you gallantlie, Maiden, busk and come, And be a sailor's lady. The foamy ocean's ours, From Hebride to Havannah, And thou shalt be my queen, See my bonnie ship, So stately and so steady; Thou shalt be my queen, And she maun be my lady: The west wind in her wings, The deep sea all in motion, Away she glorious goes, And crowns me king of ocean. The merry lads are mine, From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon; The Bourbon flowers grow pale When I hang out my pennon; |