To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made 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.
I'll meet thee on the Lea Rig.1
WHEN o'er the hill the e'ening 2 star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf" and weary 0;
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.
⚫ the time for folding the sheep.
1 Suggested by an older song.
The text of Currie & Thomson has
the following variants :
2 "eastern."
$"scented birks."
MY WIFE'S A WINSOME THING
At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,1
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie 0,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie 0;
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,2
And I were ne'er sae weary O,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie 0.
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 grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing.3
Air-"My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing."
Chorus.-She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a lo'esome wee thing,
This dear wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack we share o't;
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome, &c.
Highland Mary.1
Tune-"Katherine Ogie."
YE banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery!
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie :
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last Farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
1 Remarkable for the old-fashioned use of assonance in place of rhyme.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
The Rights of Woman.1
An Occasional Address
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night,
November 26, 1792.
WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings;
While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection,
One sacred Right of Woman is protection.-
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.
Our second Right-but needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it-'tis decorum.-
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet.
1 The title contains all the information desirable.
EPIGRAM ON MISS FONTENELLE
Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest ;
Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own 'tis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs;
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares,
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms—
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ça ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN!
Epigram on seeing Miss Fontenelle in
a Favourite Character.1
SWEET naïveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning Nature, torturing art;
Loves and Graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.
1 The inspiration is indicated by the title. Miss Fontenelle played "Little Pickle."
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