Blythe Was She^1

     Tune—­“Andro and his Cutty Gun.”

     Chorus.—­Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
     Blythe was she but and ben;
     Blythe by the banks of Earn,
     And blythe in Glenturit glen.

     By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
     On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
     But Phemie was a bonier lass
     Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. 
     Blythe, blythe, &c.

     Her looks were like a flow’r in May,
     Her smile was like a simmer morn: 
     She tripped by the banks o’ Earn,
     As light’s a bird upon a thorn. 
     Blythe, blythe, &c.

     Her bonie face it was as meek
     As ony lamb upon a lea;
     The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet,
     As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e. 
     Blythe, blythe, &c.

     [Footnote 1:  Written at Oughtertyre.  Phemie is Miss Euphemia
     Murray, a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.—­Lang.]

     The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide,
     And o’er the Lawlands I hae been;
     But Phemie was the blythest lass
     That ever trod the dewy green. 
     Blythe, blythe, &c.

A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk

     A Rose-bud by my early walk,
     Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
     Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
     All on a dewy morning. 
     Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
     In a’ its crimson glory spread,
     And drooping rich the dewy head,
     It scents the early morning.

     Within the bush her covert nest
     A little linnet fondly prest;
     The dew sat chilly on her breast,
     Sae early in the morning. 
     She soon shall see her tender brood,
     The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
     Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
     Awake the early morning.

     So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
     On trembling string or vocal air,
     Shall sweetly pay the tender care
     That tents thy early morning. 
     So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
     Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
     And bless the parent’s evening ray
     That watch’d thy early morning.

Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruikshank^1

     Honest Will to Heaven’s away
     And mony shall lament him;
     His fau’ts they a’ in Latin lay,
     In English nane e’er kent them.

Song—­The Banks Of The Devon

     Tune—­“Bhanarach dhonn a’ chruidh.”

     How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
     With green spreading bushes and flow’rs blooming fair! 
     But the boniest flow’r on the banks of the Devon
     Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
     Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
     In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
     And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
     That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!