O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier

     O bonie was yon rosy brier,
     That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man;
     And bonie she, and ah, how dear! 
     It shaded frae the e’enin sun.

     Yon rosebuds in the morning dew,
     How pure, amang the leaves sae green;
     But purer was the lover’s vow
     They witness’d in their shade yestreen.

     All in its rude and prickly bower,
     That crimson rose, how sweet and fair;
     But love is far a sweeter flower,
     Amid life’s thorny path o’ care.

     The pathless, wild and wimpling burn,
     Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine;
     And I the warld nor wish nor scorn,
     Its joys and griefs alike resign.

Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham

     Now spring has clad the grove in green,
     And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers;
     The furrow’d, waving corn is seen
     Rejoice in fostering showers. 
     While ilka thing in nature join
     Their sorrows to forego,
     O why thus all alone are mine
     The weary steps o’ woe!

     The trout in yonder wimpling burn
     That glides, a silver dart,
     And, safe beneath the shady thorn,
     Defies the angler’s art—­
     My life was ance that careless stream,
     That wanton trout was I;
     But Love, wi’ unrelenting beam,
     Has scorch’d my fountains dry.

     That little floweret’s peaceful lot,
     In yonder cliff that grows,
     Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot,
     Nae ruder visit knows,
     Was mine, till Love has o’er me past,
     And blighted a’ my bloom;
     And now, beneath the withering blast,
     My youth and joy consume.

     The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs,
     And climbs the early sky,
     Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
     In morning’s rosy eye;
     As little reck’d I sorrow’s power,
     Until the flowery snare
     O’witching Love, in luckless hour,
     Made me the thrall o’ care.

     O had my fate been Greenland snows,
     Or Afric’s burning zone,
     Wi’man and nature leagued my foes,
     So Peggy ne’er I’d known! 
     The wretch whose doom is “Hope nae mair”
     What tongue his woes can tell;
     Within whase bosom, save Despair,
     Nae kinder spirits dwell.

O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart

     Tune—­“Morag.”

     O wat ye wha that lo’es me
     And has my heart a-keeping? 
     O sweet is she that lo’es me,
     As dews o’ summer weeping,
     In tears the rosebuds steeping!

     Chorus—­O that’s the lassie o’ my heart,
     My lassie ever dearer;
     O she’s the queen o’ womankind,
     And ne’er a ane to peer her.