BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.

    Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,
      Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;
    ’Mong your wild scatter’d flow’rets aft wanders my charmer,
      The sweet lovely lass wi’ the black rollin’ e’e. 
    For pensive I ponder, and languishin’ wander,
      Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair’s windin’ stream!

    Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi’ the hard heart o’ anguish? 
      Why torture my bosom ’tween hope and despair? 
    When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!—­
      That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair? 
    Since here life ‘s a desert, an’ pleasure ’s a dream,
    Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,
    Where, mild as the mornin’ at simmer’s returnin’,
    Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair’s windin’ stream.

BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN’ STREAM.

    By yon hoarse murmurin’ stream, ’neath the moon’s chilly beam,
      Sadly musin’ I wander, an’ the tear fills my e’e;
    Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu’ hour,
      When the laddie gaed awa’ that is dear, dear to me.

    The tender words he said, and the faithfu’ vows he made,
      When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu’ pleasure gie;
    An’ I lo’e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,
      An’ repeat the laddie’s name that is dear, dear to me.

    Though the flow’rets gem the vales, an’ scent the whisperin’ gales,
      An’ the birds fill wi’ music the sweetly-bloomin’ tree;
    Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,
      For the laddie ‘s far awa’ that is dear, dear to me!

    When the gloamin’ brings alang the time o’ mirth an’ sang,
      An’ the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu’ e’e,
    My neebours aften speir, why fa’s the hidden tear? 
      But they kenna he’s awa’ that is dear, dear to me.

    Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,
      To the darlin’ o’ my soul, on wings o’ love, to flee! 
    Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,
      The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

    But if—­for much I fear—­that day will ne’er appear,
      Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;
    For life wad a’ be vain, were I ne’er to meet again,
      Wi’ the laddie far awa’ that is dear, dear to me.

HALUCKIT MEG.

    Meg, muckin’ at Geordie’s byre,
      Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
    Ilk daud o’ the scartle strake fire,
      While loud as a lavrock she sang. 
    Her Geordie had promised to marry,
      An’ Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
    Not dreamin’ the job could miscarry,
      Already seem’d mistress an’ mair.