Red gleams the sun on yon hill-tap,
      The dew sits on the gowan;
    Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey,
      Around Kinrara rowan. 
    Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass? 
      Alas! wert thou but near me,
    Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye,
      Would ever, ever cheer me.

    The lav’rock sings among the clouds,
      The lambs they sport so cheerie,
    And I sit weeping by the birk: 
      O where art thou, my dearie? 
    Aft may I meet the morning dew,
      Lang greet till I be weary;
    Thou canna, winna, gentle maid! 
      Thou canna be my dearie.

THE SHEELING.

TUNE—­"The Mucking o’ Geordie’s Byre."

    Oh, grand bounds the deer o’er the mountain,
      And smooth skims the hare o’er the plain;
    At noon, the cool shade by the fountain
      Is sweet to the lass and her swain. 
    The ev’ning sits down dark and dreary;
      Oh, yon ‘s the loud joys of the ha’;
    The laird sings his dogs and his dearie—­
      Oh, he kens na his singin’ ava.

    But oh, my dear lassie, when wi’ thee,
      What ’s the deer and the maukin to me? 
    The storm soughin’ wild drives me to thee,
      And the plaid shelters baith me and thee. 
    The wild warld then may be reeling,
      Pride and riches may lift up their e’e;
    My plaid haps us baith in the sheeling—­
      That ‘s a’ to my lassie and me.

THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION.[6]

    Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion? 
      It was ther I forgather’d wi’ thee;
    The sun smiled sweet ower the mountain,
      And saft sough’d the leaf on the tree.

    Thou wast fair, thou wast bonnie, my Marion,
      And lovesome thy rising breast-bane;
    The dew sat in gems ower thy ringlets,
      By the thorn when we were alane.

    There we loved, there thou promised, my Marion,
      Thy soul—­a’ thy beauties were mine;
    Crouse we skipt to the ha’ i’ the gloamin’,
      But few were my slumbers and thine.

    Fell war tore me lang frae thee, Marion,
      Lang wat’ry and red was my e’e;
    The pride o’ the field but inflamed me
      To return mair worthy o’ thee.

    Oh, aye art thou lovely, my Marion,
      Thy heart bounds in kindness to me;
    And here, oh, here is my bosom,
      That languish’d, my Marion, for thee.

[6] These verses form a modernised version of the old and popular song, “Will ye gae to the ewe-bughts, Marion?” The air is extremely beautiful.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.