Farewell, ye fields an’ meadows green! 
      The blest retreats of peace an’ love;
    Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,
      With my young swain a while to rove. 
    Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,
      Among the beauties of the spring;
    An’ aft we ’d lean us on a bank,
      To hear the feather’d warblers sing.

    The azure sky, the hills around,
      Gave double beauty to the scene;
    The lofty spires of Banff in view—­
      On every side the waving grain. 
    The tales of love my Jamie told,
      In such a saft an’ moving strain,
    Have so engaged my tender heart,
      I ’m loth to leave the place again.

    But if the Fates will be sae kind
      As favour my return once more,
    For to enjoy the peace of mind
      In those retreats I had before: 
    Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds
      Do bear me hence—­I must away;
    Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,
      To part nae mair from scenes so gay.

TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?

    Tell me, Jessie, tell me why
    My fond suit you still deny? 
    Is your bosom cold as snow? 
    Did you never feel for woe? 
    Can you hear, without a sigh,
    Him complain who for you could die? 
    If you ever shed a tear,
    Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!

    Life to me is not more dear
    Than the hour brings Jessie here;
    Death so much I do not fear
    As the parting moment near. 
    Summer smiles are not so sweet
    As the bloom upon your cheek;
    Nor the crystal dew so clear
    As your eyes to me appear.

    These are part of Jessie’s charms,
    Which the bosom ever warms;
    But the charms by which I ’m stung,
    Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue! 
    Jessie, be no longer coy;
    Let me taste a lover’s joy;
    With your hand remove the dart,
    And heal the wound that ’s in my heart.

THE HAWTHORN.

    Last midsummer’s morning, as going to the fair,
    I met with young Jamie, wh’as taking the air;
    He ask’d me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—­
      That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
      Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.

    He said he had loved me both long and sincere,
    That none on the green was so gentle and fair;
    I listen’d with pleasure to Jamie’s tender tale,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale—­
                That blooms in the valley, &c.

    “Oh, haste,” says he, “to hear the birds in the grove,
    How charming their song, and enticing to love! 
    The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,
    And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale”—­
                That blooms in the valley, &c.