The joys of the past, more faintly recalling,
    Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling,
    And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow,
    Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow. 
    Hope dawns—­and the toils of life’s journey beguiling,
    The path of the mourner is cheer’d with its smiling;
    And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre,
    Where parting is never—­nor sorrow can enter.

THE BONNIEST LASS IN A’ THE WARLD.

    The bonniest lass in a’ the warld,
      I ’ve often heard them telling,
    She ’s up the hill, she ’s down the glen,
      She ’s in yon lonely dwelling. 
    But nane could bring her to my mind
      Wha lives but in the fancy,
    Is ’t Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May,
      Is ’t Effie, Bess, or Nancy?

    Now lasses a’ keep a gude heart,
      Nor e’er envy a comrade,
    For be your een black, blue, or gray,
      Ye ’re bonniest aye to some lad. 
    The tender heart, the charming smile,
      The truth that ne’er will falter,
    Are charms that never can beguile,
      And time can never alter.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51]

    Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O? 
    Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O? 
    Gin ye’ll tak heart, and gang wi’ me,
      Mishap will never steer ye, O;
    Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!

    There ’s walth ower yon green lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O! 
    There ’s walth ower yon green lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O! 
    Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws—­
      Let them gang tapsle teerie, O! 
    It ‘s walth o’ peace, o’ love, and truth,
      My ain kind dearie, O!

[51] The first two lines of this song are borrowed from the “Lea-Rig,” a lively and popular lyric, of which the first two verses were composed by Robert Fergusson, the three remaining being added by William Reid of Glasgow. (See ante, article “William Reid.”)

HE’S LIFELESS AMANG THE RUDE BILLOWS.

AIR—­"The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre."

    He ’s lifeless amang the rude billows,
      My tears and my sighs are in vain;
    The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie,
      Will ne’er beat for mortal again. 
    My lane now I am i’ the warld,
      And the daylight is grievous to me;
    The laddie that lo’ed me sae dearly
      Lies cauld in the deeps o’ the sea.

    Ye tempests, sae boist’rously raging,
      Rage on as ye list—­or be still;
    This heart ye sae often hae sicken’d,
      Is nae mair the sport o’ your will. 
    Now heartless, I hope not—­I fear not,—­
      High Heaven hae pity on me! 
    My soul, tho’ dismay’d and distracted,
      Yet bends to thy awful decree.