Sweet ’s the laverock’s note, and lang,
      Lilting wildly up the glen;
    But aye to me he sings ae sang,
      Will ye no come back again? 
          Will ye no, &c.

JAMIE THE LAIRD.

AIR—­"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."

    Send a horse to the water, ye ’ll no mak him drink,
    Send a fule to the college, ye ’ll no mak him think;
    Send a craw to the singin’, an’ still he will craw,
    An’ the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava. 
    Yet is he the pride o’ his fond mother’s e’e,
    In body or mind, nae fau’t can she see;
    “He ‘s a fell clever lad, an’ a bonny wee man,”
    Is aye the beginnin’ an’ end o’ her sang. 
        An’ oh! she ‘s a haverin’ lucky, I trow,
        An’ oh! she ‘s a haverin’ lucky, I trow;
        “He ‘s a fell clever lad, an’ a bonny wee man,”
        Is aye the beginnin’ an’ end o’ her sang.

    His legs they are bow’d, his een they do glee,
    His wig, whiles it ’s aff, and when on, it ’s ajee;
    He ’s braid as he ‘s lang, an’ ill-faur’d is he,
    A dafter-like body I never did see. 
    An’ yet for this cratur’ she says I am deein’,
    When that I deny, she ‘s fear’d at my leein’;
    Obliged to put up wi’ this sair defamation,
    I’m liken to dee wi’ grief an’ vexation. 
        An’ oh! she ‘s a haverin’ lucky, &c.

    An’ her clishmaclavers gang a’ through the toun,
    An’ the wee lairdie trows I ’ll hang or I ’ll droun. 
    Wi’ his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say,
    “I ’ll maybe tak you, for Bess I ’ll no hae,
    Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
    Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin’ wee Beenie.” 
    I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury—­
    I ‘m thinkin’ to bring them afore judge an’ jury. 
        For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.

    Freen’s! gi’e your advice!—­I ’ll follow your counsel—­
    Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council,
    Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
    For the law on the lucky I shall an’ will hae. 
    The hale toun at me are jibin’ and jeerin’,
    For a leddy like me it ‘s really past bearin’;
    The lucky maun now hae dune wi’ her claverin’,
    For I ‘ll no put up wi’ her nor her haverin’. 
        For oh! she ’s a randy, I trow, I trow,
        For oh! she ’s a randy, I trow, I trow;
        “He ‘s a fell clever lad, an’ a bonny wee man,”
        Is aye the beginnin’ an’ end o’ her sang.

SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.

AIR—­"Happy Land."

      Songs of my native land,
        To me how dear! 
      Songs of my infancy,
        Sweet to mine ear! 
    Entwined with my youthful days,
    Wi’ the bonny banks and braes,
    Where the winding burnie strays,
        Murmuring near.