Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
     Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: 
     Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,
     Or wi’ his song her cares beguile;
     But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
     Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
     Pass widow’d nights and joyless days,
     While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.

     O wae be to you, Men o’ State,
     That brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
     As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
     Sae may it on your heads return! 
     How can your flinty hearts enjoy
     The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry? 
     But soon may peace bring happy days,
     And Willie hame to Logan braes!

Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill

     Tune—­“The Quaker’s Wife.”

     Blythe hae I been on yon hill,
     As the lambs before me;
     Careless ilka thought and free,
     As the breeze flew o’er me;
     Now nae langer sport and play,
     Mirth or sang can please me;
     Lesley is sae fair and coy,
     Care and anguish seize me.

     Heavy, heavy is the task,
     Hopeless love declaring;
     Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’r,
     Sighing, dumb despairing! 
     If she winna ease the thraws
     In my bosom swelling,
     Underneath the grass-green sod,
     Soon maun be my dwelling.

O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair

     Air—­“Hughie Graham.”

     O were my love yon Lilac fair,
     Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring,
     And I, a bird to shelter there,
     When wearied on my little wing! 
     How I wad mourn when it was torn
     By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! 
     But I wad sing on wanton wing,
     When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.

     O gin my love were yon red rose,
     That grows upon the castle wa’;
     And I myself a drap o’ dew,
     Into her bonie breast to fa’! 
     O there, beyond expression blest,
     I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
     Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
     Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light!

Bonie Jean—­A Ballad

     To its ain tune.

     There was a lass, and she was fair,
     At kirk or market to be seen;
     When a’ our fairest maids were met,
     The fairest maid was bonie Jean.

     And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
     And aye she sang sae merrilie;
     The blythest bird upon the bush
     Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.

     But hawks will rob the tender joys
     That bless the little lintwhite’s nest;
     And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
     And love will break the soundest rest.

     Young Robie was the brawest lad,
     The flower and pride of a’ the glen;
     And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
     And wanton naigies nine or ten.