« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
Meg grew sick-as he grew hale
(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O! her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
V. Duncan was a lad o' grace
(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!), Maggie's was a piteous case,
(Ha, ha, the wooing o't!):
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secureThe lovely Mary Morison!
II. Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh’d and said amang them a’:Ye are na Mary Morison!'
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown:
A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel a while !
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING.
It was a' for our rightfu’ king
We left fair Scotland's strand;
Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain,
He turned him right, and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
My dear -
The sodger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
Flow gently, sweet? Afton, among thy green braes!
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
1 "clear" in one MS. 2 “And grateful” in one MS.
3 One MS. has “Ye blackbirds that sing in yon wild.” 4 One MS. has "plover.” One MS. has "pure.”
IV. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
V. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave!
VI. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ! Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring streamFlow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
COMIN THRO' THE RYE.
Comin thro' the rye,
Comin thro' the rye!
Jenny's seldom dry:
Comin thro' the rye.
Comin thro’ the rye,