It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye,

Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,
And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o' yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.

I was the happiest of a' the clan,
Sair, sair may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last,
Sae far to set us free;

My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell?
Right to the wrang did yield:
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden's field.

Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!

Nae woman in the world wide

Sae wretched now as me.

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.

TUNE-Maggy Lauder.

I MARRIED with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.

We lived full one-and-twenty years,
A man and wife together;

At length from me her course she steer'd,
And gone
I know not whither :

Would I could guess, I do profess,

I speak, and do not flatter, Of all the women in the world,

I never could come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,

A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell,

The deil would ne'er abide her! I rather think she is aloft,

And imitating thunder;

For why?-methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder!

THE LASS OF BALLACHMYLE.
TUNE-Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff.
'TWAS ev'n-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,

All nature list'ning seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heard rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild;
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Oh, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain,

Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle! Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN.
TUNE-Jacky Latin.

GAT ye me, oh gat ye me,

Oh gat ye me wi' naething,
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel,
A mickle quarter basin.
Bye attour, my gutcher has
A hich house and a laigh ane,
A' forbye my bonnie sel',
The toss of Ecclefechan.

Luckie Laing,

Oh haud your tongue now,
Oh haud your tongue and jauner;
I held the gate till you I met,
Syne I began to wander :
I tint my whistle and my sang,
I tint my peace and pleasure;
But your green graff, now,
Wad airt me to my treasure.

Luckie Laing,

THE LAZY MIST.

TUNE-The Lazy Mist.

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding

rill;

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues!

How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain!

How little of life's scanty span may remain ! What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn!

What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn! How foolish, or worse, till our summit is

gain'd!

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!

This life's not worth having with all it can give

For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

N