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Bonie Lesley

No cold approach, no altered mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest-and broke my


LET love sparkle in her e'e ;
Let her lo'e nae man but me;
That's the tocher-gude I prize,
There the lover's treasure lies.


O SAW ye bonie Lesley,

As she gaed o'er the Border?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects, we before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonie face,


And say "I canna wrang thee!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune sha'na steer thee;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonie.


WHEN o'er the hill the e'ening star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sze dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O ;

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae weary O,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun;

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;

At noon the fisher takes the glen
Adown the burn to steer, my jo:

The Lea

A win

some wee


Gie me the hour o❜ gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.


Air-" My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing."
Chorus. She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,

She is a lo❜esome wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I NEVER saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine,

She is a winsome, &c.

The warld's wrack, we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome, &c.


Tune "Katherine Ogie."

YB banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery!

Green be your woods, and fair


Your waters never drumlie :
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;


For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But O, fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.


THERE'S Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld



Auld Rob He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and Morris


And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction nae words can express.


DUNCAN GRAY cam' here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

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