Sweet simplicity

And to the wealthy booby
Poor Woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile, the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father's hate-
Become a wretched wife.

The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin,

Awhile her pinions tries;
Till, of escape despairing,

No shelter or retreat,

She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.

MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY
FASHION

Air-"Deil tak the wars."

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride :
But when compar'd with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.

What are the showy treasures,
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish'd jewels blaze

May draw the wond'ring gaze;

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,

In simplicity's array;

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.

O then, the heart alarming,

And all resistless charming,

In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul !

Ambition would disown

The world's imperial crown,
Ev'n Avarice would deny

His worshipp'd deity,

And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

"TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE E'E
Tune-"Laddie, lie near me."

'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin,
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoin'
'Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o'
kindness:

'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o'
kindness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me,
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever:
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest,
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter :
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

Lasting

love

Scotland THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE

yet!

Tune-"Humours of Glen."

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang, yellow
broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowèrs
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly,

unseen;

For there, lightly tripping among the wild flowers,
A-list'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the
proud palace,

What are they?—the haunt of the Tyrant and
Slave.

The Slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling
fountains,

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love's willing fetters—the chains of his
Jean.

FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COM-
FORT NEAR

Air-"Let me in this ae night."

FORLORN, My Love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;

Far, far from thee, the fate severe,
At which I most repine, Love.

Chorus-O wert thou, Love, but near me !
But near, near, near me,

How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, Love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
Blasting each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I
Save in these arms of thine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart-
Let ne not break thy faithful heart,
And
say that fate is mine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.

But, dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet;
That only ray of solace sweet,

Can on thy Chloris shine, Love!
O wert thou, &c.

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER

Tune "Caledonian Hunt's delight."

WHY, why tell thy lover

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?

Forlorn and far away

A good opportunity

O why, while fancy raptur'd slumbers,
"Chloris, Chloris," all the theme,
Why, why would'st thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream.

THE BRAW WOOER

Tune-"The Lothian Lassie."

LAST May, a braw wooer cam doun the lang glen,

And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said, there was naething I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe

me;

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me.

He spak o' the darts in my bonie black e’en,
And vow'd for my love he was diein,
I said, he might die when he liked for Jean-
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein;
The Lord forgie me for liein!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers;
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd;
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur
offers ;

But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think?-in a fortnight or less
(The deil tak his taste to gae near her!)
He up the Gate-slack to my black cousin, Bess---
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her,
could bear her;

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.