I'll count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;

I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,

As lang's I get employment.

But far off fowls hae feathers fair,

And, aye until ye try them,

Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;

They may prove as bad a I am.

But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;

For the man that loves his mistress weel,

Nae travel makes him weary.

THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS'

A Song of Similes

Tune-" If he be a Butcher neat and trim."

ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;

Could I describe her shape and mein;
Our lasses a' she far excels,

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

She's stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

1 The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant wench, daughter of a faimer.-Lang.

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her hair is like the curling mist,

That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene.
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her bosom's like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,

That sunny walls from Boreas screen; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her roguish een.

SONG-BONIE PEGGY ALISON
Tune-"The Braes o' Balquhidder."

Chor. And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

And I'll kiss thee o'er again:

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

My bonie Peggy Alison.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near
I evermair defy them, O!

Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O!
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

And by thy een sae bonie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!

And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

SONG-MARY MORISON

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

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 nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said among them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
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,

WINTER: A DIRGE

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here firm I rest; they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want-O do Thou grant

This one request of mine!—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT

ANGUISH

O THOU Great Being! what Thou art,

Surpasses me to know;

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.