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So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

That tents thy early morning.

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray

That watch'd thy early morning.

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S

STORMS.

Tune, ‘N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny.'

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WHERE braving angry winter's storms,

The lofty Ochels rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms

First blest my wondering eyes.
As one who by some savage stream,

A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,

With art's most polish'd blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,

And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,

When first I felt their pow'r!
The tyrant death with grim control

May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul

Must be a stronger death.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune, 'Invercald's Reel.'

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O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,

Ye would nae been sae shy ;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,

But, trowth, I care na by.

YESTREER I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o'clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o’coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.

0 Tibbie, I hae, &c.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry

O Tibble, I hae, &c.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' bardly he for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I,

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

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There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a'thy thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,

The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole,

So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night

Shall poor Sylvander hie: Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,

The sun of all his joy.

We part—but by these precious drops

That fill thy lovely eyes !

No other light shall guide my steps

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day :
And shall a glimmering planet fix

My worship to its ray?

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune, Seventh of November."

The day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toild,

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line ;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,

Or nature aught of pleasure give ;
While joys above, my mind can move,

For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart..

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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;
A part let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick time is Aying, how keen fate pursues ;
How long I have liv'd—but how much liv'd in vain :
How little of life's soanty 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,

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O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL !

Tunc, 'My love is lost to me.'

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be they bonnie sel;
VOL. XXXIX.

с

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