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SONGS.

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH

SONG,

Tune, Joho Anderson, my jo.'

How cruel are the parents

Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby,

Poor women 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,

SONG.

Tune, ' Deil tak the Wars.'

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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 jewel's 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,

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

Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny

His worshipp'd deity,
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

SONG,

Tune, ' This is no my ain House,

CHORUS
O this is no my ain lassie,

Fair tho' the lassie be;
O weel I ken my ain lassie,

Kind love is in her e'e.

I SEE a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e’e.

O this is no, &c.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And ay it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e.

O this is no, &c.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the e'e.

O this is no, &c.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is

10,

&c.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

SCOTTISH SONG.

Now spring has clad the groves in green,

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; The furrow'd, waving corn is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join

Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine

The weary steps of woe?

The trout within yon wimpling burn

Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn

Defies the angler's art:
My life was ance that careless stream,

That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

The little fow'ret's peaceful lot,

In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save thy linnet's flight, I wot,

Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine ; till love bas o'er me past,

And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the withering blast

My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,

And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe ber dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye ;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,

Until the flowery snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour,

Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,

Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my focs,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known !
The wretch whase doom is, hope nae mair,'

What tongue his woes can tell ! Within wbase bosom, save despair,

Nae kinder spirits dwell.

SCOTTISH SONG,

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier,

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; And bonnie she, and ah, how dear!

It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew,

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow

They witness'd in their shade yestreen,

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair!

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