Let us go, lassie, go,
To. the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day,
On the braes o' Balquhither,
I will twine thee a bow'r,
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er
Wr the flow'rs o' the mountain ;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens so dreary,
And return wi' their spoils
To the bow'r o' my deary.
When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn
On the night breeze is swelling So merrily we'll sing
As the storm rattles o'er us, 'Till the dear sheeling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus,
Now the summer is in prime,
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
Ó ARE YE SLEEPING MAGGIE.
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock cragie.
Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry,
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.
Fearful soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,
Loud the iron yate does clank,
And cry of howlets makes me eerie,
O are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.
Aboon my breath I darna' speak,
For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie,
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek,
O rise, rise, my bonny lady!
O are ye sleeping, Maggie, &c.
She opt the door, she let him in,
He cuist aside his dreeping pladie,
"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye.
Now since ye're waking Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie!
What care for howlet's cry,
For boortree bank or warlock cragie.!
WRITTEN BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection recalls them to view,
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew ;
The wide spreading pond and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well,
The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket-
The moss covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss covered vessel I hail as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure;
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing
And quick to the white pebble bottom it fell,
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well,
The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket-
The moss covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As pois'd to the cord, it reclined to my lips;
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it.
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips
And now far remov'd from the lov'd situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy revisits to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in his well,
The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucket-
The moss covered bucket which hangs in the well
THE LITTLE SAILOR BOY.
THE sea was calm, the sky serene,
And gently blew the western gale,
When Anna seated on a rock,
Watch'd the Lavonia's less'ning sail.
To heav'n she thus her pray'r address'd:
"Thou who canst save or canst destroy,
From each surrounding danger guard
My much-lov'd little Suiior Boy.
"When tempests o'er the ocean howl,
And even Sailors shrink with dread,
Be some protecting angel near,
To hover round my William's head.
He was belov'd by all the plain,
His father's pride, his mother's joy ;
Then safely to their arms restore
Their much-lov'd little Sailor Boy.
"May no rude foe his course impede,
Conduct him safely o'er the waves ;
O, may he never be compell'd
To fight for power or mix with slaves;
May smiling peace his steps attend,
Each rising hour be crown'd with joy,
As blest as that when I again
Shall meet my much-lov'd Sailor Boy.
Adown a green valley there liv'd an old maid,
Who being past sixty, her charms began to fade.
She of waiting for husbands was weary;
She was monstrously rich, that for me was enougn,
And sadly I wanted to finger the stuff,
So says I, will you marry me, deary?
Pretty deary!
O, la, fal, &c.
Says she, 'you embarrass me, coming to woo,'
And she tried how to blush, but she blush'd rather blue,
For her cheeks of the roses were weary.
Says she, I am told you're a sad little man,
And cheat all the dear pretty girls that you can!'
Says I, don't believe it my deary!'
Pretty deary!
She consented that I for the license should go,
When across her, mean time, came a tall Irish beau,
Who like me, in pocket was peery!
Out of his calf's head such a sheep's eve threw he,
That a queer little hop o' my thumb she call'd me,
And he diddled me out of my deary!
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