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O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

R. Burns.

6

MY JEAN.

MY JEAN.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

But, day and night, my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;

There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

R. Burns.

ELEU LORO.

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

Eleu loro

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:

There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,

Never again to wake

Never, O never!

Eleu loro

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her!

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying;
Eleu loro

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the falsehearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted:

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it

Never, O never!

Eleu loro
Never, O never!

Sir Walter Scott.

8

LIGHT O' LOVE.

LIGHT O' LOVE.

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again."

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, "Adieu for evermore,

My love!

Sir W. Scott.

And adieu for evermore."

HIGHLAND MARY.

YE banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

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