O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. O MY Luve's like a red, red rose And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, While the sands o' life shall run. R. Burns. 6 MY JEAN. MY JEAN. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But, day and night, my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 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 There, while the tempests sway, 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, In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, With groans of the dying; There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro Sir Walter Scott. 8 LIGHT O' LOVE. LIGHT O' LOVE. "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 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, But she shall bloom in winter snow, He turned his charger as he spake, 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 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace 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! |