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The wandering exile, doom'd to roam,
Still cherishes the thought of home,
Not all the toils that round him stand,
Can wean him from his native land.

In every pleasure, every care,
Memory still points and lingers there,
And fortune's fascinating hand,
Endears him to his native land.

Whilst whirlwinds blow and tempests rise,
And thunders shake the troubled skies,
His feet are on a foreign strand,
IIis heart is in his native land.

Whilst all is calm and peaceful seen,
And nought disturbs the blue serene,
He cannot yield to joy’s coinmand,
An exile from his native land.

But when, the storms of fortune past,
The wish’d-for haven gain’d at last,
With what delight his waving hand
Enraptur'd hails his native land.

Here tarry all his soul holds dear,
And all his fancy loves is here,
There are his friends his childhood plann'd,
And this his lov'd, his native land.

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THAT LIFE'S A FAUGHT, THERE IS NAE

DOUBT.

That life's a faught, there is nae doubt,

A steep and slippery brae;
And wisdom's sel', wi' a' its rules,

Will aften find it sae:
The truest heart that e'er was made,

May find a deadly fae,
And broken aiths and faithless vows,

Gie lovers meikle wae.

When poortith looks wi' sour disdain,

It frights a body sair,.
And gars them think they ne'er will meet

Delight or pleasure mair:
But tho’ the heart be e'er sae sad,

And prest wi' joyless care,
Hope lightly steps in at the last,

To flee awa’ despair.

For love o' wealth let misers toil,

And fret baith late and air',
A cheerfu' heart has aye enough,

And whiles a mite to spare:
A leal true heart's a gift frae heav'n,

A gift that is maist rare,
It is a treasure o’ itsel',

And lightens ilka care.

Let wealth and pride exalt themsel's,

And boast o' what they hae,
Compar'd wi' truth and honesty,

They are na worth a strae;
The honest heart keeps aye aboon,

Whate'er the warld may say,
And laughs, and turns its shafts to scorn,

That ithers would dismay.

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Contentment is a dainty feast,

Altho' in hamely ha',
It gies a charm to ilka thing,

And mak’s it look fu' braw,
The spendthrift and the miser herd,

It soars aboon them a'.

But there's ae thing amang the lave,

To keep the heart in tune,
And but for that the weary spleen

Wad plague us late and soon;
A bonnie lass, a canty wife,

For siç is nature's law, Without that charmer o' our lives,

There's scarce a charm ava.

FRAGMENT, BY TANNAHILL,

O Laddie, can you leave me!
Alas! 'twill break this constant heart ;
There's nought on earth can grieve me,
Like this, that we must part:
Think on the tender vow you made,
Beneath the secret birken shade,
And can you now deceive me !
Is all your love but art ?

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SWEET'S THE DEW-DECK'D ROSE IN JUNE.

Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June,

And lily fair to see, Annie;
But there's ne'er a flower that blooms,

Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine,
The opening rose its beauties tine,
Thy lips the rubies far outshine;

Love sparkles in thy e'e, Annie...

The snaw that decks yon mountain top,

Nae purer is than thee, · Annie;
The haughty mien, and pridefu' look,

Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie;
And in thy sweet angelic face,
Triumphant beams each modest grace .
“ And ne'er did Grecian chissel trace,”

A form sae bright as thine, Annie.

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