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For what can compare wi' the thrilling emotion
The saft preturbation that swells i' the breast
The sigh that is breath'd wi' the utmost devotion,
And the soul wi' delight and wi' rapture opprest!
When Nature's asleep, and the loud winds are roarin',
Owre mountain and dale, thro' valley an' tree,
The charms o my Nancy I still am adorin',
For they are as spring or as summer to me!
O fresh on her cheek are the new-⟨blawin⟩ roses,
Love throws his fond blinks frae the tail of her ee;
And deep in her bosom there peace ay reposes,
Wha'd banish it thence! O it ne'er shall be me!
MARY-ANN.
Tune—The Wounded Hussar.
While Luna in splendor wi' silver rays beaming
Illumed, and in radiance adorn'd the green plain
And while sportive meteors aerial were streaming,
I hied me alone to yon wild woody glen.
Along the sweet margin of Glaizart's rough stream,
