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Who picks, and culls and cries aloud 'Sweet liilies of the valley.’
From whistling o’er the harrow’d turf, From nestling of each tree, I chose a soldier’s life to wed, So social, gay, and free: Yet tho’ the lasses love me well. And often try to rally, None pleases me like her who cries ‘ Sweet lillies of the valley.’
I’m now return’d, of late discharg'd, To see my native soil; From fighting in my country’s cause, To plough my country’s soil: I care not which, with either pleas’d, So 1 possess my Sally, That little merry nymph who cries ‘Sweet lillies of the valley.’'
ETRICK BANKS.
On’ Etrick banks, in a summer’s night, At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame I met my lassie, braw and tight, Come wading barefoot a'her lane. My heart grew light; I ran, and fling My arms about her lily neck,
