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 Yet in themselves, my heart, my cote.
My mote, my bowl, I value not,
But only as they, one and all,
My lovely Rosalind recal.

 

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When the Sun gaes down.

When the Sun gaes down owre yon Castle-wa’,
 And ’gins to close his e’e,
An’ dew-drops saft on the wild flow’rs fa',
 That wave on the turrets hie:
When Lovers meet on the grassy sod,
 Wi’ merry hearts and gay,
And Shepherds pipe, in the hollow wood,
 Their e’ening rounde-lay.

When the mountain heath-bells sweetly-blow,
 Bedeck’d with pearly weet,
And blythe birds sing in the birken shaw,
 Their e’ening song sae sweet;
I ween ’tis the Lover's tell-tale hour,
 An’ dear it is to me,
By yon Castle-wa’ and birken bow’r,
 To meet my Rosalie.

 

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The Maid of Lorn.

Wake, Maid of Lorn, the moments fly,
 Which yet that maiden-name allow:
Wake, Maiden, wake, the hour is nigh,
 When love shall wake a plighted vow;