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Come counsel, dear tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie you my bonny black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
'The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.
Far, far at Sea.
’Twas night, when the bell had toll’d twelve,
And poor Susan was laid on her-pillow,
In her ear whisper’d some fleeting elve,
Your love now lies lost on a billow,
Far, far at sea.
All was dark, when she woke out of breath,
Not an object her fears could discover;
All was still as the silence of death,
Save Fancy, which painted her lover,
Far, far at sea.
So she whisper’d a pray’r—clos’d her eyes,
But the phanton still haunted her pillow;
While in terror she echoed his cries,
As struggling he sunk'in a billow,
Far, far at sea.
