What beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed, gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.
The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush;
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead;
Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folk sing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray
While happily she lies asleep?
Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest,
Kind nature indulgin' my bliss,
To ease the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel;
No beauty with her may compare;
Love's graces around her do dwell,
She's fairest where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?
Oh, tell me at morn where they feed?
Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay?
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?
The Banks of Tay.
[Robert Carmichael, Lundin Mill, near Largo, Fifeshire.—Air, "Roslin Castle."—Here first printed.]
By Grampia's towering mountains high,
Whose rocky summits skirt the sky,
Wild rolls the queen of Scotia's floods,
Adorned by Athole's ancient woods:
Along their winding walks in spring,
How sweet to hear the wild-birds sing;
At peep of dawn, how sweet to stray
Adown the bonnie banks of Tay!
Here summer's sun, with golden gleams,
Gilds mountain tops, the woods, the streams;
Before his early, piercing ray,
The wreaths of white mist wheel away,
Revealing all the lovely scene;—
The woods, thick cloth'd in foliage green,
High waving o'er the wild rocks grey
Upon the bonnie banks of Tay!
Enchanting scenes! how oft in view
To fancy's eye, fresh, blooming, new;—
The flowing river, mountain, strath—
The winding of each woodland path;
And dearer still,—fond friendship's ties,
And true love's flame that never dies;
All these were mine;—now far away
I mourn the bonnie banks of Tay!
When John and me.
[Tannahill.—Air, "Clean pease strae."]
When John and me were married,
Our hadding was but sma',
For my minnie, canker'd carline,
Wad gi'e us nocht ava.
I wair't my fee wi' cannie care,
As far as it wad gae;
But, weel I wat, our bridal bed
Was clean pease strae.
Wi' working late and early,
We're come to what you see;
For fortune thrave aneath our hands,
Sae eydent aye were we.
The lowe o' love made labour light;
I'm sure you'll find it sae,
When kind ye cuddle down at e'en
'Mang clean pease strae.
The rose blooms gay on cairny brae
As weel's in birken shaw,
And love will live in cottage low,
As weel's in lofty ha'.
Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like,
Whate'er your minnie say,
Though ye should mak' your bridal bed
O' clean pease strae.
