7
By Ochtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow braes the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass,
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a summer morn;
She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, &c.
Her bonny face it was as meek,
As onie lamb npon a lee;
The ev'ning sun ⟨was⟩ ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
Blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I ⟨hae⟩ been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass,
That ever tred the dewy green.
Blythe, &c.
SLEEPIN' MAGGY.
Mirk an' rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry,
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
An' win's drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleepin', Maggy,
O are ye sleepin', Maggy;
Let me in, for loud the linn,
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
