Bleaching her claes.
[George Murray.—Air, "Ballenden Braes."—Once printed in Upper Canada.]
One morning I dander'd, (I needna say when.)
Whaur a wee bickering burnie rins through a low glen:
I met a young lassie upon the green braes,
Was herding her lammies and bleaching her claes.
The smile on her cheek had the rose's bright hue,
Her complexion was fair as the fresh fa'in' dew,
Her yellow hair stream'd like the sun's parting rays,
And her breath was as sweet as her new-water'd' claes.
I said, "Lovely maiden, how caller the air!
The season how pleasant, the rroming how fair!
The fields are a' flowery, the flowers are a' dew,
And if earth hae aught fairier, sweet girl, it is you!"
She cried, "Let me be; I maun notice my claes,
And canna mind a' thing that ilka ane says,
My mither aye tauld me—and likely she'll ken—
That there's fouth o'fine tales, but nae faith in young men."
"O dinna leuk blate, though your mither may scauld;
Her heart-blood is daiver't, she's doitet and auld,
And say, bonnie lassie, what ills ye could dree
Frae the laddie that loves ye, and loves nane but thee?"
I kiss'd her, I press'd her, mair tender she grew,
And sank in my arms, crying, "Laddie be true!"
Though pride wad ha'e frownit, and art made a phrase,
The lassie had nane that was bleaching her claes.