THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas! And ay the saut tear blins her e'e: Drumofsie moor, Drumofsie day,

A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see;

And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e!

Now wae to thee thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

Z 2

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son

Tune-" FINLAYSTON HOUSE."

FATE

gave

the word, the arrow sped,

And pierc'd my darling's heart: And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonor'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now, fond I bare my breast,

O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love at rest!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I dare na name,

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

And here's to, &c.

O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.

O WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon,
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw:
She wanders by yon spreading tree,

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest

ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear.

The

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms,
O' paradise could yield me joy ;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon;

A fairer than's in yon town,
His setting beam ne'er shone

upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

For