FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. TUNE- The Yellow-haired Laddie. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming for bear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. NAE gentle dames, though e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my Muse's care : Their titles a' are empty show; Within the glen sae bushy, O, Oh were yon hills and valleys mine, But fickle Fortune frowns on me, Although through foreign climes I range, For her I'll dare the billows' roar, She has my heart, she has my hand, Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! A PRAYER FOR MARY. POWERS celestial whose protection While in distant climes I wander, Let my Mary's kindred spirit 1 your choicest influence down Make the gales you waft around her Guardian angels! oh, protect her WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the cause that shall part us, The hour and the moment o' time! ELIZA. TUNE- Gilderoy. FROM thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore: The cruel fates between us throw They never, never can divide Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, THOUGH CRUEL FATE,1 TUNE-The Northern Lass. HOUGH cruel fate should bid us part, THO Far as the pole and line; Her dear idea round my heart Should tenderly entwine. Though mountains rise and deserts howl, And oceans roar between, I still would love my Jean. 1 See ante, p. 78. |