In preaching time sae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, I cannot get ae glimpse of grace For thieving looks at Nanie-o; My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o; The world's in love with Nanie-o; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadnae love my Nanie-o. My breast can scarce contain I When dancing she moves finely-o; guess what heaven is by her eyes, They sparkle so divinely-o; My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o; The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o; Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair, And says, I dwell wi' Nanie-o. Tell not, thou star at gray day light, None ken o' me and Nanie-o; THE ROSE OF SHARON. JAMES HOGG. Oh saw ye the rose of the east To breathe in the sweets of my rose. On her couch with the lilies inwove? Or if wantons the breeze with her breast? For my heart it is sick for my love. I charge you, ye virgins unveiled, A bed of frankincense her cheek; A wreath of sweet myrrh is her hand; Her eye the bright gem that they seek By the rivers and streams of the land; Her smile from the morning she wins ; As the cedar that smiles o'er the wood; And my bosom is ravished with love. Return with the evening star, And our couch on Amana shall be: From Shinar and Hermon afar, Thou the mountain of leopards shalt see. O Shulamite! turn to thy rest, Where the olive o'ershadows the landAs the roe of the desert make haste, For the singing of birds is at hand. LORD RANDAL. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. A cold wind and a starless sky, Oh! come, Lord Randal, open your door, The snaw hangs in my scarlet robe, The sleet dreeps down my chin. Oh! come, Lord Randal, open your door, Ae glance but of that bonnie blue eye Or speak, that I may know Once mair the music of that tongue Her voice sank low as the tender babe's That makes its gentle moan, A cry still heard by that castle wa' In midnight mirk and lone: Lord Randal called his true love thrice, And wept and paused to hear; But, ah! ne'er mortal voice again Might win that lady's ear. THE MARINER. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Ye winds which kiss the groves' green tops, O, softly stir the ocean waves O, bend his masts with pleasant gales, O leave nae mair the bonnie glen, And faithless is the wind Then leave nae mair my heart to break, 'Mang Scotland's hills behind. |