Volume Ii Part 24 (1/2)

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie la.s.sie-- I haena a hame, nor ha'; Fain here wad I rest my weary feet, For the night begins to fa'.

I took her into our tapestry ha', An' we drank the ruddy wine; An' aye I strave, but fand my heart Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.

I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen She was sae jimp and sma'; And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.

Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?

An' whare may your dwelling be?

Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind Blaw cauld on sic as ye?

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie la.s.sie-- I haena a ha' nor hame; My father was ane o' ”Charlie's” men, An' him I daurna name.

Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin, Frae this ye mauna gae; An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain, Nae marrow ye shall hae.

Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup, Sae fu' o' the damask wine, An' press it to your cherrie lip, For ye shall aye be mine.

An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health, An' a' your kin sae dear; Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.

THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.

There grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasp'd, Like sisters, kind and dear.

The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm; The thistle spread its th.o.r.n.y leaf, To keep the rose frae harm.

A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' and late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; And the leal hearts of Scotland Pray'd it might never fa', The thistle was sae bonny green, The rose sae like the snaw.

But the weird sisters sat Where Hope's fair emblems grew; They drapt a drap upon the rose O' bitter, blasting dew; And aye they twined the mystic thread,-- But ere their task was done, The snaw-white shade it disappear'd, And wither'd in the sun!

A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' an' late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; But the thistle tap it wither'd, Winds bore it far awa', And Scotland's heart was broken, For the rose sae like the snaw!

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT.

TUNE--_”The Martyr's Grave.”_

There 's nae Covenant now, la.s.sie!

There 's nae Covenant now!

The Solemn League and Covenant Are a' broken through!

There 's nae Renwick now, la.s.sie, There 's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyrs' Hill!

It 's naething but a sword, la.s.sie!