Volume Ii Part 31 (2/2)

Na, na, for they flit like the wind!”-- Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa', Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.

Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin, Wi' the baby that sits on her knee; But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep, O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I heft.i.t 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa, But naething could banish my care; An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past, Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.

But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld, An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee, I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life, To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken The haunts that were dear ance to me; I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth, An' the mavis now sings on the tree.

But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae; For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee, To think how at last my auld banes they will rest, Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY AGAIN.

I winna gang back to my mammy again, I 'll never gae back to my mammy again; I 've held by her ap.r.o.n these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.

I 've held by her ap.r.o.n, &c.

Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo, Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue: ”O come awa, la.s.sie, ne'er let mammy ken;”

An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.

”O come awa, la.s.sie,” &c.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo, An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou'; While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain, An' sigh'd out, ”O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!”

While I fell on his bosom, &c.

Some la.s.ses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e, Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree; Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane, Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.

Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea, My mammy was kind as a mither could be; I 've held by her ap.r.o.n these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.

I 've held by her ap.r.o.n, &c.

THE BARD.

IRISH AIR--_”The Brown Maid.”_

The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang, Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear; While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang, An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear; But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys, Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control, On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays, An' each languis.h.i.+ng note is a sigh frae my soul!

Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier, That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen; When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer, A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.

What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!

The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!

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