Volume Iii Part 3 (1/2)
Her naked feet, amang the gra.s.s, Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair; Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks, Dark curling owre her shoulders bare; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth; Her lips had words and wit at will, And heaven seem'd looking through her een, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, ”Sweet la.s.s, will ye gang wi' me, Where blackc.o.c.ks crow, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, Six vales are lowing wi' my kye: I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd la.s.s, By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;”
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, ”Sweet maiden, look nae down, But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:”
A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up, And the tears were drapping frae her e'e: ”I hae a lad, wha 's far awa', That weel could win a woman's will; My heart 's already fu' o' love,”
Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
”Now wha is he wha could leave sic a la.s.s, To seek for love in a far countrie?”
Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew: I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek; ”For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' ither love,”
Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e-- ”Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' G.o.d, Or light is gladsome to my e'e; While woods grow green, and burns rin clear, Till my last drap o' blood be still, My heart shall haud nae other love,”
Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, And Nith's romantic vale is fu'; By lanely Cluden's hermit stream Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.
Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind, As ever shone on vale or hill; But there 's a light puts them a' out, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.
GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.
Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw.
Cauld 's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death 's at my een, Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father, Or my mither dear: I 'll meet them baith in heaven, At the spring o' the year.
IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a': But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the n.o.ble martyrs who died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.