Lonely in the deep glen straying,
Lonely on the woody hill,

Wildly to the rude blast playing,
Softly to the weeping rill.

On my hapless fate I ponder,

Whilst thy name on fav'rite tree,

Grav'd, where once we us'd to wander, Turns my thoughts, false nymph, to thee.

Tho' the love was false that bound thee,
Could I harm thee, Nancy ?-no;
Should I wish remorse might wound thee,
'Tis too late to soothe my woe.

Now my dreams of bliss are over,
And my heart feels anguish sore;
Still, fair Nancy, with thy lover,
Be thou blest when I'm no more.

LXII.

MARY.

'Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er,

The war of pride and love,

And, Mary, now we meet no more,
Unless we meet above.

Too well thou know'st how much I lov'd,

Thoù knew'st my hopes-how fair!
But all those hopes are blasted now,

They point but to despair.

Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,

I haste to India's shore;

For here how can I longer stay,

And call thee mine no more!

Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er,
And tho' I still must love,

Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,
O, may we meet above!

འ་་

LXIII.

KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME.

Robin is my only jo,

Robin has the art to lo'e,

So to his suit I mean to bow,

Because I ken he lo'es me.
Happy, happy was the shower,
That led me to his birken bower,
Whare first of love I felt the power,

And kend that Robin lo'ed me.

They speak of napkins, speak of rings,
Speak of gloves and kissing strings,
And name a thousand bonny things,
And ca' them signs he lo'es me.
But I'd prefer a smack of Rob,
Sporting on the velvet fog,

To gifts as lang's a plaiden wob,
Because I ken he lo'es me.

He's tall and sonsey, frank and free,
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me,
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd die,
Because my Robin lo'es me.

My titty, Mary, said to me,
Our courtship but a joke wad be,
And I, or lang, be made to see,
That Robin did na lo'e me.

But little kends she what has been,
Me and my honest Rob between,
And in his wooing, O sae keen,

Kind Robin is that lo'es me.
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away,
And hasten on the happy day,

When, "join your hands," Mess John shall say,

And mak him mine that lo'es me.

Till then, let every chance unite,
To weigh our love, and fix delight,
And I'll look down on such wi' spite,

Who doubt that Robin lo'es me.

O hey, Robin, quo' she,
O hey, Robin, quo' she,
O hey, Robin, quo' she,

Kind Robin lo'es me.

LXIV.

HELEN, THE PRIDE OF MONTROSE.

AIR-The flower of Dumblane.

While some seek the mountain, and some seek the valley, Give me the lone walks where the Esk proudly flows; For there I meet Helen a-wand'ring so gaily,

Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose.
Her form has been moulded by love and the graces,
And nature's perfection bewitchingly shows,

The eye hangs delighted as fondly it traces,
The beauty of Helen, the pride of Montrose.

'Tis charming to stray by the clear winding river, Where thro' the tall arches it pleasantly flows; While love's gentle wishes I pause to discover,

To Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose.

Tho' mine were the wealth of the eastern mountains, Where Ganges broad rolling o'er golden bed flows, I'd pine like the Arab in search of his fountains,

And sigh for sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose.

'Tis long since she held her empire in my bosom,
As time wears apace still the dearer she grows;
All nature may languish, and spring cease to blossom,
But still I'll love Helen, the pride of Montrose.
Then come, ye sweet moments, when hymeneal blisses,

My hopes and my fears with enjoyment shall close, When I live but to love the sweet soul of my wishes, Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose.

LXV.

MY SOUL IS DARK.

My soul is dark-oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;

And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.

If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again;

If in these eyes there lurks a tear,

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.