Oh, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne!

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings far or near

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way,
And channels deeper as it rins
The life of luve's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

My heid is like to rend, Willic,

My heart is like to break;
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!

Oh, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane!
Oh, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will;
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.

Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never shall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie---
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair!

Oh, wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met!

Oh, wae's me for the time, Willic,
That our first tryst was set!
Oh, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae!

Oh, dinna mind my words, Willic,
I downa seek to blame;
But, oh, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a world's shame!

Het tears are haillin' ower your cheek,
And haillin' ower your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow and for sin?

I'm weary o' this world, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see;

I canna live as I had lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine;

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart;

Oh, haud me up, and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa part.

Anither, and anither yet

How fast my life-strings break!
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirkyard
Tread lichtly for my sake.

The lavrock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

But, oh, remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be!

And, oh, think on the leal, leal heart
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And, oh, think on the eauld, cauld mools
That file my yellow hair,

That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,
Ye never sall kiss mair!

MAY-MORN SONG.

MOTHERWELL. From "Whistle Binkie."

THE grass is wet with shining dews,
Their silver bells hang on each tree;
While opening flower and bursting bud
Breathe incense forth unceasingly :
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw,
The throstle glads the spreading thorn,
And cheerily the blythesome lark
Salutes the rosy face of morn.

"Tis early prime;

And hark, hark, hark,
His merry chime

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! he heralds in

The jolly sun with matin hymn.

Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping bough,
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom

That breaks upon thy young cheek now.
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,
Aurora's smiles are streaming free;
With earth it seems brave holiday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee:
And it is right, love;

For mark, love, mark,
How, bathed in light,

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel

The voice of heaven within them thrill
In summer morn, when, mounting high,
This merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell,

Where brightest wildflowers choose to be,
And where its clear stream murmurs on,
Meet type of our love's purity.

No witness there;

And o'er us, hark,

High in the air

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! away soars he,

Bearing to heaven my vows to thee.

MARY'S GANE.

JOHN DONALD CARRICK, born 1787, died 1835. From "Whistle Binkie." Air-" Coming o'er the craigs o' Kyle."

OH, wae's my heart, now Mary's gane,
An' we nae mair shall meet thegither,

To sit an' crack at gloamin' hour,

By yon auld grey stane amang the heather:

Trysting-stane amang the heather, Trysting-stane amang the heather; How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour, By yon auld grey stane amang the heather!

Her father's laird, sae gair on gear,

He set their mailin to anither;

Sae they've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane and left their native heather:
Left their native blooming heather,
Left their native blooming heather;
They've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane and left their native heather.

Her parting look bespake a heart

Whase rising grief she couldna smother, As she waved a last farewell to me

And Scotland's braes and blooming heather:
Scotland's braes and blooming heather,
Scotland's braes and blooming heather;

'Twas sair against the lassie's will
To lea' her native blooming heather.

A burning curse licht on the heads

O' worthless lairds colleagued thegither

To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans

Frae their native hills and blooming heather:

Native glens and blooming heather,

Native glens and blooming heather;

To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans

Frae their native hills and blooming heather.

I'll sell the cot my granny left,

Its plenishing an' a' thegither,

An' I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather:
Used to meet me amang the heather,
Used to meet me amang the heather;

I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather.

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