LOVFLY JEAN. TO WHICH ARE ADDED, Bush aboon Traquair. THE LASS IN YON TOWN, THE PITCHER, The Death of Wolfe. STIRLING: LOVELY JEAN. ©j a' the airts the win* can blaw, I dearly like the west ; Tor there the bonny lassie lives, The lass that I lo'e best * Tho' wild woods grow, an rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between, Baith day an* night n>y fancy's fligh Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flower, Sae lovely, sweet, an' fair ; I hear her voice in ilka bird, Wi* music charm the air ; There's not a bonny flow'r that springs, By fountain shaw or green, Nor yet a bonny bird that sings, But minds me o* my Jean. t)pon the banks of flowing Clyde, The lasses busk them braw ; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie dings them a' ; In namely weeds she far exceeds, The fairest of the town ; Baith grave and gay confess it sae, Tho' dre^d in russet gown. The gamesome lamb that sucks the dam, Mair harmless canna be ; She has nae taut (if sick we c&'t) Except her love to me ; The sparkling dew,, of clearest hue. Is like her shining een ; In shape an' air wha can compare, Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. €> blaw, ye westlln win's, blaw soft» Amang the leafy trees ; \W gentle breath, frae muir an* dale; Bring hame the laden bees; An' bring the lsfesje b«ek to me. That's ay sae neat an clean 5 Ae blink o' her wad banish ca#e, Sae charming is my Jean ! What sighs and vows amang the knowes> Hae past atween U3 twa ; How fain to meet and wae to part, That day she gade awa ! The pow'rs aboon can oaly kens To whom the heart is seen ; That, nane can be sae dear to me, As my sweet lovely Jean. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIIt IIkar me ye nymphs and every swain. I'll teH how Peggy gneves me, 1 qm\ih, this complain, ei b Iieves me ! •-nd iighs (ike silent air, j' ea led nerer move her, At the boring bush aboon IVaquair 'twas there I first did love her. ' That day she smi^d and made me dad- r>o maid seem'd ever kinder, 3 1 tbougkt myself the feckfet so sweetly there to find her : ^ *° 8 ?othe my am'rous flame m word? that I thought tender," ' 1 mo-e toan pass'd not to blame • i mean not to offend her : Wet now she scornful fi ees the p]a * , the fetfa we then frequenred, W nere ere she meets she shows disdain* n she looks as ne'er squainied. i he oonny bush bloom *d fair in May. its sweets I'/l ay remember, . t?ut now her sweets it decay, it fades as m December. Ye rural powers who hear m 7 strain., why thm should Pe^jl J* Oil ! make her p^raer'm ' - *«u partners m my p&ins, then i^hcr smiies relieve me. U no > m y K ve will tura despair " my passion no more tender- - illea.e ti-e bush aboon Iraq^r! P0 lonely woods I'll wander THE LASS IN YON TOWN. © wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'ening gun upon ? The dearest maid\s in yon town, His setting beams e'er shone upon/! Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree ; How blest ye birds that round her sing, Ye catch the glances o' her ee. How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the bloomiug year ; But doubly welcome is the spring, The season to my Jeanie dear. The sun blinks blythe on yon town, Amang the broomy braes sac green ; iBut my delights in yon town • And dearest pleasure., is my Jgaa. Without my fair, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield me joy ; But gie me Jeanie in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho % raizing winter- rent the air ; And she a lovely little flower, That 1 wad tent a&d shelter there* (!) sweet is she in yan town, The sinking sun's gane down upon \ 6 The dearest maid'j ia.yoii tawn^. His setting beam e'er shone upon ; If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear, T'd careless quit ought else below, But spare, oh ! spare my Jeanie dear. For while life's dearest blwod runs warm, My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart , For as she's lovely in her form, She has the truest, kindest heart. THE PITCHER. It's not yet day, it* not yet day, then why should we leave good liquor, 'Till the sun beams around us play, we'll sit and take another pitcher, The silver moon she shines so bright, she shines most bright — I swear by Nature That if my minute-glass goes right, we've time to drink the other pitcher It's n Dt yet day, &c. They tell me if I'd work all day, and sleep by night, I'd grow the richer, But what Js all this world's delight, compar'd with mirth, my friend & pitches It's not yet day Ws not yet day then why should we leave good liquor, *Till the *un beams around us play, we'll sit and take the other pitcher, I'ts not yet day, $$, 7 They tell me Tom has got a wife; whose portion will make him the richer, 3 1 envy not his happy life, give me good health, my friend & pitcher. It's not yet day, it's not yet day, then why should we leave good liquor, Till the sun beams around us play, we'll sit and take the other pitcher. It's not yet day, &c. In a moulding cave a wretcfcfed retreat, Britannia sat wasted with care : She wept for her Wolfe, then exclaim'd against Fate, and gave herself up to despair. The walls of her cell site had sculptur'd around, With th' exploits of her favorite son ; Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground, Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done. The fire of the gods from his chrystaline throne^ Beheld the disconsolate dame, Being mov'd with her tears, sent iMercury down, And these were the tidings that came : " Britannia, forbear, not a sigh nor a tear, For thy Wolfe, so deservedly lov'd ; Thy grief shall be chang'd into tumuiu of joy , For Wolfe is not dead, but rcmov'd. THE DEATH OF WOLFE. 1Z PM 4 *