Spicy forests, ever gray, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil; Or the ruthless native’s way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave; Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon. Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood: Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonie Castle Gordon. Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.” A’ The lads o’ Thorniebank, When they gae to the shore o’ Bucky, They’ll step in an’ tak a pint Wi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky. Chorus.—Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at shore o’ Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky. Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie; And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, &c. Theniel Menzies’ Bonie Mary Air—“The Ruffian’s Rant,” or “Roy’s Wife.” In comin by the brig o’ Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawnin in the sky, We drank a health to bonie Mary. Chorus.—Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie, Kissin’ Theniel’s bonie Mary. Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown’s a berry; And aye they dimpl’t wi’ a smile, The rosy cheeks o’ bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c. We lap a’ danc’d the lee-lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay For kissin Theniel’s bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c. The Bonie Lass Of Albany^1 Tune—“Mary’s Dream.” My heart is wae, and unco wae, To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green An’ the bonie Lass of Albany. This lovely maid’s of royal blood That ruled Albion’s kingdoms three, But oh, alas! for her bonie face, They’ve wrang’d the Lass of Albany. In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree, And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the Lass of Albany. But there’s a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We’ll send him o’er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany. Alas the day, and woe the day, A false usurper wan the gree, Who now commands the towers and lands— The royal right of Albany.