O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie’s bride, And years sin syne hae o’er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun: But now thy flowery banks appear Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry month of May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening’s tears are tears o’ joy: My soul, delightless a’ surveys, While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil, Or wi’ his song her cares beguile; But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow’d nights and joyless days, While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. O wae be to you, Men o’ State, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan braes! Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.” Blythe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o’er me; Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’r, Sighing, dumb despairing! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod, Soon maun be my dwelling. O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair Air—“Hughie Graham.” O were my love yon Lilac fair, Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring, And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn when it was torn By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d. O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa’; And I myself a drap o’ dew, Into her bonie breast to fa’! O there, beyond expression blest, I’d feast on beauty a’ the night; Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light! Bonie Jean—A Ballad To its ain tune. There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk or market to be seen; When a’ our fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, And aye she sang sae merrilie; The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.