And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous’d the slumb’ring Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton’s ear! He sang wi’ joy his former day, He, weeping, wailed his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture’t in my rhymes. A Red, Red Rose [Hear Red, Red Rose] O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O my Luve’s like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile! Young Jamie, Pride Of A’ The Plain Tune—“The Carlin of the Glen.” Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain, Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove, And reign’d resistless King of Love. But now, wi’ sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and breirs; Or in the glens and rocky caves, His sad complaining dowie raves:— “I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang’d with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear. “The slighted maids my torments see, And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornful Fair, Forbids me e’er to see her mair.” The Flowery Banks Of Cree Here is the glen, and here the bower All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid? ’Tis not Maria’s whispering call; ’Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler’s dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria’s voice I hear; So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little, faithful mate to cheer; At once ’tis music and ’tis love. And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree. Monody On a lady famed for her Caprice. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flatt’ry so listen’d! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov’d; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov’d.