Still thou art blest compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But oh! I backward cast my e’e On prospects drear! An’ forward tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear! GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O’ WINE Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, An’ fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith, Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankèd ready; The shouts o’ war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar, It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED RED ROSE My love is like a red red rose That’s newly sprung in June: My love is like the melodie That’s sweetly play’d in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love 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 love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my love, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. BLYTHE AND MERRY By Ochtertyre there grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben: Blythe by the banks of Earn, And blythe in Glenturit glen. Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn; She trippèd by the banks of Earn As light’s a bird upon a thorn. Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb’s upon a lea; The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e. The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide, And o’er the Lowlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. [Illustration: She trippèd by the banks of Earn As light’s a bird upon a thorn.] HIGHLAND MARY Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary.