O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie! O Kenmure’s lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true— And that their faes shall ken. They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie! They’ll live or die wi’ fame; But soon, wi’ sounding victorie, May Kenmure’s lord come hame! Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! Here’s him that’s far awa; And here’s the flower that I love best— The rose that’s like the snaw! TO MARY IN HEAVEN Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, Thou lov’st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow’d grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace— Ah! little thought we ’twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev’ry spray, Till too too soon, the glowing west Proclaim’d the speed of wingèd day. Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? [Illustration: Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green.] LOGAN BRAES O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie’s bride; And years sinsyne hae o’er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow’ry 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 o’ May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, And evening’s tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a’ surveys, While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes.