The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made, When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie; An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray, An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me. Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales, An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree; Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice, For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me! When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang, An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e, My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear? But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me. Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power, To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee! Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home, The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me. But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear, Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree; For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again, Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me. HALUCKIT MEG. Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang; Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire, While loud as a lavrock she sang. Her Geordie had promised to marry, An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, Not dreamin' the job could miscarry, Already seem'd mistress an' mair. "My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me, An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg, An' say they expect soon to hear me, I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg. An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter, An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca' An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter, He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw. "I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle, That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he 's crazie, His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy, For fient a hair has he ava'. "But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie, An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist, An' if siller comes at my wordie, His beauty I never will miss 't. Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever will burn? But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder, Will cauld as an iceshugle turn. "There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures, A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear, He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser, He likes his saul less than his gear. But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare, Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin', His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!