When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, To blaze upon the western wave; When peace and love possess the grove, And echo sleeps within the cave; Led by love's soft endearing charms, I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me The lovely maid of Ormadale. Her eyes outshine the star of night, Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue; And pure as flower in summer shade, Low bending in the pearly dew: Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure, Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail; As angel-smile she aye will be Dear to the bowers of Ormadale. Let fortune soothe the heart of care, And wealth to all its votaries give; Be mine the rosy smile of love, And in its blissful arms to live. I would resign fair India's wealth, And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower, With thee, loved maid of Ormadale. A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE. A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen, An' low she curtsied doun; She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see, Then a' our ladies roun'. Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? But her heart, I trow, was liken to break, An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e. I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a hame, nor ha'; Fain here wad I rest my weary feet, For the night begins to fa'. I took her into our tapestry ha', An' we drank the ruddy wine; An' aye I strave, but fand my heart Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine. I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen She was sae jimp and sma'; And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw. Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind Blaw cauld on sic as ye? I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a ha' nor hame; My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men, An' him I daurna name. Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin, Frae this ye mauna gae; An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain, Nae marrow ye shall hae. Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup, Sae fu' o' the damask wine, An' press it to your cherrie lip, For ye shall aye be mine. An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health, An' a' your kin sae dear; Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e Wi' mony a saut, saut tear. THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE. There grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasp'd, Like sisters, kind and dear. The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm; The thistle spread its thorny leaf, To keep the rose frae harm.