ADOWN WINDING NITH. TUNE-The muckin o' Geordie's byre. ADOWN winding Nith I did wander, CHORUS. your beauties, Awa wi your belles and The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, How fair and how pure is the lily, Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, Awa, &c. Her voice is the song of the morning That wakes through the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa, &c. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. COME, let me take thee to my breast, That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. TUNE-Fee him, Father. THOU hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, [me ever. Thou hast left me, ever, Jamie, Thou hast left Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us [thee never, Jamie, Now thou'st left thy lass for aye-I maun see I'll see thee never. sever. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me [forsaken. forsaken. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is [waken, Jamie, Soon my weary een I'll close-Never mair to Ne'er mair to waken. breaking. WHERE ARE THE JOYS. TUNE-Saw ye my Father? WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning, No more a-winding the course of yon river, Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have I known: Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, O, SAW YE MY DEAR. TUNE-When she cam ben she bobbit. O, SAW ye my dear, my Phely? O, saw ye my dear, my Phely? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, O, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. TUNE-Duncan Gray. LET not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e'er complain, Fickle man is apt to rove: TO CHLORIS. Look abroad through Nature's range, Man should then a monster prove? MY CHLORIS. TUNE-My Lodging is on the cold ground. My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string The shepherd stops his simple reed, The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours Beneath the milk-white thorn? 149 |