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DAINTY DAVIE.

175

CHORUS.

Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa',
merry birds are lovers a',

The

The scented breezes round us blaw,
A-wandering wi' my Davie.

Meet me, &c.

When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.

Meet me, &c.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I lo'e best,

And that's my ain dear Davie.

Meet me, &c.

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS'.

TUNE-John Anderson my jo.

How cruel are the parents

Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby
Poor woman sacrifice.

1 Altered from an old English song.

Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wretched wife.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin
Awhile her pinions tries;
Till of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,

She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

TUNE-The hopeless Lover.

Now spring has clad the groves in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O, why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art ;

My life was once that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountain dry.

177

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,

Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the withering blast
My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O, had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,
So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whose doom is, hope nae mair,”

What tongue his woes can tell!

Within whose bosom, save despair,

Nae kinder spirits dwell.

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER.

TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

WHY, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?

VOL. II.

Q

O, why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme!
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?

We part-but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day:
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

THE GALLANT WEAVER.

TUNE-The auld wife ayont the fire.

WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,

He is a gallant weaver.

CALEDONIA.

Oh, I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I'll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.

179

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees rejoice in opening flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver.

CALEDONIA.

TUNE-Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of northern deities sprung:

your

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!'

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