Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery!

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie: There Simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last Farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden Hours on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my Dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my Flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Auld Rob Morris

There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie la.s.s, his dautie and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!

O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction nae words can express.

The Rights Of Woman

An Occasional Address.

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the s.e.xes' intermix'd connection, One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.-- The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right--but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it--'tis decorum.-- There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay even thus invade a Lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men--and you are all well-bred-- Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest; Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, Most humbly own--'tis dear, dear admiration!

In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life--immortal love.

Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs; 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares, When awful Beauty joins with all her charms-- Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with const.i.tutions, With b.l.o.o.d.y armaments and revolutions; Let Majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!

Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character

Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning Nature, torturing art; Loves and Graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson

Dost thou not rise, indignant shade, And smile wi' spurning scorn, When they wha wad hae starved thy life, Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae, Wi' meikle honest toil, And claught th' unfading garland there-- Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.

And wear it thou! and call aloud This axiom undoubted-- Would thou hae n.o.bles' patronage?

First learn to live without it!

To whom hae much, more shall be given, Is every Great man's faith; But he, the helpless, needful wretch, Shall lose the mite he hath.

Duncan Gray

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blythe Yule-night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his e'en baith blear't an' blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and Chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to--France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And oh! her een they spak sic things!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Duncan could na be her death, Swelling Pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.