CAPTAIN O'KAIN.

Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley; Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair!

Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily, Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care.

The weary day lang I list to your sang, An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane; Each sweet little treasure O' heart-cheering pleasure, Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.

Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan, An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn; Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing, Sweet days o' delight, which can never return!

Now ever, wae's me!

The tear fills my e'e, An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain; Nae prospect returning, To gladden life's morning, For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O'.

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo an' dearie, O; Thy neck is like the siller dew Upon the banks sae briery, O; Thy teeth are o' the ivory, O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e!

Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo an' dearie, O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn, Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O, Rejoicing in the simmer morn, Nae care to make it eerie, O; But little kens the sangster sweet, Ought o' the care I hae to meet, That gars my restless bosom beat, My only jo an' dearie, O.

Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, An' youth was blinking bonny, O, Aft we wad daff the lee lang day, Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, An' round about the th.o.r.n.y tree; Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo an' dearie, O.

I hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O; I wish that thou wert ever mine, An' never mair to leave me, O; Then I wad dawt thee night an' day, Nae ither warldly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgat to play, My only jo an' dearie, O.

THE BONNIE BLINK O' MARY'S E'E.[110]

Now bank an' brae are clad in green, An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, The birdies flit on wanton wing; By Ca.s.sillis' banks, when e'ening fa's, There let my Mary meet wi' me, There catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.

The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealth Is aften laird o' meikle care; But Mary she is a' my ain, An' Fortune canna gie me mair.

Then let me stray by Ca.s.sillis' banks, Wi' her, the la.s.sie dear to me, An' catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.

[110] Cromeck in his "Reliques," erroneously attributes this song to Burns.

THE BRAES O' DRUMLEE.

Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me down, Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom, How aft hae I gane, wi' a heart louping light, To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom!

How aft hae I sat i' the beild o' the knowe, While the laverock mounted sae hie, An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around, On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth, We see na' the blasts that destroy; We count na' upon the fell waes that may come, An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.

I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear, Till forced from my country to flee; Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell, To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!

"Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth, Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair; Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist, Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.

Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh, While the flood gushes down frae my e'e; For never again shall the tear weet my cheek, On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!

Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"-- Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa', Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.

Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin, Wi' the baby that sits on her knee; But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep, O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I heft.i.t 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa, But naething could banish my care; An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past, Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.

But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld, An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee, I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life, To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken The haunts that were dear ance to me; I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth, An' the mavis now sings on the tree.

But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae; For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee, To think how at last my auld banes they will rest, Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY AGAIN.

I winna gang back to my mammy again, I 'll never gae back to my mammy again; I 've held by her ap.r.o.n these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.

I 've held by her ap.r.o.n, &c.

Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo, Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue: "O come awa, la.s.sie, ne'er let mammy ken;"

An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.

"O come awa, la.s.sie," &c.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo, An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou'; While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain, An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!"

While I fell on his bosom, &c.

Some la.s.ses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e, Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree; Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane, Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.

Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea, My mammy was kind as a mither could be; I 've held by her ap.r.o.n these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.

I 've held by her ap.r.o.n, &c.

THE BARD.

IRISH AIR--_"The Brown Maid."_

The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang, Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear; While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang, An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear; But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys, Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control, On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays, An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!

Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier, That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen; When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer, A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.

What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!

The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!