The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,

      I dearly like the west,

      For there the bonie lassie lives,

      The lassie I lo’e best:

      There wild woods grow, and rivers row

      And monie a hill between;

      But day and night my fancy’s flight

      Is ever wi’ my Jean.

      I see her in the dewy flowers,

      I see her sweet and fair;

      I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,

      I hear her charm the air:

      There’s not a bonie flower that springs

      By fountain, shaw, or green;

      There’s not a bonie bird that sings,

      But minds me o’ my Jean.

      By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day,

      I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:

      And as he was singing, the tears fast down came —

      There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

      The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,

      Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;

      We dare na weel say’t but we ken wha’s to blame —

      There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

      My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

      And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;

      It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame —

      There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

      Now life is a burden that bows me down,

      Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;

      But till my last moment my words are the same —

      There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

      Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,

      How can ye blume sae fair!

      How can ye chant, ye little birds,

      And I sae fu’ o’ care.

      Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,

      That sings upon the bough;

      Thou minds me o’ the happy days,

      When my fause luve was true.

      Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,

      That sings beside thy mate;

      For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

      And wist na o’ my fate.

      Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,

      To see the woodbine twine,

      And ilka bird sang o’ its love,

      And sae did I o’ mine.

      Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose

      Frae off its thorny tree;

      And my fause luver staw the rose,

      But left the thorn wi’ me.

      As slow our ship her foamy track

      Against the wind was cleaving,

      Her trembling pennant still looked back

      To that dear isle ’twas leaving.

      So loth we part from all we love,

      From all the links that bind us;

      So turn our hearts, where’er we rove,

      To those we’ve left behind us!

      When, round the bowl, of vanished years

      We talk, with joyous seeming, —

      With smiles, that might as well be tears

      So faint, so sad their beaming;

      While memory brings us back again

      Each early tie that twined us,

      Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles then

      To those we’ve left behind us!

      And when, in other climes, we meet

      Some isle or vale enchanting,

      Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,

      And nought but love is wanting;

      We think how great had been our bliss,

      If Heaven had but assigned us

      To live and die in scenes like this,

      With some we’ve left behind us!

      As travellers oft look back, at eve,

      When eastward darkly going,

      To gaze upon that light they leave

      Still faint behind them glowing, —

      So, when the close of pleasure’s day

      To gloom hath near consigned us,

      We turn to catch one fading ray

      Of joy that’s left behind us.

      O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,

      That’s newly sprung in June:

      O, my luve’s like the melodie

      That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

      As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

      So deep in luve am I:

      And I will luve thee still, my dear,

      Till a’ the seas gang dry.

      Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

      And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

      I will luve thee still, my dear,

      While the sands o’ life shall run.

      And fare thee weel, my only luve,

      And fare thee weel awhile!

      And I will come again, my luve,

      Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

      Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,

      Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;

      Welcome to your gory bed,

      Or to glorious victorie.

      Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;

      See the front o’ battle lower;

      See approach proud Edward’s power —

      Edward! chains and slaverie!

      Wha will be a traitor knave?

      Wha

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