LORD RANDAL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A cold wind and a starless sky,
Hills white with sifted snaw;
A lady weeping at midnight,
By a lone castle wa'!

Oh! come, Lord Randal, open your door,
Oh! open and let me in;

The snaw hangs in my scarlet robe,

The sleet dreeps down my chin.

Oh! come, Lord Randal, open your door, Oh! open that I may see

Ae glance but of that bonnie blue eye

That charm'd my heart frae me: Oh! come, Lord Randal, open your door,

Or speak, that I may know

Once mair the music of that tongue
That wrought me all my woe.

Her voice sank low as the tender babe's That makes its gentle moan,

A

cry

still heard by that castle wa'

In midnight mirk and lone:

Lord Randal called his true love thrice,

And wept and paused to hear; But, ah! ne'er mortal voice again Might win that lady's ear.

THE MARINER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Ye winds which kiss the groves' green tops,

And sweep the mountain hoar,

O, softly stir the ocean waves
Which sleep along the shore;
For my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea:

O, bend his masts with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.

O leave nae mair the bonnie glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,
Where first we walked in gloaming gray,
And sigh'd and look'd of love;
For faithless is the ocean wave,

And faithless is the wind

Then leave nae mair my heart to break, 'Mang Scotland's hills behind.

PEGGIE.

WILLIAM NICHOLSON.

Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggie,
My Peggie an' I were young;
Sae blithe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,

My Peggie an' I ha'e sung,

Till the stars did blink sae hie; Come weel or come wae to the biggin', My Peggie was dear to me.

The stately aik stood on the mountain,
And tower'd o'er the green birken shaw ;
Ilk glentin' wee flow'r on the meadow
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,

When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee; "Twas there that I courted my Peggie, Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.

Though love it has little to look for

Frae the heart that's wedded to gear,

A wife without house or a haudin'

Gars ane look right blate like an' queer;

Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three;
Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten,
But Peggie's ay dear to me.

It vex'd me her sighin' an' sabbin',
Now nought short o' marriage wou'd do ;
An' though that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to?
What cou'd I but e'en buckle to,

An' dight the sa't tear frae her e’e?

The warl's a wearifu' wister;

But Peggie's ay dear to me.

SING ON, SING ON.

R. M'C.

Sing on, sing on, thou little bird
That wing'st the balmy air;
Sing out thy sang, thou blithesome bird,
That tells thou'rt free of care.

It's gude to ha'e a lightsome heart,

A heart that's fu' of glee;

And I would bless thy gladsome notes,

Though sorrow dwells with me.

Thou sings to see the gowans bloom,
And leaves that clead the tree,
Thou sings, to woo thy gentle mate,
A sang that's dear to me.

And wilt thou, gentle, win her love,
By methods such as these,
Nor ever learn, as I hae done,
How hard it is to please.

O dinna langer strain thy throat,
Sweet sangster of the grove—
I, too, hae sung as gay a note,
To win a woman's love;

And, as thy gentle mate does now,

She listen'd to the lay,

And I sang on, and she proved false

O cease thy roundelay.

O MY LOVE IS A COUNTRY LASS.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O my love is a country lass,
And I am but a country laddie;
But true love is nae gentleman,
And sweetness is nae lofty lady.