The mossy cave, and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dell;

The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love! our father's home
Land of the brave and free!

The sail is flapping on the foam,
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main:
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu !

Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

THE BONNY LASS OF DELORAINE.

JAMES HOGG.

Still must my pipe lie idle by,
And worldly cares my mind annoy?
Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy.
Last time my mountain harp I strung,
"Twas she inspir'd the simple strain,
That lovely flower so sweet and young,
The bonny lass of Deloraine.

How blest the breeze's balmy sighs,
Around her ruddy lips that blow,
The flower that in her bosom dies,
Or grass that bends beneath her toe!
Her cheeks endued with powers at will
The rose's richest shade to drain,
Her eyes what soft enchantments fill,
The bonny lass of Deloraine.

Let Athole boast her birchen bowers,
And Windermere her woodlands green,
And Lomond of her lofty shores-

Wild Ettrick boasts a blyther scene;
For there the evening twilight swells
With many a wild and melting strain,
And there the pride of beauty dwells,
The bonny lass of Deloraine.

May health still cheer her beauteous face,
And round her brows may honour twine,
And heaven preserve that bosom's peace,
Where meekness, love, and duty join.
But all her joys shall cheer my heart,

And all her griefs shall give me pain,
For never from my soul shall part

The bonny lass of Deloraine.

["Written on one of the flowers of the forest near thirty years ago."-HOGG, 1831.].

THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

JAMES HOGG.

The moon was a-waning,
The tempest was over;
Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover;

But the snow was so deep,
That his heart it grew weary,

And he sunk down to sleep,
In the moorland so dreary.

Soft was the bed

She had made for her lover, White were the sheets,

And embroidered the cover; But his sheets are more white,

And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps

Where the hill foxes wander.

Alas! pretty maiden,

What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering,

With lights at your

But long may you wait

window;

Ere your arms shall enclose him,

For still, still he lies,

With a wreath on his bosom !

How painful the task

The sad tidings to tell you!
An orphan you were

Ere this misery befell you;
And far in yon wild,

Where the dead-tapers hover,

So cold, cold and wan

Lies the corpse of your lover!

["One of the songs of my youth, written long ere I threw aside the shepherd's plaid, and took farewell of my trusty colley, for the bard's perilous and thankless occupation."-HOGG, 1831.]

O, JEANIE, THERE'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!

JAMES HOGG.

O, my lassie, our joy to complete again,
Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again-
O! Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry;
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary.
Love be thy sure defence,

Beauty and innocence :

O! Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!

Sweetly blows the haw an' the rowan-tree,
Wild roses speck our thicket so breery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be;
O! Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye:

List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, List when the beetle bee's bugle comes near ye; Then come with fairy haste,

Light foot, an' beating breast:

O! Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!

Far, far will the bogle and brownie be; Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it. Kind love is the tie of our unity;

A' maun love it, and a' maun revere it. Love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheerie, Love gars a' Nature look bonnie that's near ye; Love maks the rose sae sweet,

Cowslip and violet:

O! Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!

["By far the most popular love song I ever wrote."-Bose.]

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.

JAMES HOGG.

Come all ye jolly shepherds

That whistle through the glen,

I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken:

What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?

Tis to woo a bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.