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Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!

And weel may he greet on the bank o'the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!

[" It is a somewhat remarkable circumstance regarding this exquisitely pathetic and beautiful little poem, that its author has written hardly any other thing of any description."-CHAMBERS.

William Laidlaw, the author of this beautiful song, was the valued friend and steward of Sir Walter Scott; but since the death of the great minstrel, and disarrangement of the Abbotsford estate, he has been employed, much I hear to his mind, by the ancient and noble family of Seaforth. It is of Laidlaw that an anecdote of Sir Walter on his return from Naples during his last illness has been told. Scott it is said recognized few or none of his friends or relations after he left London, and from Edinburgh to Abbotsford lay in the chariot like to one as dead-but seeing Laidlaw near him at his bed-side, he said, his eyes brightening at the time, “ Is that you Willie? I ken I'm hame noo.")


I'm wearing awa, Jean,
Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's nae cauld there, Jean,
The day is aye fair, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonny bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu’ee, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now, fare ye well, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean,
We'll meet and aye be fain

In the land o' the leal.



Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, 0;
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, 0;

Where the rose in all its pride

Decks the hollow dingle's side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.

We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, 0,
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, 0;

Where the glens rebound the call

Of the lofty waterfall, Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O.

Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, 0,
Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, 0,

With the songsters in the grove,

We have told our tale of love, And have sportive garlands wove, bonnie lassie, O.

Ah ! I soon must bid adieu, bonnie lassie, 0,
To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, 0,

To the streamlet winding clear,

To the fragrant-scented brier,
E’en to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O.

For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, 0,
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, 0 :

Ere the golden orb of day,

Wakes the warblers from the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O.

And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, 0, Should I fall ’midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, 0,

Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear

Of thy lover on his bier,
To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie? 0.

(“ Kelvin Grove is a beautifully wooded dell, about two miles from Glasgow, forming a sort of lovers' walk for the lads and lasses of that city."-CHAMBERS.]



The gloamin saw us a' sit down,

And mickle mirth has been our fa'
But ca’ the other toast aroun',
Till chanticleer begins to craw.
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we,

Blythe are we, ane and a’;
Aften hae we canty been,

But sic a nicht we never saw.

The auld kirk bell has chappit twal ;

Wha cares though she had chappit twa! We're licht o' heart, and winna part,

Though time and tide should rin awa. Tut! never speir how wears the morn,

The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky; And, gif like her we fill our horn,

I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry.

Then fill us up a social cup,

And never mind the dapple dawn; Just sit a while, the sun may smile,

And light us a' across the lawn.



The dark gray o'gloamin,

The lone leafy shaw, The coo o' the cushat,

The scent o' the haw, The brae o' the burnie,

A'blumin in flower, And twa faithfu' lovers,

Mak ae happy hour.

A kind winsome wifie,

A clean cantie hame, And smiling sweet babies,

To lisp the dear name; Wi' plenty o' labour,

And health to endure, Make time to row round ay

The ae happy hour.

Ye lost to affection,

Whom avarice can move To woo and to marry

For a' thing but love; Awa' wi' your sorrows,

Awa' wi' your store, Ye ken na the pleasure

O' ae happy hour,

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