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Blithe was She.

TUNE—Andrew and his Cutty Gun."

BLITHE, blithe, and merry was she,
Blithe was she butt and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Earn,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Her looks were like a flower in May,

Her smile was like a simmer morn; She tripped by the banks of Earn,

As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Blithe was She.

Her bonny face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lea; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.

The Highland hills I've wandered wide,

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blithest lass

That ever trod the dewy green.

The Banks of the Devon.

TUNE-" Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh."

How pleasant the banks of the clear, winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming

fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England, triumphant, display her bright rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

The Lazy mist.

TUNE—Here's a health to my true love."

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark, winding rill: How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.


The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown :
A part let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is Aying, how keen Fate pursues!

The Lazy mist.

How long I have lived—but how much lived in

vain ! How little of life's scanty span may remain ! What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn! What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn! How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how


This life's not worth having, with all it can give-For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

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