Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; And now comes in the happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. Chorus.-Meet me on the warlockknowe, Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie; There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear Dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds
"Praise Woman still," his lordship roars, "Deserv'd ornot, nomatter?" Butthee, whom all my soul adores, Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, An'thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang- "O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! "O, happy be the woodbine bower,
Braw, brawlads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amangthe blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water. Butthere is ane, a secret ane, Aboonthem a'I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonielad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I
Blythe haeI been on yonhill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me; Now naelanger sport and play, Mirth orsang can please me; Lesley is saefair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I downochtbutglow'r, Sighing, dumb despairing!
Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, the darling of my heart; Sever'd from thee, can I survive, ButFate has will'd and we must part. I'll often greetthe surging swell, Yondistant Isle will often hail: "E'en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, orsome such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever