Sae loud shrill`s I hear the blast,
I`m sure it`s winters fairly.
CHORUS:Up in the morning`s no for me,
Up in the mornings early;
When a` the hills are cover`d wi` snaw,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering on the the thorn,
A` day they fare but sparely;
And lang`s the night frae e`en to morn,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.
CHORUS: Up in the morning`s no for me,
Up in the mornings early;
When a` the hills are cover`d wi` snaw,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heaven.No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin’s simple tale.Our sex with guile, and faithless love,Is charg’d, perhaps too true;But may, dear maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you.
That Fate may, in her fairest page,With ev’ry kindliest, best presageOf future bliss, enroll thy name:With native worth and spotless fame,And wakeful caution, still awareOf ill—but chief, Man’s felon snare;All blameless joys on earth we find,And all the treasures of the mind—These be thy guardian and reward;So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.DUMFRIES, June 26,…
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,Far south the lift,Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,Or whirling drift:Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,Wild-eddying swirl,Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,Down headlong hurl.List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,I thought me on the ourie cattle,Or silly sheep, wha bide…
It was a’ for our rightfu’ KingWe e’er saw Irish land,My dear–We e’er saw Irish land.Now a’ is done that men can do,And a’ is done in vain;My love and native land, farewell,For I maun cross the main,My dear–For I maun cross the main.He turn’d him right and round aboutUpon the Irish shore;And gae his…
Come, let us spend the lightsome daysIn the birks of Aberfeldie!Bonnie lassie, will ye go,Will ye go, will ye go,Bonnie lassie, will ye goTo the birks of Aberfeldie?The little birdies blithely sing,While o’er their heads the hazels hing;Or lightly flit on wanton wingIn the birks of Aberfeldie!Bonnie lassie, will ye go…The braes ascend like lofty…
Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring,At evening the wild-woods among?No more a winding the course of yon river,And marking sweet flowerets so fair,No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure,But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.Is it that Summer’s forsaken our valleys,And grim, surly Winter is near?No, no, the bees humming round the gay…
