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, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my Dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, ’I’m thine for ever!’ While mony a kiss the seal imprest— The sacred vow we ne’er should sever.” The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose-brae, The Summer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro’ her short’ning day, Is Autumn in her weeds o’ yellow; But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure?
Whistle, And I’ll Come To You, My Lad
Chorus.—O Whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, O whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, Tho’ father an’ mother an’ a’ should gae mad, O whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad. But warily tent when ye come to court me, And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin’ to me, And come as ye were na comin’ to me. O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie; But steal me a blink o’ your bonie black e’e, Yet look as ye were na lookin’ to me, Yet look as ye were na lookin’ to me. O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a-wee; But court na anither, tho’ jokin’ ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c.
Phillis The Queen O’ The Fair
Tune—“The Muckin o’ Geordie’s Byre.”
Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. Chorus.—Awa’ wi’ your belles and your beauties, They never wi’ her can compare, Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis, Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair. The daisy amus’d my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis— For she is Simplicity’s child. Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily! But fairer and purer her breast. Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. Her voice is the song o’ the morning, That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. But beauty, how frail and how fleeting! The bloom of a fine summer’s day; While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis, Will flourish without a decay. Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.