I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.
Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!
He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.
The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above,
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?
Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gate
That Geordie Young comes by!
His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.
MY FAIRY ELLEN.
Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where
Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming?
Is it on some rich bank of flowers
Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?
Or is it on yonder silver lake
Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling?
Or is it among those ancient trees
Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?
Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,
The best of my beams are for ever dwelling
In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,
And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.
Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how
Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning,
When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,
And violets wild each glade adorning?
Is it in kissing the glittering stream,
O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?
Is it in sipping the nectar that lies
In the bells of the flowers—an innocent tippling?
Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,
His voice with a musical melody swelling,
All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play
That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.