But as for thee, thou false woman,
     My sister and my fae,
     Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword
     That thro’ thy soul shall gae;
     The weeping blood in woman’s breast
     Was never known to thee;
     Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of woe
     Frae woman’s pitying e’e.

     My son! my son! may kinder stars
     Upon thy fortune shine;
     And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
     That ne’er wad blink on mine! 
     God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes,
     Or turn their hearts to thee: 
     And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friend,
     Remember him for me!

     O! soon, to me, may Summer suns
     Nae mair light up the morn! 
     Nae mair to me the Autumn winds
     Wave o’er the yellow corn? 
     And, in the narrow house of death,
     Let Winter round me rave;
     And the next flow’rs that deck the Spring,
     Bloom on my peaceful grave!

There’ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame

     By yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day,
     I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: 
     And as he was singing, the tears doon came,—­
     There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

     The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,
     Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars,
     We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame,—­
     There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

     My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
     But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
     It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithful and dame,—­
     There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

     Now life is a burden that bows me down,
     Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
     But till my last moments my words are the same,—­
     There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Song—­Out Over The Forth

     Out over the Forth, I look to the North;
     But what is the north and its Highlands to me? 
     The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
     The far foreign land, or the wide rolling sea.

     But I look to the west when I gae to rest,
     That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
     For far in the west lives he I loe best,
     The man that is dear to my babie and me.

The Banks O’ Doon—­First Version

     Sweet are the banks—­the banks o’ Doon,
     The spreading flowers are fair,
     And everything is blythe and glad,
     But I am fu’ o’ care. 
     Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
     That sings upon the bough;
     Thou minds me o’ the happy days
     When my fause Luve was true: 
     Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
     That sings beside thy mate;
     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
     And wist na o’ my fate.