Farewell, ye fields an’
meadows green!
The blest retreats
of peace an’ love;
Aft have I, silent, stolen
from hence,
With my young
swain a while to rove.
Sweet was our walk, more sweet
our talk,
Among the beauties
of the spring;
An’ aft we ’d
lean us on a bank,
To hear the feather’d
warblers sing.
The azure sky, the hills around,
Gave double beauty
to the scene;
The lofty spires of Banff
in view—
On every side
the waving grain.
The tales of love my Jamie
told,
In such a saft
an’ moving strain,
Have so engaged my tender
heart,
I ’m loth
to leave the place again.
But if the Fates will be sae
kind
As favour my return
once more,
For to enjoy the peace of
mind
In those retreats
I had before:
Now, farewell, Banff! the
nimble steeds
Do bear me hence—I
must away;
Yet time, perhaps, may bring
me back,
To part nae mair
from scenes so gay.
TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why
My fond suit you still deny?
Is your bosom cold as snow?
Did you never feel for woe?
Can you hear, without a sigh,
Him complain who for you could
die?
If you ever shed a tear,
Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!
Life to me is not more dear
Than the hour brings Jessie
here;
Death so much I do not fear
As the parting moment near.
Summer smiles are not so sweet
As the bloom upon your cheek;
Nor the crystal dew so clear
As your eyes to me appear.
These are part of Jessie’s
charms,
Which the bosom ever warms;
But the charms by which I
’m stung,
Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!
Jessie, be no longer coy;
Let me taste a lover’s
joy;
With your hand remove the
dart,
And heal the wound that ’s
in my heart.
THE HAWTHORN.
Last midsummer’s morning,
as going to the fair,
I met with young Jamie, wh’as
taking the air;
He ask’d me to stay
with him, and indeed he did prevail,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn
that blooms in the vale—
That blooms in
the valley, that blooms in the vale,
Beneath the pretty
hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
He said he had loved me both
long and sincere,
That none on the green was
so gentle and fair;
I listen’d with pleasure
to Jamie’s tender tale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn
that blooms in the vale—
That
blooms in the valley, &c.
“Oh, haste,” says
he, “to hear the birds in the grove,
How charming their song, and
enticing to love!
The briers that with roses
perfume the passing gale,
And meet the pretty hawthorn
that blooms in the vale”—
That
blooms in the valley, &c.