As angels' breath thy zephyrs sweet; And oh, the ecstasy, When greets the eye thy blushing walls— The Hirsel yet for me! Dear to my soul, thrice lovely bower, I ask no higher earthly boon- Elysian spot, while lasts a string, And hail, yon venerable pile, May peace and plenty ever smile, To bless the home of Home! And now adieu, thy magic scenes; My fondest memory Shall ever homage with the lay— The Hirsel yet for me! Elysian spot, while lasts a string, My lyre I'll tune to thee, THE BARROW. Air-"You've a' heard tell o' Rob Rorison's Bannet." CHORUS. ND wha in the dub hasna heard o' the barrow? Lang hae our lugs rung wi' the sang o' the barrow? I now wad a croun that she ne'er had a marrow, And challenge braid Scotland to match wi' the barrow. Her frame was o' aik, and the "ready" to hain, Nae plane upon earth durst her venture to brave, Still critics confound them, their fauts they maun hae; How they quiz, how they quarrel, e'en do as we may— Like flees, to ilk sair o' the barrow they clang; Deil hae't that was dune but they swore it was wrang. There hogin' and laughin' wi' muckle pretence, Her talented artist to name it might vex, 'Twas only last summer-I've aye laughed since syne. Sae in his auld garret as sacred she lies, THE LILY O' THE WEST. Tune-"Of a' the airts the Wind can blaw." Fa' the flowers that ever bloomed On hill and dale, in wood and vale, Sae sweet and fair, what can compare Then let me string my harp, and sing Adorned wi' a' that can adorn, There every grace we trace That earth can love or heaven approve Among the lily race: Sweet Nature's child-young, modest, mild How can they be exprest Thy cherub charms ?-come to my arms The lily o' the West. How rich, beyond the power o' wealth, Would not I be wi' thee, Thou gem divine, O wert thou mine- No, lovely flower, in yonder bower, Alas, thy lot is cast! But shall I fret, or e'er forget The lily o' the West. May balmy showers and sunshine bright Pervade thy hallowed shade, Thy fairy form may never storm Dishevel or invade; But, soft as dew, may peace on you Benignly ever rest! For lang I'll string my harp, and sing The lily o' the West. |