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Beauty hath mine eyes assail'd, - - -
Beauty sat bathing by a spring, - -
Bereft of breath, yit nocht from lyfe depoised,
Bleak Soracte meets my sight, - - -

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Calling to mind the heavenly feature, -
Can any cross, shall ever intervene, - -
Canst thou love and lie alone, - -
Canst thou, Marina, leave the world, -
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, -
Chloe! why wish you that your years, -
Cold winter's ice is fled and gone, - -
Come let us mingle with the purpling vine,
Come away, come sweet love, - -
Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease, - .
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd, -. -

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Dainty, fine, sweet nymph, delightful, - - -
Dare ye haunt our hallow'd green, .:. ,
De’il tak the wars that hurried Billy from me, . -
Distracted with anguish, and weary in mind, - -

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Each man with silence stops his mouth, and hears,
Envious wretch! on earth the most ingrate, -

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tanes is gone! his corpis doth here dwell,

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Haste, haste, post-haste, make haste, and away,
He that loves a rosy cheek, . -
Heigh-ho, away the mare, - - - -
Hey down a down, did Dian sing, .
Her lamp the glow-worm lend me, .
How bonny is the glen in the greenwood shaw, -

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In Lauderdale there lived a wife, - . ..
In pride of May, the fields are gay, . . .
In summer blooms the white moss-rose, - -
In the gowany meadow there grows a grove, .
In the merry month of May, . . . .
In the Parliament-house, - - - - -
It is day, it is day,' - - - .
It is pleasant to gaze on the deep blue sky, - -
It was the froggie in the well, - - -

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Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, 0,
Like as Acteon found the fatal bounds, - -
Love in my bosom, like a bee, - - -

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Maids to bed, and cover coal, - ... -
Mair grait than I can any ways deserve, - -
Man the boat, all hands aboard, Billy boy, Billy boy,
Matchless Montgomery in his native tongue, -
May never was the month of love,

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Mellow thy notes, fond bird! thy small shrill voice,
More chaste than fair Diana, first in place, . .
Mother's wag, pretty boy, - - - -
My bonny lass, she smileth, - - - - -
My mind to me a kingdom is, - - - -

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Night closed around: in gusts the hail, -
Now flowers your odours breathe, -
Now is the month of Maying, -
Now the sweet scented Hare-bell, -

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November's hail-cloud drifts

way,

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Of Aattering speech, with sugar'd words, beware, - 15 Oh, have I burned, or have I slain, - - - - 169 O Bessy Bell, an’ Mary Gray, - - - - - 160 O heavy heart, what harms are hid, - - 19 O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird, . . . 177 O lusty May, with Flora queen, . . . . . 94 On a hill there grows a flower, - - - - .. 71 Only tell her that I love, - - - - - - 97 Over the mountains, - - - - - - 91

Pack clouds away, and welcome day, - - -
Pleasant were the hours by Erne’s stream a-wandering,
Play thou the Sidney to thy native soil, - -

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Round the fond heart plays the smile of hope,

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Sad the mourners pace before, - - -
See the chariot at hand here of love, - - -
See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp, . .
Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, - . . .
Shoot, false love, I care not, - - -
She that denies me, I would have, . .
Shun delays, they breed remorse, -' ..
Sing we, and chant it, - - . - -
Smile through thy tears, like the blush moss-rose,
Some gallant sp’rits desirous of renown,
Still to be neat, still to be dressed, -" .
Sweet! come away my darling, . . .
Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright, - -
Sweet serene sky.like flower, - - - -

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Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, - . . . 83 The auld man he came over the lea, - - - - 165 The boatmen shout, 'tis time to part, - - . . 171 The damsel stood to watch the fight, - - - - 183 The damsel who roams like a bee ʼmongst the flowers, - 230 The dew drops that at first of day, - - - - - 46 The dew no more shall weep, - - - - The fountain smokes, and yet no flames they show, - - 56 The gentle season of the year, - - - - The lake’s dimpled waters to bathing invite, - . . 184 The lava was rolling his burning flood, The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, - - . 93 The night wind's Eolian breezes, . . . . 216 The summer sun was sinking, - - - - - 186 The wine that I so dearly got, - - - - - 18 The woodlark sang through fair Bowerdale, - . - 235 The year is wearin' to the wane, - - - - 193 The yellow Aconite from winter's urn, - - - There is a garden in her face, - - - - There is a jewel which no Indian mines can buy, . There were three ravens sat on a tree, - - , 62 There was ane May, and she lo'ed nae men, . - - 166 There was a pretty plough-boy, - - - - - 224 Three maidens a-milking did go, - - - - . 144 Threescore and ten of us, poor auld maidens,.. . 146 Though Amarillis dance in green, - ... - - 5 Though pinching be a privy pain, - - - - 24 Though winter o'er the hills and glens, - - - - 225

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