Page:Four songs (16).pdf/3

O come, my love, thy Colin's lay,
With rapture calls, O come away ;
Come, while the muse this wreath shall twine
Around that modest brow of thine ;
O hither haste, and with thee bring
That beauty, blooming like the spring,
Those graces that divinely shine,
And charm this ravish'd heart of mine.

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Whar muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony lang towmond thegither,
There liv'd an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation,
The twasome they seldom were hiute ;
Bonaparte, the French, an' invasion.
Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, whan deep are the gutters,
An' night's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin his cuttie,
An' lousin his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, opt a-gazin,
To lock in the door was her care ;
She seein' our signals a-blazin,
Came runnin in rivin her hair.