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Full text of "Six excellent songs: Farewell; Drucken Jenny Din; The gallant weaver; John Anderson, my jo; The nightingale; Scotland’s hills for me"

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six EXCELI.EiSTf 




FAREWELL. 

DRUCKEN JENNY DIN. 
THE GALLANT WEAVER. 
JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 

SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME. 




NE WTON.-S TE WA R T t 

Printed for the Booksellers, by 
J. M'NAIRN. 




FARE¥/ELL. 



Adieu a heart warm fond adieu, 
Beloved mistress of my heart, 

•Grieve notaltho' I am from you, 
By cruel fortune doomed to part. 

Tho' I across the ser^s mau'n hie, 
Pursuing Fortune's slippery ba'; 

Wi' melting heart, and brimfu e'e, 



I'll think on thee when far awa. 

Oft hae we wandered o'er the lea, 

When guided by the moons pale light ; 
Oft hae we met at close of day, 

Wi' joy, and rapture spent the night. 
But by those e'en so clear and bright, 

That bosom white as drifted snaw ; 
Strong memory on my heart still writes, 

Those happy sceiios when far awa. 




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May pleasure ay your steps attend, 

Throughout life's rough and rugged way 

May heaven her choicest blessings send. 
Content and health from day to day. 

Tho' fate should drag iiie sooth the lioe, 
Or north to Grefcfdands frost and snaw ; 

Your weel shall be baith mora and e'en 

The prayer of him that's far awa. 

A last Farewell I scarce can sigh. 

Perhaps we part to meet no more; 
Farewell, Farewell thou dearest tie, 

Tkat binds me to my native shore* 
A last request I pray you grant, 

V^lien e'er your tliought^ on pleasure fa ; : 
Or when your prayers to heaven are sent^ 

Kemember him that's far awa.. 



DRUCKEN JENNY DIN- 

The aquavitpe's ii'i my noddh, 
Brand V i-u(r5hl(-i> li\ my wyme ; 

My ff^et t,];^^' I'l not take the gate, 
And i^'.'i 'm:"/ wilt I win hame. 



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I got five shillings frae my friens, 
To buy a coat to my auld son ; 

The weary druth came in my throat, 
And its 0 how will I win hame. 

/I drank the shoon frae afF my feet, 

Likewise my braw new spotted gown ; 
And my gray plaid y lies in pawn, 
I drank them a' or 1 win hame. 

Johnny Din has me forgot, 

Man or liorse he'el send me uane ; 

My feet they will not k@ep the road, 
And it's 0 how will I win hame. 

Alia water I man cross, 

I'll be drown'd beneath the stream ; 
A man and bairnies I hae three, 

And it s o who will I win hame. 

I selt the meal and grots out o the house. 
My husband never did me blame ; 

But the mice and rats got the blame o that, 
And I drank them a or I win hame. 




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They summoned me to kirk and session, 
A' for to gar me think shame ; 

A the weight our weel does ken 
They ca me drunken Jenny Din. 

THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowing to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the kd for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear d my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 



My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 



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While birds rejoire in Ividy bowers ;: 
While bees de]i;iht in openiag flowers ; 
WiiiJe corn o^rows i>repn m simmer showers 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. . 

John Anderson my Jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Yourbonnie brow was brent* 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty povv, 

John i\nderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hiil tbegither ; , 
And mony a canty, day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now^ we maun totter down, John, - 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
Aud bleep thegither at the foot, 

Jcbn Anderson my jo. 



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THE, NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou sweetest minstre] of tlie grove, 
I'liat ever tried the plaintive straiij, 

Awake tby tender tale of love. 

And soothe a poor forsaken swaisi. 

For tho' the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons^ 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 

Their tales approve, and still she shuns, 
The notes of her forsaken sB^ain. 

Wiien evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again ; 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 
And soothe a poor forsaken hwain. 



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SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME. 

Oh! these are not my country's hilis, 
Though they seem bright and fair ; 
Though flowers deck their verdant side..; 
The heather blooms not there, 
Let me behold the mountain steep, 
And wild deer roaming free, 
The heathy glen and ravine deep- 
Oh! Scotland's hills forme. 

The rose through all this garden-land 
May shed a rich peifume ; 
But I would rather wander 'mong 
My country's bonny broom ; 

T here sings the shepherd on tlie hill. 
The ploughman on the lea, 
There lives my blythsome mountain maid; 
Oh! Scotland's hills for me. 



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