Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Pocket songster, or, Caledonian warbler

76 THE POCKET SONGSTER;
She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose —
Syne pale like ony lily,
She sank within mine arms, and crial^
Art thou mine ain dear Willie ?
By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man ! — and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hamcj
And find thee still true-hearted ;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love.
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she. My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;
Come, then, my faitlifu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour :
Tlie brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger ;
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger. Burns.
LOCHABER NO MORE.
Farewell to Lochabcr, and farewell, my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I have mony days been
JjJut Lochabcr no more, Lochaber no more^
We'll maybe rcttirn to Lochabcr no more.