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64
DAVIDSON'S UNIYERSAL MELODIST.
Andante.
THE MILL, MILL O !
The Poetry by Robert Burns.
lanie. ^ i* i
pliilipiii^piiiiip^^
Wheu wild war's dead- ly blast was blawn, And gen-tle peace re
mo-ny a sweet babe fa - ther - less, And mo- ny a wi
dow
turn-ing, Wi'
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mourn - ing,
z&rk
" ' ... . - .. Where lang I'd been
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left
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the lines and tent - ed fields
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hum - ble knap-sack a' my wealth, A
1 leal light heart was in my brenst.
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks of Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported ;
I pass'd the mill and trysting-thorn
Where Nancy aft I courted ;
Wha spied 1 but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling,
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O 1 happy, happy may he be
That 's dearest to thy bosom :
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wou'd be thy lodger ;
I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a soldier 1'
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever ;
Quo' she, ' A soldier ance I lo'ed,
Forget bim shall I never :
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ho - nest
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it ;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade.
Ye 're welcome for the sake o't.'
She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose —
Syne pale like ony lily.
She sank within my arms, and cried,
' Art thou my 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 1
' The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted ;
Though poor in gear, we 're rich in love.
And mair, — we'se ne'er be parted !'
duo' she, ' My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly ;
And come, my faithful soldier lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly 1'
For gold the merchant ploughs the main.
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the soldier's prize.
The soldier's wealth is honour :
The brave poor soldier ne'er despise.
Nor count him as a stranger ;
Remember, he 's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.
Moderato.
FLORA M'DONALD.
The Music by M. Kelly.
cap - tive maid pin'd in the tow'r of Dunmore ; Full high was the tow'r, closely
barr'd was the door ; Her sighs un - re - garded, her — pri - son un - known. Far from
kins- man and lo - ver she languish'd a lone; But a lit - tie bird sang at this