BLITHESOME HEART TO STRAY.

'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray,
In the blushing dawn o' infant day;
But sweeter than dewy morn can be,
Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie
For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

The garish sun has sunk to rest;
The star o' gloaming gilds the west;
The gentle moon comes smiling on,
And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown:
Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!
The whispering night-breeze calls on thee;
Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.

For wealth let warldlings cark and moil,
Let pride for empty honours toil,
I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie
For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.
An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gie
For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

O SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM.

O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea,
Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,
An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;
But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me,
As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.

Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been,
An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;
But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee,
In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,
And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain;
But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me,
While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,
And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;
Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,
Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine,
For me nae mair the spring maun