cept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with
the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume
of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of
the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13] an obscure
rhymster of the capital.

[13] Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh; he ultimately became very
dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He
published, in 1811, "The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," 12mo;
in 1814, "Scenes of Gloamin'," 12mo; and in 1816, a third volume,
entitled "Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the
Duke of Gordon. In the "Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the
"Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," as a song of his own composition.

THE BONNIE LASS O' LEVENSIDE.

AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_

How sweet are Leven's silver streams,
Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;
On every bush the warblers vie,
In strains of bosom-soothing joy.
But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,
And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,
Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,
An 't were not for my darling lassie;
Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,
The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

When sober eve begins her reign,
The little birds to cease their singing,
The flowers their beauty to renew,
Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;
When far behind the Lomonds high,
The wheels of day are downwards rowing,
And a' the western closing sky
Wi' varied tints of glory lowing,
'Tis then my eager steps I guide,
To meet the lass o' Levenside.

The solemn sweetness nature spreads,
The kindly hour to bliss inviting,
Within our happy bosoms move,
The softest sigh o' purest love;
Reclined upon the velvet grass,
Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,
What words could a' my joy express,
When clasped to her beating bosom;
How swells my heart with rapture's tide,
When wi' the lass o' Levenside.

She never saw the splendid ball,
She never blazed in courtly grandeur,
But like her native lily's bloom,
She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;
The pert reply, the modish air,
To soothe the soul were never granted,
When modest sense and love are there,
The guise o' art may well be wanted;
O Fate! gi'e me