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She wandered down Loch-Mary side,
Where oft at evening hour she stole
To meet her love with secret pride;
Now deepest anguish wrung her soul.
O'ercome with grief she sought the steep,
Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar;
Oh! Pity, veil thy eyes and weep,
A bleeding corpse lies Ellen More.
Where oft at evening hour she stole
To meet her love with secret pride;
Now deepest anguish wrung her soul.
O'ercome with grief she sought the steep,
Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar;
Oh! Pity, veil thy eyes and weep,
A bleeding corpse lies Ellen More.
The sun may shine on Yarrow braes,
And woo the mountain flowers to bloom,
But never can his golden rays
Awake the flower in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn,
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower;
Thero oft from eve till breezy morn,
He weeps his faithful Ellen More.
And woo the mountain flowers to bloom,
But never can his golden rays
Awake the flower in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn,
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower;
Thero oft from eve till breezy morn,
He weeps his faithful Ellen More.
COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME.
Dorothy sits i' tho cauld ingle neuk,
Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae;
Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk,
Wi' smokin', her teeth's like the jet o' the slae.
And aye she sings weels me, aye she sings weels in
Coggio, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me,
Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing ails me
No'or shall we part till the day that I die.
Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae;
Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk,
Wi' smokin', her teeth's like the jet o' the slae.
And aye she sings weels me, aye she sings weels in
Coggio, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me,
Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing ails me
No'or shall we part till the day that I die.
Dorothy ance was a weel tocher'd lass,
Had charms like her nei'bours, an' lovers anew,
But she spited them sae, wi' her pride and her sauce
They left her for thirty lang summers to rue.
Then aye she sang waes me, aye she sang waes me,
O I'll turn crazy, O I'll turn crazy,
Naething in a' the wide world can case me,
De'il take the wooers—O what shall I do.
Had charms like her nei'bours, an' lovers anew,
But she spited them sae, wi' her pride and her sauce
They left her for thirty lang summers to rue.
Then aye she sang waes me, aye she sang waes me,
O I'll turn crazy, O I'll turn crazy,
Naething in a' the wide world can case me,
De'il take the wooers—O what shall I do.
