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No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowrets so fair:
No more I trace, the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad-sighing care.
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known:
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow;
Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.
DUNCAN M'CALLACHAN.
IT was a peck o’ meal or mair,
Ae day whan commin’ frae the fair,
That Duncan laid, wi’ his grey mare
To rin wi’ nine or ten, jo.
