7
By Ochtertyre grows the aik.
On Yarrow braes the birken shaw ;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass,
Than braes o Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe &c.
Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, &c.
Her bonny face it was as meek,
As onie lamb upon a lee;
The ev'ning sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
Blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I ve wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ;
But Phemie was the blythest lass,
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, &c.
SLEEPIN' MAGGY.
Mirk an' rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry,
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
An' win's drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleepin', Maggy,
O are ye sleepin', Maggy ;
Let me in, for loud the linn,
Is roaring oʻer the warlock cragie.
