The Black-Bird Songster/Bonny Jean

BONNY JEAN

Thero was a lass and she was fair,
⁠At kirk and market to be seen,
When a' the fairest maid were met,
⁠The fairest maid was bonny Jean.

And ay sho wrought her mither's wark,
⁠And ay sho sang sae merrilie;
The blithest bird upon the bush,
⁠Had no'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob tho tender joys
⁠That bless tho little lintwhito's nest:
And frost will blight tho fairest flowers,
⁠And levo will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
⁠The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
⁠And wanton nagies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst,
⁠He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
⁠Her heart was tint, her peace was stewn,

As in tho boson o' the stream
⁠The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling pure, was tender love
⁠Within the breast o' bonny Jean.

And now she works her mither's wark,
⁠And ay she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
⁠Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanies heart loup light,
⁠And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale of love,
⁠At e'ening on the lily lee?

The sun was sinking in the west,
⁠The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
⁠And whisper'd thus his tale of love:–

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;
⁠O canst thou think to fancy me
Or wilt thou leave thy mither's cot,
⁠And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
⁠Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather bells,
⁠And tent the waving corn wi' me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
⁠She had nae will to say him na;
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
⁠And love was aye between them twa.