Willy Rilly, or, The constant lovers/The Lass O'Glenshee

THE LASS O’ GLENSHEE.

On a bonny day. when the heather was blooming,
and the silent hill bumm'd wi’ the sore laden’d bee;
I met a fair maid as I homeward was riding,
a herding her sheep on the hill o’ Glenshee.
The rose in her cheek it was gem’a wi' a dimple,
and blythe were the blinks n’ her bonny blacke'e
Her face so enchanting so neat and so handsome,
my heart soon belonged to the lass o’ Glenshee.

I kiss’d and caress’d, and said my dear lassie,
if you would but go to St Johnston wi’ me.
There’s none o' the fair shall set a foot on the
causeway,
with cleading more fine than the lass o’ Glenshee.
A carriage for pleasure you shall hae to ride in,
and fouk shall say Mem, when they speak unto
thee.
Servants you shall hae for to do your bidin’.
I’ll make you my lady, the lass o’ Glenshee.

It is mock me nae mair wi’ your carriage to ride
in
nor think that your grandeur I value a flee,
I would think mysel’ happy in a cottie o’ of plaiding,
wi’ an innocent herd on the hills o’ Glenshee.
Believe me, dear lassie Caledonia’s clear waters,
may alter their course and run back frae the
sea
Her brave hardy sons may submit to be in fetters,
but cease and believe not such baseness in me.

The lark may forget to rise in the morning,
the spring may forget to revive on the lea,
But never will I while my senses govern me,
forget to be kind to the lass o’ Glanshee.
O let me alone, for I am sure I would blunder,
and set a’ the gentry a laughing at me
They’re book-taught in manners baith auld and
young o’ them.
but we ken little o' that in the hills o' Glenshee.

They would lay look ye at him wi’ his Highland
lady,
set up for a sale in a window so high.
Roll'd up like a witch in a hamely spun plaidie,
and pointing towards the lass o' Glenshee.
Do not dream o’ sic stories but come up behind
me.
ere Phoebus goes round my sweet bride thou
shalt be.
This night in my arms I’ll doat you sae kindly,
she smil’d and consented, I took her wi' me.

Now years hae gone round since we busked together,
and seasons have changed, but nae changes wi'
me.
She’s ay as gay as the fine summer weather,
when Boreas blaws shrill on the hills o' Glenshee.
To meet wi' my Jeanie away I would venture,
she's sweet as the echoes that rings o'er the lee
She's spotless and pure as the robes in the winter,
when laid out to bleach on the hills o' Glenshee.

FINIS.