Note. — I made the acquaintance of a Scotch lass once when I was in Liverpool. She was servant in a gentleman's house an the outskirts of the town. She was from Aberdeen, in Scotland, and was a fine rosy lass; she wished me to come to meet her the next evening she would be out. It was in the summer time and the weather was very warm. I went at the hour appointed but as she could not get out so early I had to wait some time, and I went over the hedge and lay down in the grass to wait her appearance, and as I lay there I composed a song, and I will give you a copy.
THE ROSE OF ABERDEEN.
The setting sun is sinking down
Behind the western hills,
While gentle zephyrs waft the sound
Of distant flowing rills;
The little birds are gone to rest
In yonder shady grove.
The crimson twilight in the west
Brings forth the time for love.
The dew falls silent from the sky.
On every shrub and flower,
And evening shadows hover nigh
When love comes out with power;
While I am lonely lying here,
And musing on the scene,
Waiting till Jessy will appear:
The Rose of Aberdeen.
'Tis neath the closing shades of night
That lovers have their charms,
When lips are pressed in fond delight,
Locked in each other's arms;
Love is a timid, bashful thing
That hovers round the heart.
But like the owl is on the wing,
Who wanders in the dark;
And thus reclining on the grass,
Amidst this calm serene,
Awaiting for this bonny lass:
The Rose of Aberdeen.