lute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!
We have heard in echoes die,
While the wave that rippled by,
Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!

Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast
To my beating heart I press'd,
Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!
Oh! never again, I ween,
Will we meet at summer e'en
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!
As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then with bosom, oh, how light,
Had I hail'd the coming night,
And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!

[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin
Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously
ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then
under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and
professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was
published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim
in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of
these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter
from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work,
Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet
Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to
the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the
earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with
music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to
adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the
absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the
production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See
Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)

NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]

_Gaelic Air._

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er--
The war of pride and love;
And, Mary, now we meet no more,
Unless we meet above.

Too well thou know'st how much I loved!
Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!
But all these hopes are blighted now,