Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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Donald Stuart: a Tale.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
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Donald Stuart: a Tale.
The sun was set yont Ballageich,
Tha snaw fell thick, the wind was heigh,
The craws had left the dark muir-side
To shelter in the haughs o' Clyde;
The kye were bound up in the byre,
And we sat round the gleesome fire;
Whan Donald Stuart, blind and lame,
Led by his dug, withouten hame,
Blew up his chanter at our door,
Whilk at Culloden rang before.
The bairns were blithe, whan frae the loan
They heard the sound o' Donald's drone,
And loot him in wi' flichtrin speed,
And fed his dug wi' bits o' bread.
Wi' eild and storm was Donald yowden,
And's legs wi' dirt were sairly browden,
His shouthers daugit owre wi' snaw,
Whilk ance were clad in tartan braw,
And cauld, and aiblins hunger fell,
Mair pity drew than tongue can tell.
Tha snaw fell thick, the wind was heigh,
The craws had left the dark muir-side
To shelter in the haughs o' Clyde;
The kye were bound up in the byre,
And we sat round the gleesome fire;
Whan Donald Stuart, blind and lame,
Led by his dug, withouten hame,
Blew up his chanter at our door,
Whilk at Culloden rang before.
The bairns were blithe, whan frae the loan
They heard the sound o' Donald's drone,
And loot him in wi' flichtrin speed,
And fed his dug wi' bits o' bread.
Wi' eild and storm was Donald yowden,
And's legs wi' dirt were sairly browden,
His shouthers daugit owre wi' snaw,
Whilk ance were clad in tartan braw,
And cauld, and aiblins hunger fell,
Mair pity drew than tongue can tell.
Sair vex'd to see the puir auld man,
To sort him up ilk lent a han';
Ane lowst his meal-pock and his plaid,
Anither laid his pipes aside;
Ane dawded frae his locks the snaw,
Anither aff his hose did draw;
Syne set him by the cheerie ingle,
Wi' some warm meat, which gart's bluid tingle;
While aft we could wi' feeling trace
Joy's tear rin doun his furrow'd face.
To sort him up ilk lent a han';
Ane lowst his meal-pock and his plaid,
Anither laid his pipes aside;
Ane dawded frae his locks the snaw,
Anither aff his hose did draw;
Syne set him by the cheerie ingle,
Wi' some warm meat, which gart's bluid tingle;
While aft we could wi' feeling trace
Joy's tear rin doun his furrow'd face.
Revived, at length, he fell a cracken,
And, oh! how did his spirits waken!
Whan tellin' how the Highland clans
Fought at Falkirk and Prestonpans;
Or how they march'd across the Tweed,
Wi' gallant Charlie at their head;
Or how the folk upbye at Lon'on
Were quakin' when the Prince was comin'.
His breast wi' martial fire wad goup
While blithely singin' “Johnnie Cope;”
His fingers owre the lilts wad fly
At “Charlie in the Isle o' Skye.”
But when Culloden field cam' roun'
His voice strack up anither soun',
And aft the tears cam' trickling doun.
Yet still he tauld the waefu' story,
And in the hopeless cause wad glory;
Still brag o' Charlie's deeds o' fame,
Whan fechtin for his lawfu' hame;
And boast about his look and air,
His bonnie face and yellow hair.
Wi' feidfu' wrath he'd bitter ban
The waefu' Duke o' Cumberlan',
(Wha cam' against them on the fiel',)
And vow'd he was sent by the deil.
And, oh! how did his spirits waken!
Whan tellin' how the Highland clans
Fought at Falkirk and Prestonpans;
Or how they march'd across the Tweed,
Wi' gallant Charlie at their head;
Or how the folk upbye at Lon'on
Were quakin' when the Prince was comin'.
His breast wi' martial fire wad goup
While blithely singin' “Johnnie Cope;”
32
At “Charlie in the Isle o' Skye.”
But when Culloden field cam' roun'
His voice strack up anither soun',
And aft the tears cam' trickling doun.
Yet still he tauld the waefu' story,
And in the hopeless cause wad glory;
Still brag o' Charlie's deeds o' fame,
Whan fechtin for his lawfu' hame;
And boast about his look and air,
His bonnie face and yellow hair.
Wi' feidfu' wrath he'd bitter ban
The waefu' Duke o' Cumberlan',
(Wha cam' against them on the fiel',)
And vow'd he was sent by the deil.
Neist lovely Flora he did praise
For a' her couthie friendly ways,
And fealty to the Stuart cause,
And guid auld hamely Scottish laws,
Whilk, wi' guid reason, plain declare
The son to be the faither's heir.
For a' her couthie friendly ways,
And fealty to the Stuart cause,
And guid auld hamely Scottish laws,
Whilk, wi' guid reason, plain declare
The son to be the faither's heir.
Whan a' his cracks he had gane o'er,
At whilk the younkers a' did glour,
Upon the floor he got them ranked,
And gart them dance, while they could shank it,
To hieland reels and brisk strathspeys,
Auld Scotland's cantie festive lays.
At whilk the younkers a' did glour,
Upon the floor he got them ranked,
And gart them dance, while they could shank it,
To hieland reels and brisk strathspeys,
Auld Scotland's cantie festive lays.
It happen'd that this vera e'en
Was just the nicht o' Valentine;
And some blithe nei'bour lads and lasses
Met at our house, to try what passes
Wi' future fortune on sic nichts,
When weird her magic candle lichts.
Was just the nicht o' Valentine;
And some blithe nei'bour lads and lasses
Met at our house, to try what passes
Wi' future fortune on sic nichts,
When weird her magic candle lichts.
Thrice they boost a' their fortune try,
To see how aften changed the dye;
And whether they gat names they likit,
Or gyn they mix'd (whilk sair them fykit).
At length their fates were fairly fix'd,
And some wi' ithers coshly mix'd
In lo'esome kisses o' their joes,
To them a rapt'rous glad'nin' dose.
Syne gart auld Donald fill the drone,
And play till he was richt far yon;
Wi' foursome reels and country dances
They tired their legs and pleased their fancies;
Till, pechan, they bood quat the wark,
Fair fouchten out, though young and stark.
The lasses vow'd they'd dance nae mair,
And dried their faces, red their hair;
The lads raised groats apiece, to pay
The piper for his minstrelsy;
And a' declared, before they'd gang,
They'd hear auld Donald sing a sang.
He needed nae fraca o' fleeching,
Like some, amaist as lang's a preaching,
But clear'd his hawse, and syne began;
And thus his hamely ditty ran.
To see how aften changed the dye;
And whether they gat names they likit,
Or gyn they mix'd (whilk sair them fykit).
At length their fates were fairly fix'd,
And some wi' ithers coshly mix'd
In lo'esome kisses o' their joes,
To them a rapt'rous glad'nin' dose.
Syne gart auld Donald fill the drone,
And play till he was richt far yon;
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They tired their legs and pleased their fancies;
Till, pechan, they bood quat the wark,
Fair fouchten out, though young and stark.
The lasses vow'd they'd dance nae mair,
And dried their faces, red their hair;
The lads raised groats apiece, to pay
The piper for his minstrelsy;
And a' declared, before they'd gang,
They'd hear auld Donald sing a sang.
He needed nae fraca o' fleeching,
Like some, amaist as lang's a preaching,
But clear'd his hawse, and syne began;
And thus his hamely ditty ran.
DONALD'S SANG.
CHORUS.
Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O,
Nae pleasure has this world to me,
But when I'm wi' the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O,
Nae pleasure has this world to me,
But when I'm wi' the lasses, O.
I scorn earth's hardships, cares, and toils,
Despair me never fashes, O,
For blithe I'll toddle sax Scots miles
At e'en, to see the lasses, O.
Despair me never fashes, O,
For blithe I'll toddle sax Scots miles
At e'en, to see the lasses, O.
In barn or byre, 'mang hay or strae,
The time most cheerfu' passes, O,
Where aft, till cocks proclaim the day,
I tousle wi' the lasses, O.
The time most cheerfu' passes, O,
Where aft, till cocks proclaim the day,
I tousle wi' the lasses, O.
When a' the lave are sound asleep,
The lazy doitit hashes, O,
I draw the bar, and out I creep
Mysel', to see the lasses, O.
The lazy doitit hashes, O,
I draw the bar, and out I creep
Mysel', to see the lasses, O.
There's Sandie Bell and Geordie Bane,
Though twa unfeelin' asses, O,
They'll fecht while they can stan' their lane
If ought insult the lasses, O.
Though twa unfeelin' asses, O,
They'll fecht while they can stan' their lane
If ought insult the lasses, O.
And here's to ilka manly chiel',
Wha late and early splashes, O,
Through dub and mire, frae neck to heel,
Before he'll want the lasses, O.
Wha late and early splashes, O,
Through dub and mire, frae neck to heel,
Before he'll want the lasses, O.
34
The sang was roost by auld and young;
The whisky bottle ben was brung
By the guidwife, wi' muckle mense,
To mak' a kind o' recompense
To Donald for his blithesome ditty,
Sae primely timed, and eke sae witty;
Syne, after that, the younkers parted
In social mood, and a' licht hearted.
To 's bed auld Donald gaed, and sleepit
Till clear the sun o'er mountains peepit;
His breakfast gat, then march'd awa,
Wi' 's faithfu' dog, amang the snaw.
The whisky bottle ben was brung
By the guidwife, wi' muckle mense,
To mak' a kind o' recompense
To Donald for his blithesome ditty,
Sae primely timed, and eke sae witty;
Syne, after that, the younkers parted
In social mood, and a' licht hearted.
To 's bed auld Donald gaed, and sleepit
Till clear the sun o'er mountains peepit;
His breakfast gat, then march'd awa,
Wi' 's faithfu' dog, amang the snaw.
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