 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
THE MOUNTAIN BOY.
In the midst of the many craggy heath-covered mountains in Scotland, round which I had to wind my weary way, between New Galloway and Newton Stewart, there are only two houses, and these wretched smokey hovels. Near the first, early on a cold snowy morning of March, I beheld a boy wandering down a barren hill not far from the road. He wore a piece of plaid. His voice and speech were pleasing, and his rosy smile bespoke health and content. A short conversation gave rise to this song. It was committed to paper at the next cottage, after warming my benumbed limbs over a turf ingle on the centre of a floor, while around me played the healthy and beautiful children.
“Shepherd lad, thinly clad, leave these bleak mountains,
Fly to the town and its pleasures with me;
There lofty buildings and grandeur surround us,
There gay-deck'd gentle-folk proud thou wilt see:
What are thy comforts, where tempests loud howling,
Threaten thy thin flocks that shelter have none?
Where is thy dwelling, boy? house is not near us;
Leave these wilds, shepherd lad, with me begone!”
Fly to the town and its pleasures with me;
There lofty buildings and grandeur surround us,
There gay-deck'd gentle-folk proud thou wilt see:
What are thy comforts, where tempests loud howling,
Threaten thy thin flocks that shelter have none?
Where is thy dwelling, boy? house is not near us;
Leave these wilds, shepherd lad, with me begone!”
“Traveller, weel clad, ye canna entice me;
Thir mountains o' hether to me are sae dear;
I heed na the snell blast that maks ye aw tremble;
Nae grandeur I covet, nae poverty fear:
In you clay built cottage, sits Maggy, my mither,
A twinin' grey plaidin' for faither and I;
Our coarse fare is wholesome—we ay rest contented—
What mair can the walth o' the proud city buy?”
Thir mountains o' hether to me are sae dear;
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Nae grandeur I covet, nae poverty fear:
In you clay built cottage, sits Maggy, my mither,
A twinin' grey plaidin' for faither and I;
Our coarse fare is wholesome—we ay rest contented—
What mair can the walth o' the proud city buy?”
“Shepherd lad, nature's child, quit not thy mountains;
Woe be to him who would lure thee from home!
The flocks rejoice at thy voice—thou art contented—
In vain to proud cities for this man may roam:
Rosy health paints thy cheek—hardy art thou and free,
No lux'ry tempts thee, nor trinkets of pride;
Love of fond parents and home fills that bare breast;
And, oh! may simplicity still be thy guide!”
Woe be to him who would lure thee from home!
The flocks rejoice at thy voice—thou art contented—
In vain to proud cities for this man may roam:
Rosy health paints thy cheek—hardy art thou and free,
No lux'ry tempts thee, nor trinkets of pride;
Love of fond parents and home fills that bare breast;
And, oh! may simplicity still be thy guide!”
“Traveller, gentle, creep into yon smoky hut,
Taste our milk, oat-cake, and cleanly Scotch fare;
Mither's ay glad when she welcomes a stranger;
A drap o' her whiskey she's ay proud to spare.—
Tweed! guid dog! hie away! lammies ill bear the blast,
Up Craigenyelder, and stormy Drumlock!—
Health on your journey, Sir! Guidness watch o'er ye!
Tho' wild are thir grey hills, they're a'dear to Jock!”
Taste our milk, oat-cake, and cleanly Scotch fare;
Mither's ay glad when she welcomes a stranger;
A drap o' her whiskey she's ay proud to spare.—
Tweed! guid dog! hie away! lammies ill bear the blast,
Up Craigenyelder, and stormy Drumlock!—
Health on your journey, Sir! Guidness watch o'er ye!
Tho' wild are thir grey hills, they're a'dear to Jock!”
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |