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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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
281
SONGS.
THE EMIGRANT'S LAMENT.
Lovely Scotia, my home,
'Twas with sorrow I left thee,
While through want I did roam,
When of joy she bereft me.
I was once blithe and gay
On the green banks of Yarrow,
Now I sigh night and day
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
'Twas with sorrow I left thee,
While through want I did roam,
When of joy she bereft me.
I was once blithe and gay
On the green banks of Yarrow,
Now I sigh night and day
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
As all lonely I toil
In the dull frowning wildwood,
Fancy wanders, the while,
'Midst the haunts of my childhood;
With my Mary I rove
On the sweet braes of Yarrow;
While I hew the dark grove
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
In the dull frowning wildwood,
Fancy wanders, the while,
'Midst the haunts of my childhood;
With my Mary I rove
On the sweet braes of Yarrow;
While I hew the dark grove
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
Here, the green robe of spring
Decks the glens and the mountains,
And the maids blithely sing
By the wood-shaded fountains;
But more pleasure I found
On the calm banks of Yarrow,
Than can dwell near the sound
Of the Falls of Ni'gara.
Decks the glens and the mountains,
And the maids blithely sing
By the wood-shaded fountains;
But more pleasure I found
On the calm banks of Yarrow,
Than can dwell near the sound
Of the Falls of Ni'gara.
Here, the sun's radiant blaze,
On the mead, beams as brightly—
Here, the moon's yellow rays,
On the lake, dance as lightly—
Here, the winds breathe as mild
As they e'er fann'd on Yarrow—
Yet to me all seems wild
By the falls of Ni'gara.
On the mead, beams as brightly—
Here, the moon's yellow rays,
On the lake, dance as lightly—
Here, the winds breathe as mild
As they e'er fann'd on Yarrow—
Yet to me all seems wild
By the falls of Ni'gara.
Oh! ye soft ties of love,
Why of Mary remind me?
From my bosom remove
The dear maid left behind me!
Else, I live all in vain
When I'm far, far from Yarrow,
Torn by love's burning pain
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
Why of Mary remind me?
282
The dear maid left behind me!
Else, I live all in vain
When I'm far, far from Yarrow,
Torn by love's burning pain
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
THE LAST VIEW OF ERIN.
Young Barny look'd sad, as he stood on the deck
Of the vessel that bounded away for Quebec,
Far, far from the land of the shamrock so green:
The sigh heaved his breast, and the tear dimm'd his eye,
While his native land melted 'twixt ocean and sky;
Yet he sprang up the shrouds for the last parting view
Of sweet Erin's green hills, now by distance turn'd blue,
The land of the shamrock so yellow and green.
Of the vessel that bounded away for Quebec,
Far, far from the land of the shamrock so green:
The sigh heaved his breast, and the tear dimm'd his eye,
While his native land melted 'twixt ocean and sky;
Yet he sprang up the shrouds for the last parting view
Of sweet Erin's green hills, now by distance turn'd blue,
The land of the shamrock so yellow and green.
Tears sprinkled his cheeks, and grief palsied his tongue,
As aloft to the breeze-sighing cordage he clung,
Till his dear native land could no longer be seen.
“O my country,” he falter'd, “an endless farewell,
For whose freedom my forefathers both fought and fell:
Ah! my sad bosom thrills to its innermost core,
Thus to leave thee for dark Niagara's wild roar,
Afar from thy harp and thy shamrock so green.
As aloft to the breeze-sighing cordage he clung,
Till his dear native land could no longer be seen.
“O my country,” he falter'd, “an endless farewell,
For whose freedom my forefathers both fought and fell:
Ah! my sad bosom thrills to its innermost core,
Thus to leave thee for dark Niagara's wild roar,
Afar from thy harp and thy shamrock so green.
“But little I thought, while life's morn shone so fair,
By Killarney's pure lake, when, a stranger to care,
I gather'd the shamrock so yellow and green,
That the ties of affection, so form'd to enchant,
Should be ruthlessly torn by the chill hand of want,
Which exiles me from all I admire and adore,
The land of my birth, and my dear Ellenore,
Who wails where the shamrock blooms yellow and green.
By Killarney's pure lake, when, a stranger to care,
I gather'd the shamrock so yellow and green,
That the ties of affection, so form'd to enchant,
Should be ruthlessly torn by the chill hand of want,
Which exiles me from all I admire and adore,
The land of my birth, and my dear Ellenore,
Who wails where the shamrock blooms yellow and green.
“Dear mate of my childhood, companion in youth,
Whose eye beams with love, and whose heartglows with truth,
I have left thee to roam 'mong the shamrock so green;
But should fate e'er relent, who hath press'd me so hard,
And bless my endeavours with plenty's reward;
With rapture I'd waft, from our dear native shore,
The charm of my life, my young, sweet Ellenore,
No longer to mourn 'mong the shamrock so green.”
Whose eye beams with love, and whose heartglows with truth,
I have left thee to roam 'mong the shamrock so green;
But should fate e'er relent, who hath press'd me so hard,
And bless my endeavours with plenty's reward;
With rapture I'd waft, from our dear native shore,
The charm of my life, my young, sweet Ellenore,
No longer to mourn 'mong the shamrock so green.”
283
THE AFRICAN TRAVELLERS.
Embark'd to leave our native isle,
And trace the Niger's wand'rings wide;
Though tears bedew'd our cheeks the while,
Oh don't for cowards e'er us chide!
Sweet love and friendship's dearest ties
We burst, to roam 'neath Afric's skies,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home;
Exposed to prowling beasts of prey,
And savage man, more dire than they,
Far, far from home.
And trace the Niger's wand'rings wide;
Though tears bedew'd our cheeks the while,
Oh don't for cowards e'er us chide!
Sweet love and friendship's dearest ties
We burst, to roam 'neath Afric's skies,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home;
Exposed to prowling beasts of prey,
And savage man, more dire than they,
Far, far from home.
We traversed countless deserts vast,
Scaled mountains, threaded forests dire,
Drench'd 'neath the stern tornado's blast,
Or scorch'd by Sol's fierce fluid fire;
From savage tribes we peril ran,
That scarce deserved the name of man,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home:
Angelic hope still on did glide,
Adown the Niger's gleaming tide,
Far, far from home.
Scaled mountains, threaded forests dire,
Drench'd 'neath the stern tornado's blast,
Or scorch'd by Sol's fierce fluid fire;
From savage tribes we peril ran,
That scarce deserved the name of man,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home:
Angelic hope still on did glide,
Adown the Niger's gleaming tide,
Far, far from home.
But when we reach'd the boist'rous coast,
Where the Atlantic's billows roar,
Our dangers all in joy were lost,
We deem'd us safe on Britain's shore.
We've broke the long mysterious spell,
Which hundreds sought, and seeking, fell,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home.
Now, free from peril, toil, and pain,
Our fam'lies' smiles we hail again,
Safe, safe at home.
Where the Atlantic's billows roar,
Our dangers all in joy were lost,
We deem'd us safe on Britain's shore.
We've broke the long mysterious spell,
Which hundreds sought, and seeking, fell,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home.
Now, free from peril, toil, and pain,
Our fam'lies' smiles we hail again,
Safe, safe at home.
284
WAE DAYS FOR ANE AND A'.
[_]
This Song was written for, and sung at a Benefit Concert, in behalf of the unemployed weavers of ---, during a great stagnation in trade.
Now simmer's e'e blinks owre the lea,
An' cleads the fields in green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherd's een.
The mavis cheers the greenwood shaw,
The lav'rock cheers the hill,
But noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
For they're wae days for ane and a',
It ilka joy doth spill,
There's noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
An' cleads the fields in green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherd's een.
The mavis cheers the greenwood shaw,
The lav'rock cheers the hill,
But noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
For they're wae days for ane and a',
It ilka joy doth spill,
There's noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
Auld Britain lang, in foreign wars,
Has warsled teugh an' dour,
And, spite o' a' their clouts and scars,
Has nobly stood the stour;
But had she tint the fertile source,
That aye her pouch did fill,
A dyvour she had been, of course,
Had a' our looms stood still.
For they're wae days, &c.
Has warsled teugh an' dour,
And, spite o' a' their clouts and scars,
Has nobly stood the stour;
But had she tint the fertile source,
That aye her pouch did fill,
A dyvour she had been, of course,
Had a' our looms stood still.
For they're wae days, &c.
The laird comes round to seek his rent,
The tenant noucht can gie;
The factor comes to lift the stent,
But where's the parson's fee?
The vintner looks baith dowff and blae,
And rarely sells a gill—
Now, what's the cause o' a' this wae,
But, that our looms stan' still?
For they're wae days, &c.
The tenant noucht can gie;
The factor comes to lift the stent,
But where's the parson's fee?
The vintner looks baith dowff and blae,
And rarely sells a gill—
Now, what's the cause o' a' this wae,
But, that our looms stan' still?
For they're wae days, &c.
Pure gratitude, wi' wish sincere,
Craves liberty to speak,
To thank our benefactors here,
Wi' warm, half-blushin' cheek.
Should trade e'er gi'e a cheerin' blink,
We then, in reamin' yill,
Cap-aff, your healths will often drink,
When ne'er a loom stan's still.
For they're braw days for ane and a',
It gars our bosoms thrill,
When nane o' Scotlan's bairns can shaw
A loom that's stan'in' still.
Craves liberty to speak,
To thank our benefactors here,
Wi' warm, half-blushin' cheek.
Should trade e'er gi'e a cheerin' blink,
We then, in reamin' yill,
Cap-aff, your healths will often drink,
When ne'er a loom stan's still.
285
It gars our bosoms thrill,
When nane o' Scotlan's bairns can shaw
A loom that's stan'in' still.
TO THE MEMORY OF C. J. FOX.
Why heaves Britannia that deep sigh,
And pensive droops her laurell'd head?
Why dims the tear that brilliant eye,
Whose smile could joy o'er Europe shed?
Cries Liberty, “She's reason just,
For Fox now moulders in the dust;
And who, like him, can wield the plan
Which guards the sacred rights of man?”
And pensive droops her laurell'd head?
Why dims the tear that brilliant eye,
Whose smile could joy o'er Europe shed?
Cries Liberty, “She's reason just,
For Fox now moulders in the dust;
And who, like him, can wield the plan
Which guards the sacred rights of man?”
His was the truly Roman soul,
For virtue, reason, and for wit,
Which burst the chains of base control,
Wreathed round our necks by subtle Pitt.
From Africa, that land woe,
He caused the song of joy to flow,
And waved around her plunder'd coast
The sword of freedom, reason's boast.
For virtue, reason, and for wit,
Which burst the chains of base control,
Wreathed round our necks by subtle Pitt.
From Africa, that land woe,
He caused the song of joy to flow,
And waved around her plunder'd coast
The sword of freedom, reason's boast.
Then why indulge in hopeless grief,
Or cloud thy brow with ceaseless gloom,
When forward stand, for thy relief,
Undaunted Brougham, Grey, and Hume?
With many more of noted name,
Who grace the golden roll of fame,
And twine the wreath around his urn,
To bloom till time's remotest bourn.
Or cloud thy brow with ceaseless gloom,
When forward stand, for thy relief,
Undaunted Brougham, Grey, and Hume?
With many more of noted name,
Who grace the golden roll of fame,
And twine the wreath around his urn,
To bloom till time's remotest bourn.
Peace to the mighty patriot's shade!
The friend of freedom and of man!
Who, in stern reason's mail array'd,
'Gainst power, despotic, led the van;
And ere had set life's glorious sun,
The field of victory had won;
Then, who need dread an en'my's shocks,
When vanquish'd by immortal Fox?
The friend of freedom and of man!
Who, in stern reason's mail array'd,
'Gainst power, despotic, led the van;
And ere had set life's glorious sun,
The field of victory had won;
Then, who need dread an en'my's shocks,
When vanquish'd by immortal Fox?
286
IRISH ECONOMY.
Since I'm call'd for a song, let it be understood
That my voice is but harsh, and my ear is not good;
As to music, I ne'er in my life made pretence,
So I hope you'll look less to the sound than the sense.
But as for the subject, ay, there lies the deuce!
For war, love, and murder, are stale grown through use;
So I'll choose a new theme, quite apart from them all,
And scream you a stave about—Nothing at all.
Sing tara la, &c.
That my voice is but harsh, and my ear is not good;
As to music, I ne'er in my life made pretence,
So I hope you'll look less to the sound than the sense.
But as for the subject, ay, there lies the deuce!
For war, love, and murder, are stale grown through use;
So I'll choose a new theme, quite apart from them all,
And scream you a stave about—Nothing at all.
Sing tara la, &c.
One fine August morning, before it grew dark,
On board of a steam ship I went to embark
For the kingdom of Scotland, the harvest to cut,
And I station'd myself 'hind a big water butt:
But, before we set sail, my ould mother says, “Pat,
I'm afraid you won't make it:” says I, “Why? for what?”
“Because you've no cash, man, to pay the Fingal:”
“Aisy, mother,” says I; “For that's—Nothing at all.”
Tara la, &c.
On board of a steam ship I went to embark
For the kingdom of Scotland, the harvest to cut,
And I station'd myself 'hind a big water butt:
But, before we set sail, my ould mother says, “Pat,
I'm afraid you won't make it:” says I, “Why? for what?”
“Because you've no cash, man, to pay the Fingal:”
“Aisy, mother,” says I; “For that's—Nothing at all.”
Tara la, &c.
Then the vessel set off, with her fins by her side,
And up waves and down waves away she did ride;
Such splashing and dashing among the salt spray,
Made my head whirl round, and my eyes flew away:
And when it came round we our passage should pay,
I lay both blind and dumb, and my hearing gave way;
Though they rugg'd me and tugg'd me, and loudly did bawl,
I lay dead as a stone, and said—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
And up waves and down waves away she did ride;
Such splashing and dashing among the salt spray,
Made my head whirl round, and my eyes flew away:
And when it came round we our passage should pay,
I lay both blind and dumb, and my hearing gave way;
Though they rugg'd me and tugg'd me, and loudly did bawl,
I lay dead as a stone, and said—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
At length we arrived on the sweet river Clyde,
Where a hundred fine vessels at anchor did ride:
Thinks I, it's high time that I should make a push,
So I button'd my coat, and away I did brush:
I plunged in the water, and swam underneath,
As long, 'pon my soul, as I could do for breath,
Till I came to the side, when I quick out did crawl,
And took to my heels, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Where a hundred fine vessels at anchor did ride:
Thinks I, it's high time that I should make a push,
So I button'd my coat, and away I did brush:
I plunged in the water, and swam underneath,
As long, 'pon my soul, as I could do for breath,
Till I came to the side, when I quick out did crawl,
And took to my heels, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
So on I went to a cook-shop to take a repast,
As I nothing had ate since I sail'd from Belfast,
Where I dined upon excellent soup and cow-heel,
And, as I was hungry, I took a good meal:
But how to get off set my wits all at war,
For a jolly big landlady stood at the bar;
Till I tipp'd her a nobber, and down she did fall;
Then I tripp'd off at ease, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
As I nothing had ate since I sail'd from Belfast,
287
And, as I was hungry, I took a good meal:
But how to get off set my wits all at war,
For a jolly big landlady stood at the bar;
Till I tipp'd her a nobber, and down she did fall;
Then I tripp'd off at ease, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
I was hired to cut corn with an ould moorland laird,
Who dragg'd us and slaved us confoundedly hard,
Where I pass'd for a fine boy, possess'd of much sense,
And was trusted to sleep with his son in the spence:
There I saw where the ould boy oft snugged his cash,
And resolved that some night I'd on it make a dash;
So I nipp'd off his purse from the head of the wall,
And, at midnight, tripp'd off, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Who dragg'd us and slaved us confoundedly hard,
Where I pass'd for a fine boy, possess'd of much sense,
And was trusted to sleep with his son in the spence:
There I saw where the ould boy oft snugged his cash,
And resolved that some night I'd on it make a dash;
So I nipp'd off his purse from the head of the wall,
And, at midnight, tripp'd off, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Quick off I return'd to my own native place,
Some sixty pounds richer in so short a space;
Where I rigg'd myself out as a dandy complete,
And the heart won of every fair maid I did meet.
Now, all you young boys, that your fortune would make,
Try Scotland, the land of the thistle and cake;
If you find it not there, you may just close the ball,
And to Ireland return, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Some sixty pounds richer in so short a space;
Where I rigg'd myself out as a dandy complete,
And the heart won of every fair maid I did meet.
Now, all you young boys, that your fortune would make,
Try Scotland, the land of the thistle and cake;
If you find it not there, you may just close the ball,
And to Ireland return, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
BARNY BLAKE'S MISFORTUNE.
Och, boys! my name is Barny Blake,
I come from Londonderry town,
Great care my folk did of me take,
And let me ramble up and down:
Till I had grown a clever boy,
I roved about both night and day;
But when I first saw Molly Roy,
Och, dear! she stole my heart away.
Smiling, wiling, quite beguiling,
Sweet as honey then she spake;
Her rosy cheeks and sloe-black eyes
O'ercame the heart of Barny Blake.
I come from Londonderry town,
Great care my folk did of me take,
And let me ramble up and down:
Till I had grown a clever boy,
I roved about both night and day;
But when I first saw Molly Roy,
Och, dear! she stole my heart away.
Smiling, wiling, quite beguiling,
Sweet as honey then she spake;
Her rosy cheeks and sloe-black eyes
O'ercame the heart of Barny Blake.
288
My learning's of the Irish kind,
That's not to read, and count, and write:
Such things did never suit my mind,
So I learn'd to drink, and dance, and fight.
But Molly said—Och, Barny, boy!
You've always been a roving blade;
You ne'er can marry Molly Roy
Till you can keep her by your trade.
Brisk and jolly, lovely Molly,
That I'll do all for thy sake;
I'll list into the Carabineers,
If you'll but marry Barny Blake.
That's not to read, and count, and write:
Such things did never suit my mind,
So I learn'd to drink, and dance, and fight.
But Molly said—Och, Barny, boy!
You've always been a roving blade;
You ne'er can marry Molly Roy
Till you can keep her by your trade.
Brisk and jolly, lovely Molly,
That I'll do all for thy sake;
I'll list into the Carabineers,
If you'll but marry Barny Blake.
So off to Sergeant Grub went I,
Who paid me twenty guineas down;
With drink that night, and Molly Roy,
All care and sorrow I did drown.
Well, on we boused, both night and day,
And thus my bounty did destroy;
Och! when my cash was all away—
Off with a Tar fled Molly Roy!
Coaxing, hoaxing, leering, jeering
Girl, she made quite a rake;
And, after all this mischief done,
Adieu! said she, sweet Barny Blake!
Who paid me twenty guineas down;
With drink that night, and Molly Roy,
All care and sorrow I did drown.
Well, on we boused, both night and day,
And thus my bounty did destroy;
Och! when my cash was all away—
Off with a Tar fled Molly Roy!
Coaxing, hoaxing, leering, jeering
Girl, she made quite a rake;
And, after all this mischief done,
Adieu! said she, sweet Barny Blake!
Whene'er I knew that Moll had tripp'd
I did not tarry long behind,
For off that very night I slipp'd,
Through darkness, mire, through rain and wind:
But, och! a party follow'd fast,
And quickly did me overtake;
So then, I blubber'd out at last—
Farewell to freedom, Barny Blake!
No more with roaring, drinking, sploring,
Shall I spend a merry night,
For Molly's given me such a slip
That all my pleasure's ended quite.
I did not tarry long behind,
For off that very night I slipp'd,
Through darkness, mire, through rain and wind:
But, och! a party follow'd fast,
And quickly did me overtake;
So then, I blubber'd out at last—
Farewell to freedom, Barny Blake!
No more with roaring, drinking, sploring,
Shall I spend a merry night,
For Molly's given me such a slip
That all my pleasure's ended quite.
A great court-martial they did hold,
And to three hundred sentenced me;
Though loudly I for mercy bawl'd,
The deuce a one did set me free:
But to the halberts fast me bound,
And all my darling back they tore;
I now invet'rate foes them found,
Whom I did take for friends before.
Moaning, sighing, groaning, crying—
Satisfaction they did take;
For not a soul among them all
Did pity show to Barny Blake.
And to three hundred sentenced me;
Though loudly I for mercy bawl'd,
The deuce a one did set me free:
289
And all my darling back they tore;
I now invet'rate foes them found,
Whom I did take for friends before.
Moaning, sighing, groaning, crying—
Satisfaction they did take;
For not a soul among them all
Did pity show to Barny Blake.
Long in the hospital I lay,
Reflecting on my follies past,
For many a dull and sorry day;
But—now I'm well again at last—
I swear by sweet Killarney's lake,
By Belfast bridge, St. Patrick, too,
No wench shall cully Barny Blake,
But to his standard he'll be true:
And while I'm roaring, drinking, sploring,
Duty still I'll mind to do,
And never flinch to face the French,
Though on the field of Waterloo.
Reflecting on my follies past,
For many a dull and sorry day;
But—now I'm well again at last—
I swear by sweet Killarney's lake,
By Belfast bridge, St. Patrick, too,
No wench shall cully Barny Blake,
But to his standard he'll be true:
And while I'm roaring, drinking, sploring,
Duty still I'll mind to do,
And never flinch to face the French,
Though on the field of Waterloo.
BARNY O'BRYNE.
Grave poets have sung of the glory of battle
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.
Quite tired cutting turf, with my ould uncle Barny,
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.
290
But quickly my valour was put to the trial,
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!
The ship rowl'd and tumbled, and I growl'd and grumbled,
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.
The cannon were pealing, the musketry reeling,
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.
No more can I tell ye what after befell me,
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.
THE INSPIRED BACHELOR.
Auld Robin was a shepherd leal,
A carefu', cannie, honest chiel,
Wha 'neath guid fortune's smile, fu' biel,
Lived fifty years an' twa.
Yet never thought he o' a wife,
To soothe the cares and toils o' life,
Though gowd and siller were baith rife
And ready at his ca'.
A carefu', cannie, honest chiel,
Wha 'neath guid fortune's smile, fu' biel,
Lived fifty years an' twa.
291
To soothe the cares and toils o' life,
Though gowd and siller were baith rife
And ready at his ca'.
Upon a blithsome summer day,
While beakin' on yon sunny brae,
His lightsome lambs did friskin' play,
Wi' mirth and joy nae sma';
Sly Cupid, frae behind a thorn,
Wi' look dejected and forlorn,
Because he treated was wi' scorn,
His sharpest shaft did draw.
While beakin' on yon sunny brae,
His lightsome lambs did friskin' play,
Wi' mirth and joy nae sma';
Sly Cupid, frae behind a thorn,
Wi' look dejected and forlorn,
Because he treated was wi' scorn,
His sharpest shaft did draw.
The arrow pierced the shepherd's heart,
He found the am'rous bitin' smart;
Resolved to act the lover's part,
Out, owre the muir, he flew,
To Nelly, merry, braw, and free,
Wi' rosy cheek and sparklin' e'e,
Wha ne'er the auld maid's life wad dree,
She aften did avow.
He found the am'rous bitin' smart;
Resolved to act the lover's part,
Out, owre the muir, he flew,
To Nelly, merry, braw, and free,
Wi' rosy cheek and sparklin' e'e,
Wha ne'er the auld maid's life wad dree,
She aften did avow.
Wi' pantin' heart he reach'd the door,
On errand he ne'er gaed before;
Auld Bawtie raised a fearfu' roar,
That maist did Robin fley:
But Nelly quell'd the growlin' tyke,
And gaed wi' Robin yont the dyke:
Although he looked right auld like,
The siller fill'd her e'e.
On errand he ne'er gaed before;
Auld Bawtie raised a fearfu' roar,
That maist did Robin fley:
But Nelly quell'd the growlin' tyke,
And gaed wi' Robin yont the dyke:
Although he looked right auld like,
The siller fill'd her e'e.
I trow fu' lang they didna lie,
Till Nelly, hafflins, whisper'd Ay:
For weel ye ken what cash can buy,
Silks, rings, and hearts, and a'.
The day was set, and Robin cam',
And took young Nelly by the han';
So now they're canty wife and man,
And ha'e nae care ava.
Till Nelly, hafflins, whisper'd Ay:
For weel ye ken what cash can buy,
Silks, rings, and hearts, and a'.
The day was set, and Robin cam',
And took young Nelly by the han';
So now they're canty wife and man,
And ha'e nae care ava.
292
NEIL M'NEIL'S NARRATIVE.
Oich! fat you'll vant wi' Neil M'Lean,
You'll brangt her here tae nicht,
Her kens, you'll kens, her canna sang,
An' she'll no be wants to fecht;
But sin' she's here, she'll no backdraw,
Te let tae laddish ken,
Tat her mother was a shentleman,
Far, far 'yont Lomond-Ben.
You'll brangt her here tae nicht,
Her kens, you'll kens, her canna sang,
An' she'll no be wants to fecht;
But sin' she's here, she'll no backdraw,
Te let tae laddish ken,
Tat her mother was a shentleman,
Far, far 'yont Lomond-Ben.
Wi' a tara murin, yeichan duran, wheelam whalam whaw,
Lara lurin, cleechan cluran, sheelum shullam shaw.
Lara lurin, cleechan cluran, sheelum shullam shaw.
But then she sprung't frae tat shief great,
Hur Glory o' Argyll;
Her faiter tell hur ne'er be pride,
Nor Hielinman beguile.
Sae far she cam't owre Campsie Hills,
To herd tae Lawlan's kyes,
But growt nane richer tan get trews,
Her braw legs ta tisguise.
Hur Glory o' Argyll;
Her faiter tell hur ne'er be pride,
Nor Hielinman beguile.
Sae far she cam't owre Campsie Hills,
To herd tae Lawlan's kyes,
But growt nane richer tan get trews,
Her braw legs ta tisguise.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
Soon as she cam te been wee man,
Her fee was crowan mair,
An' she want down ane summer tay,
To sawt tae Glasgow Fair:
An' tere she'll seent sae mony folk,
Her ribs them maist til crush;
Tae stant as tick, a' roun an' roun,
As treshes in a push.
Her fee was crowan mair,
An' she want down ane summer tay,
To sawt tae Glasgow Fair:
An' tere she'll seent sae mony folk,
Her ribs them maist til crush;
Tae stant as tick, a' roun an' roun,
As treshes in a push.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
An' tere she mony shows tit sawt,
Aroun' tae hangman's loan,
An' tere she mony pagpipes heard,
Put coudna sawt ta drone;
An' tere she sawt a wee wee man,
Was fechtin wi' um's wife,
An' tae folk tit cawt um Mr. Toddie, or Mr. Grog,
Or some troll name like that, belangin tae ta whisky,
An' tae rogue him tuckt her life.
Aroun' tae hangman's loan,
An' tere she mony pagpipes heard,
Put coudna sawt ta drone;
An' tere she sawt a wee wee man,
Was fechtin wi' um's wife,
An' tae folk tit cawt um Mr. Toddie, or Mr. Grog,
Or some troll name like that, belangin tae ta whisky,
An' tae rogue him tuckt her life.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
293
An' tere she'll sawt sae mony peast,
Wi' ponny sprittilt hair,
Hersel' be sure tere was mair mae
Tan Moss-o'-Balloch fair;
Tere shentlemans an' ladish tance,
Teir claes wi' sixpence clad;
Och! gif her hae sae muckle cash,
Wi' shog she'll wad gae mad.
Wi' ponny sprittilt hair,
Hersel' be sure tere was mair mae
Tan Moss-o'-Balloch fair;
Tere shentlemans an' ladish tance,
Teir claes wi' sixpence clad;
Och! gif her hae sae muckle cash,
Wi' shog she'll wad gae mad.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
An' tere she'll sawt a crowd o' horse,
Paith white, an' black, an' brown;
Tae gallop, put ne'er lift teir fit;
Tae caw 'um merry-go-roun';
An' though tae callop hale tay lang,
She neer cout saw't tum sweat,
An' he maun cruel maister pe,
Ta gi'e him's horse nae meat.
Paith white, an' black, an' brown;
Tae gallop, put ne'er lift teir fit;
Tae caw 'um merry-go-roun';
An' though tae callop hale tay lang,
She neer cout saw't tum sweat,
An' he maun cruel maister pe,
Ta gi'e him's horse nae meat.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
Sae mony nunco sichts her sawt,
Her neen an' foot grew tire,
Ten she'll gangt to tae whisky house,
An' for tae dram inquire;
Tae maister him pringt in tae gill,
An' first tit drank himsel',
Put sic a whisky I ne'er sawt,
She was weaker nor tae well.
Her neen an' foot grew tire,
Ten she'll gangt to tae whisky house,
An' for tae dram inquire;
Tae maister him pringt in tae gill,
An' first tit drank himsel',
Put sic a whisky I ne'er sawt,
She was weaker nor tae well.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
A fiddle in tae nither room,
Gart lads and lasses dance,
Sae, whan she was gangt out hersel',
Shust stappit in by shance:
A pra' pra' ladysh says to her,
Come, lad, we'll ha'e tae reel;
Oich, Mattam! wi' my heart, says she,
But she's horse shoons on her heel.
Gart lads and lasses dance,
Sae, whan she was gangt out hersel',
Shust stappit in by shance:
A pra' pra' ladysh says to her,
Come, lad, we'll ha'e tae reel;
Oich, Mattam! wi' my heart, says she,
But she's horse shoons on her heel.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
An' as her was sae kin' to me,
Shenteel to her was I,
I treatit her ben te drink tae gill,
An' eat the mutton pie;
An' tere we crack, an' dram, dram, dram,
An' dram, dram, dram, and crack,
Till nainsel' she fawt soun' asleep,
An' hadna payt ae plack.
Shenteel to her was I,
I treatit her ben te drink tae gill,
An' eat the mutton pie;
294
An' dram, dram, dram, and crack,
Till nainsel' she fawt soun' asleep,
An' hadna payt ae plack.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
But when her wauken, in tae morn,
Oich, man! but she be try;
She think she'll could Lochlomon drink,
Sae loud for ale tit cry:
Her shappit ance, her shappit twice,
Her shappit thrice, an' a',
But teel ane came to nanser her,
Or tae toor lock te traw.
Oich, man! but she be try;
She think she'll could Lochlomon drink,
Sae loud for ale tit cry:
Her shappit ance, her shappit twice,
Her shappit thrice, an' a',
But teel ane came to nanser her,
Or tae toor lock te traw.
So you'll see, when she'll couldna get naebody to open tae room toor, her nainsel opens tae room window, and cries to a man tat was gaun bye, “could you'll tell her, frien', how she'll could win oot to get a trink, for gif she stay muckle langer here she'll be shockit wi' try!” an' says tae man, says him, “tiel tak' your Highlan' wame! gif ye ha'e drucken the house try tat ye're in, ye teserve tae want trink for a twalmonth!” So you'll see—an' him shust stapit awa'—so you'll see, when she sawt her could get nane help she shust looks town to tae causey, for she was tae twa story up—“Od,” say she to her nainsel', “'s shaist no' muckle far'er high than tae Craig o' Balloch, tat she loupit owre wan she was chaist wi' tae gauger, wan she'll rin't awa' wi' tae worm o' tae still. She'll try.” So shust wan she was be gaun to loup, tae maister o' tae house opens tae room toor, an' cries, “Whar are ye gaun, ye Highlan' vagabond! wait and pay your reck'nin' 'ore ye gang oot, or else he'll sent you to bridewell!” So she shust turn roun and mackit a pow, and said to him, “Oich, sir, her's nunko glad to see you, an' wou'd be blithe to be sent to either—the bride's well or the bridegroom's well—she'll cou'd tireck her to, for she's tat try she cou'd trink oot o' tae glooter sheugh.” “Od,” say him, “you'll needna been sae try, for ye left tae feck o' a gill and a pottle o' yill yestreen, when yon limmer left ye, after ye fell asleep; an' I set, shust set it by i' the press there. I thocht ye wad haen as muckle sense as fan' the smell o't whan ye waukent.” So her brangt him oot o' tae press, and she shust flewt on't like tae tiger, an' trank t'em a' baith; oich, man, it was refresh! Then says to tae maister, “What pe tae tamage yestreen?” “Oo,” say him, says the maister, “ye'll ken tere was shust seven trams an' sax pottles o' yill, an' the twa pies—that's shust four an' fourpence;—ay, an' tere was a proken glass, that's fivepence mair—five shillin's a' tegither; we'll sharge naething for lodgin', as she was only lyin' on the floor.” “Weel, weel,” say she, “'s gawn to be tae dear fair; petter she't been at her
295
She needna tell what wark her had,
Or she could learn the trade—
To stan', to march, prime, load, and fire,
Or stick the Frenchman dead.
But whan tae thocht tae could her trust
To fecht, and no to run,
Tae sent her te a warm place,
Straucht down aneth the sun.
Or she could learn the trade—
To stan', to march, prime, load, and fire,
Or stick the Frenchman dead.
But whan tae thocht tae could her trust
To fecht, and no to run,
Tae sent her te a warm place,
Straucht down aneth the sun.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
Oich! mony pattle she did foucht,
At a place tae cawt abroad,
An' though she'll try't to gang again
She cou'dna fin' the road:
An' she did mony places sawt,
She'll no be min' ta name;
Put tho' tae was most unco praw,
'Twas no half sae ponny's hame.
At a place tae cawt abroad,
An' though she'll try't to gang again
She cou'dna fin' the road:
An' she did mony places sawt,
She'll no be min' ta name;
296
'Twas no half sae ponny's hame.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
But, oich! she fought an unco fought,
When ta cannon bullets flew,
And shot her ramrod and her han'
Awa' at Waterloo.
Her head ran roun', her near growt blin',
She fell upon ta grun,
And cryt, oich on! she'll fecht nae mair
Wi' either sword or gun.
When ta cannon bullets flew,
And shot her ramrod and her han'
Awa' at Waterloo.
Her head ran roun', her near growt blin',
She fell upon ta grun,
And cryt, oich on! she'll fecht nae mair
Wi' either sword or gun.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
She'll get to 'charge and pension too,
And syne tit let her hame;
For a' ta trouble she comt through,
Oich! Bonny was to plame.
And now, my lads, tak' her advice,
Be cautious and tak' care;
You'll see what whiles lies in your lot
By gaun to Glasgow Fair.
And syne tit let her hame;
For a' ta trouble she comt through,
Oich! Bonny was to plame.
And now, my lads, tak' her advice,
Be cautious and tak' care;
You'll see what whiles lies in your lot
By gaun to Glasgow Fair.
Wi' a tara murin, &c.
THE SHEPHERD OF LORN.
Cease, thou sweet linnet, to warble thy strain,
Cease, thou clear streamlet, thy murmuring flow,
And list a sad lover give vent to her pain,
While darkly her soul is o'ershadow'd with woe!
Cease, thou clear streamlet, thy murmuring flow,
And list a sad lover give vent to her pain,
While darkly her soul is o'ershadow'd with woe!
Mine is a lady's birth void of felicity;
Parents and friends all distract me with scorn;
All for my loving, with virgin simplicity,
That darling youth, the sweet Shepherd of Lorn.
Parents and friends all distract me with scorn;
All for my loving, with virgin simplicity,
That darling youth, the sweet Shepherd of Lorn.
Where now the joys wealth once proffer'd so free?
Where now the sweet fleeting phantoms of youth?
All fled! ever fled to oblivion from me!
No longer to wear the fair semblance of truth.
Where now the sweet fleeting phantoms of youth?
All fled! ever fled to oblivion from me!
No longer to wear the fair semblance of truth.
Cease, wretched memory! since peace hath forsaken me,
E'er to remind me to fortune I'm born,
For my sad fancy doth ever awaken thee,
Soul of my life, thou sweet Shepherd of Lorn!
E'er to remind me to fortune I'm born,
For my sad fancy doth ever awaken thee,
Soul of my life, thou sweet Shepherd of Lorn!
297
MAGGIE PICKEN.
Maggie Picken, on the shore,
Had it painted owre her door,
Never mind how lang's your score,
You're welcome yet to mair o't.
Maggie's blithe invitin' sign
Garr'd the ale ga'e down like wine;
Few gaun bye could e'er decline
To daunner in and share o't.
Had it painted owre her door,
Never mind how lang's your score,
You're welcome yet to mair o't.
Maggie's blithe invitin' sign
Garr'd the ale ga'e down like wine;
Few gaun bye could e'er decline
To daunner in and share o't.
Maggie's ale was never sour,
Maggie's whisky aye was pure;
Nae sair heads we did endure
Frae Maggie's true Glenlivet:
Maggie's swats soon wauken'd glee,
Garr'd the hours like moments flee;
Faes red-wud at a law plea
Grew friends when they did pree it.
Maggie's whisky aye was pure;
Nae sair heads we did endure
Frae Maggie's true Glenlivet:
Maggie's swats soon wauken'd glee,
Garr'd the hours like moments flee;
Faes red-wud at a law plea
Grew friends when they did pree it.
Oh what cheery nichts we spent,
Nichts o' whilk we ne'er repent;
Pleasure, leaving blithe content,
Her magic wand waved o'er us:
Dancin', singin', happy a',
Ne'er ane thocht o' gaun awa',
Though the cock's clear mornin' craw
Did join the merry chorus.
Nichts o' whilk we ne'er repent;
Pleasure, leaving blithe content,
Her magic wand waved o'er us:
Dancin', singin', happy a',
Ne'er ane thocht o' gaun awa',
Though the cock's clear mornin' craw
Did join the merry chorus.
But Mackenzie's doolfu' Act
Has dung Maggie's run to wrack;
Weddin', ball, or social crack,
Maun end ere weel begun now:
Scarce the clock has chappit ten
When the police straucht comes ben,
Sayin', “Lads, the law, ye ken,
Allows na later fun now!”
Has dung Maggie's run to wrack;
Weddin', ball, or social crack,
Maun end ere weel begun now:
Scarce the clock has chappit ten
When the police straucht comes ben,
Sayin', “Lads, the law, ye ken,
Allows na later fun now!”
Rents and licence, stents and a',
Maggie could nae langer draw;
Frae the shore she's now awa',
Whare lang she dwelt fu' cheery:
Trav'llers, wha afttimes before
Aye fand shelter on the shore,
Look in vain for Maggie's door,
For a's now dull and dreary.
Maggie could nae langer draw;
Frae the shore she's now awa',
Whare lang she dwelt fu' cheery:
Trav'llers, wha afttimes before
Aye fand shelter on the shore,
Look in vain for Maggie's door,
For a's now dull and dreary.
298
MISS HARRIOT LUCY BROWN.
Miss Harriot Lucy Brown,
At the west end of the town,
For these thirty years, has been the leading dandyzett,
While the public always cry,
They can't see the reason why
Such a beauty as Miss Harriot's never married yet.
At the west end of the town,
For these thirty years, has been the leading dandyzett,
While the public always cry,
They can't see the reason why
Such a beauty as Miss Harriot's never married yet.
But the cause is clear as light,
To a person with half sight,
Why this Clyde-side beauty's wiles have still miscarried yet;
Though she's half the town in thrall,
She's objections to them all;
Why then marvel that Miss Harriot's never married yet?
To a person with half sight,
Why this Clyde-side beauty's wiles have still miscarried yet;
Though she's half the town in thrall,
She's objections to them all;
Why then marvel that Miss Harriot's never married yet?
Mr. Black is rather fair,
Mr. Taylor's coat brush'd bare,
Mr. Mason's Boaz and Jachin rather bandy set,
Mr. Short is rather tall,
Mr. Mieckle rather small;
Not an Absalom could please this squeamish dandyzett!
Mr. Taylor's coat brush'd bare,
Mr. Mason's Boaz and Jachin rather bandy set,
Mr. Short is rather tall,
Mr. Mieckle rather small;
Not an Absalom could please this squeamish dandyzett!
Mr. Young is rather old,
Mr. Meek a vulgar scold,
Mr. Richer is to poor to run his carriage yet,
Mr. Sharp is rather flat,
Mr. Long is rather squat;
How the deuce then could Miss Harriot fix on marriage yet?
Mr. Meek a vulgar scold,
Mr. Richer is to poor to run his carriage yet,
Mr. Sharp is rather flat,
Mr. Long is rather squat;
How the deuce then could Miss Harriot fix on marriage yet?
With her pickles and preserves,
Her confections and conserves,
Her snow-white teeth are, not a little, tinged with the jet;
To the dentist she must go,
And repair the upper row,
Then haply she may run a chance of marriage yet.
Her confections and conserves,
Her snow-white teeth are, not a little, tinged with the jet;
To the dentist she must go,
And repair the upper row,
Then haply she may run a chance of marriage yet.
She hath toy'd so long with time
That she's fairly past her prime;
Still the wiling charms of love have with her tarried yet;
Though the rose hath fled her cheek,
She's a model of the antique,
So there's hope that sweet Miss Harriot will get married yet.
That she's fairly past her prime;
Still the wiling charms of love have with her tarried yet;
Though the rose hath fled her cheek,
She's a model of the antique,
So there's hope that sweet Miss Harriot will get married yet.
299
CALLER HERRIN'.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Come, wives, support the fishers' trade,
Wha still in peril earns his bread,
While round our coast, oft tempest toss'd,
He drags for caller herrin'.
So, then, buy them, and try them,
You'll find them special herrin';
With their gills red as roses,
Their een like diamonds shine.
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Come, wives, support the fishers' trade,
Wha still in peril earns his bread,
While round our coast, oft tempest toss'd,
He drags for caller herrin'.
So, then, buy them, and try them,
You'll find them special herrin';
With their gills red as roses,
Their een like diamonds shine.
Your braw blithesome bairns,
Wi' their wistfu' een a' glancin',
When they see caller herrin',
How delightfully they smile.
Then buy them, and fry them:
The weans will soon be dancin'
Round the fireside and table,
Your labours to beguile.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Wi' their wistfu' een a' glancin',
When they see caller herrin',
How delightfully they smile.
Then buy them, and fry them:
The weans will soon be dancin'
Round the fireside and table,
Your labours to beguile.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
The sage, the simple, weak, and strong,
Rejoice to hear o' halesome cheer,
Like fine caller herrin'.
Then come buy caller herrin',
You wha dainties are preferrin'!
Their backs are like green grass,
Their sides like silver shine.
The sage, the simple, weak, and strong,
Rejoice to hear o' halesome cheer,
Like fine caller herrin'.
Then come buy caller herrin',
You wha dainties are preferrin'!
Their backs are like green grass,
Their sides like silver shine.
The salmon and mackerel
Can yield supply but scanty,
And, though costly, they scarcely
Reward the fisher's toil;
But grand shoals o' herrin'
Stream around our shores in plenty;
They're so sweet they may treat
The best lady of our isle.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Can yield supply but scanty,
And, though costly, they scarcely
Reward the fisher's toil;
But grand shoals o' herrin'
Stream around our shores in plenty;
They're so sweet they may treat
The best lady of our isle.
300
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
THE LOVELY HUSSAR.
Young Jeannie stray'd lonely, and ofttimes she sigh'd,
While musing alone, on the green banks of Clyde;
For, early next morning, the route bore afar
The sole joy of her heart, her young lovely Hussar.
While musing alone, on the green banks of Clyde;
For, early next morning, the route bore afar
The sole joy of her heart, her young lovely Hussar.
“Oh! hard is my fate,” cried the love-languid maid;
“The bright dawn of hope, now, is darken'd by shade;
From favour my friends will me doubtless debar,
Should I harbour one thought of my lovely Hussar.
“The bright dawn of hope, now, is darken'd by shade;
From favour my friends will me doubtless debar,
Should I harbour one thought of my lovely Hussar.
“Adieu, lovely scenes, to me pleasant no more!
His absence I mourn who oft charm'd me before;
Oft here, till the dawn of the bright morning star,
I have roam'd arm-in-arm with my lovely Hussar.
His absence I mourn who oft charm'd me before;
Oft here, till the dawn of the bright morning star,
I have roam'd arm-in-arm with my lovely Hussar.
“No more will he twine me the chaplet of flowers,
Nor with tales of love wing the else dreary hours;
Since morn's golden smile, and the loud trump of war,
Waft afar from my arms my young lovely Hussar.
Nor with tales of love wing the else dreary hours;
Since morn's golden smile, and the loud trump of war,
Waft afar from my arms my young lovely Hussar.
“It is not his beauty I most do admire,
Though beauty is his to the eye's whole desire,
But his bright mental charms, more alluring by far,
Are the magic that beams from my lovely Hussar.
Though beauty is his to the eye's whole desire,
But his bright mental charms, more alluring by far,
Are the magic that beams from my lovely Hussar.
“Gay summer may smile, but to me smile in vain;
And autumn, unheeded, may wave o'er the plain;
Grim winter, enthroned on thy dark rolling car,
Join my woe, since I'm lost to my lovely Hussar.
And autumn, unheeded, may wave o'er the plain;
Grim winter, enthroned on thy dark rolling car,
Join my woe, since I'm lost to my lovely Hussar.
“With deep-rooted anguish my bosom doth burn,
No blithe ray of hope says he e'er will return;
Yet, while from my arms, sad, he wanders afar,
I'll retain in my heart my young lovely Hussar.”
No blithe ray of hope says he e'er will return;
Yet, while from my arms, sad, he wanders afar,
I'll retain in my heart my young lovely Hussar.”
301
THE BONNIE BANKS OF CALDER.
Mary, wilt thou go with me? go with me, go with me?
Mary, wilt thou go with me, to the bonnie banks of Calder?
Mary, wilt thou go with me, to the bonnie banks of Calder?
Grim winter now hath spent his rage,
And summer's charms the heart engage;
Let's seek the heath-clad hermitage,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
And summer's charms the heart engage;
Let's seek the heath-clad hermitage,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
The western breeze, from birk and broom,
Wafts through the glen a sweet perfume,
And flowers unnumber'd sweetly bloom,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
Wafts through the glen a sweet perfume,
And flowers unnumber'd sweetly bloom,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
Dull solitude no longer lours,
For music cheers the dark-green bowers,
And blithely glide the lightsome hours,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
For music cheers the dark-green bowers,
And blithely glide the lightsome hours,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
In purest love we'll spend the day,
'Neath honey-suckles waving gay,
Where blackbirds trill the dulcet lay,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
'Neath honey-suckles waving gay,
Where blackbirds trill the dulcet lay,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
And, should the destiny be mine
To lead my love to Hymen's shrine,
I'd rapt'rous meet that joy divine,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
To lead my love to Hymen's shrine,
I'd rapt'rous meet that joy divine,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
MARY'S LAMENT.
Now no longer with pleasure the meadows I tread,
For the sweet smiles of nature from me are all fled;
And here I stray
The live-long day
In solitude and pain,
To mourn the fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
For the sweet smiles of nature from me are all fled;
And here I stray
The live-long day
In solitude and pain,
To mourn the fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
302
Though the thrush sweetly carols, at evening and morn,
From the green fragrant birch or the white flowery thorn,
Yet still from me
Doth pleasure flee,
Ne'er to return again;
For my love lies,
No more to rise,
On Waterloo's red plain.
From the green fragrant birch or the white flowery thorn,
Yet still from me
Doth pleasure flee,
Ne'er to return again;
For my love lies,
No more to rise,
On Waterloo's red plain.
Then I'll mingle my sighs with the wail of the dove,
For she has lost her mate now, and I've lost my love;
And, till to death
I yield my breath,
I'll constantly complain,
For the hard fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
For she has lost her mate now, and I've lost my love;
And, till to death
I yield my breath,
I'll constantly complain,
For the hard fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
COME TO YON BIRKEN BOWER.
Come, Flora, to yon birken bower,
To shun the noontide rays,
And talk of love till Phœbus leave the sky.
The roses wide their fragrance shower
Throughout the woodland maze,
And sweet the streamlet murmurs bye:
Flowers spring; birds sing,
With their music rocks ring;
Roaming fancy's luring glances
Charm the mental eye.
Come Flora, &c.
To shun the noontide rays,
And talk of love till Phœbus leave the sky.
The roses wide their fragrance shower
Throughout the woodland maze,
And sweet the streamlet murmurs bye:
Flowers spring; birds sing,
With their music rocks ring;
Roaming fancy's luring glances
Charm the mental eye.
Come Flora, &c.
Laburnum waves her yellow hair,
Where honey-suckles twine
With ivy green, in yonder sweet alcove;
The hum of bees floats through the air,
Till Zephyr fan the pine
And aspen, trembling in the grove.
Nearest, dearest,
Still my soul thou cheerest;
Looks of love all cares remove
From me, while thus we rove.
Laburnum waves, &c.
Where honey-suckles twine
With ivy green, in yonder sweet alcove;
The hum of bees floats through the air,
Till Zephyr fan the pine
And aspen, trembling in the grove.
Nearest, dearest,
Still my soul thou cheerest;
Looks of love all cares remove
From me, while thus we rove.
Laburnum waves, &c.
303
ANNA, MY DEAR!
Whence springs that bosom sigh,
Mournfully drear?
Why in thy languid eye
Starts the sad tear?
“Oh! 'tis for her that's gone
To that dark world unknown,
And left me here alone—
Anna, my dear!
Mournfully drear?
Why in thy languid eye
Starts the sad tear?
“Oh! 'tis for her that's gone
To that dark world unknown,
And left me here alone—
Anna, my dear!
“Now, though the smile of spring
Nature doth cheer,
And birds melodious sing,
Charming the ear;
Still every grot and grove,
While there I pensive rove,
Echoes this dirge of love—
‘Anna's not here!’
Nature doth cheer,
And birds melodious sing,
Charming the ear;
Still every grot and grove,
While there I pensive rove,
Echoes this dirge of love—
‘Anna's not here!’
“Sad now the tinkling rill
Sighs on my ear;
Thoughts through my bosom thrill
Painful to bear!
Still round her lonely urn
Shall sad remembrance mourn;
Yet never will return
Anna, my dear!”
Sighs on my ear;
Thoughts through my bosom thrill
Painful to bear!
Still round her lonely urn
Shall sad remembrance mourn;
Yet never will return
Anna, my dear!”
MARIA.
Maria was the sweetest maid
That dwelt on Turio's verdant banks;
But her dear lover left the shade,
To join the patriotic ranks.
On war's dire field he fought and fell;
Maria heard the woful tale;
She wept—she bade the world farewell,
And in yon convent took the veil.
That dwelt on Turio's verdant banks;
But her dear lover left the shade,
To join the patriotic ranks.
On war's dire field he fought and fell;
Maria heard the woful tale;
She wept—she bade the world farewell,
And in yon convent took the veil.
304
Secluded from the noisy world,
She, pensive, spends the dreary hours;
To grief's distracting vortex hurl'd,
She still the tide of sorrow pours.
Her cheek, once like the blushing rose,
With grief, now vies the lily pale;
Maria now no pleasure knows,
But in yon convent wears the veil.
She, pensive, spends the dreary hours;
To grief's distracting vortex hurl'd,
She still the tide of sorrow pours.
Her cheek, once like the blushing rose,
With grief, now vies the lily pale;
Maria now no pleasure knows,
But in yon convent wears the veil.
DARKSOME WINTER'S COME AGAIN.
Cheerfu' simmer's past and gane,
Yellow autumn's left the plain,
Darksome winter's come again,
And ilka thing looks dreary, O.
Loud the hail-showers, dark and chill,
Sweep along the Eldrigg hill;
Birdies cease their lays to trill,
That wont to chaunt fu' cheery, O.
Rudely now the norlan' breeze
Tears the cleadin' aff the trees;
Frosts the windin' burnies seize,
That ne'er wi' wimplin' weary, O.
Yellow autumn's left the plain,
Darksome winter's come again,
And ilka thing looks dreary, O.
Loud the hail-showers, dark and chill,
Sweep along the Eldrigg hill;
Birdies cease their lays to trill,
That wont to chaunt fu' cheery, O.
Rudely now the norlan' breeze
Tears the cleadin' aff the trees;
Frosts the windin' burnies seize,
That ne'er wi' wimplin' weary, O.
Fled's the face o' every flower
That did bloom on field and bower,
Sullen winter's cranreugh lour
Gars ilka thing look eerie, O.
Cauld the driftin' blast doth blaw,
Fillin' glens wi' wreaths o' snaw;
Courin' flocks, by dell and shaw,
Are bleatin' wild and dreary, O.
Yet, the blithesome smile o' spring
Will gar a' wi' music ring;
Then ilk swain on braes will sing
The praises o' his deary, O.
That did bloom on field and bower,
Sullen winter's cranreugh lour
Gars ilka thing look eerie, O.
Cauld the driftin' blast doth blaw,
Fillin' glens wi' wreaths o' snaw;
Courin' flocks, by dell and shaw,
Are bleatin' wild and dreary, O.
Yet, the blithesome smile o' spring
Will gar a' wi' music ring;
Then ilk swain on braes will sing
The praises o' his deary, O.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |