Poems and Songs by Allan Cunningham :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Songs by Allan Cunningham

With an Introduction, Glossary and Notes by Peter Cunningham

Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842)

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Allan, true child of Scotland; thou who art
So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores; a poet thou.
Southey.—Epistle to Allan Cunningham.

Part the First IMITATIONS OF THE OLD BALLAD JACOBITE RELIQUES, &c. FROM CROMEK'S REMAINS OF NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY SONG. 8vo, 1810.

I. THE LORD'S MARIE.

The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks
Up wi' a gowden kame,
An' she has put on her net-silk hose,
An' awa' to the tryste has gane.
O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks,
An' saft, saft on her brow;
Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip,
An' I kiss'd it aff, I trow!

‘O where gat ye that leal maiden,
Sae jimpy laced an' sma'?
An' where gat ye that young damsel,
Wha dings our lasses a'?
O where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass,
Wi' heaven in her ee?
O here's ae drap o' the damask wine:
Sweet maiden, will ye pree?’

Fu' white, white was her taper neck,
Twist wi' the satin twine,
But ruddie, ruddie grew her hawse,
While she supp'd the blude-red wine.
‘Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo,
Wha wears the gowden kame;—
This night will mony drink thy health,
An ken na wha to name.’

‘Play me up Sweet Marie,’ I cry'd,
An' loud the piper blew,—
But the fiddler play'd ay Struntum strum,
An' down his bow he threw.
‘Now here's thy health i' the red, red wine,
Fair dame o' the stranger land!
For never a pair of een before
Could mar my gude bow-hand.’

Her lips were a cloven hinney-cherrie,
Ripe tempting to the sight;
Her locks, o'er alabaster brows,
Fell like the morning light.
An' O! her hinney breath raised her locks,
As through the dance she flew,
While love laugh'd out in her bright blue ee,
An' dwalt on her rosie mou’.

‘Loose hings yere broider'd gowd garter:
Fair ladie, dare I speak?’

She, trembling, raised her snowy hand
To her red, red flushing cheek.
‘Ye've drapt yere broach o' the beaten gowd,
Thou Lord's daughter sae gay:’
The tears swam bright in her bonnie blue ee:
‘O come, O come away!—

‘O haste, unbar the siller bolt,—
To my chamber let me win,
An' tak this kiss, thou peasant youth,
For—I daur na let ye in.
An' tak,’ quo she, ‘this kame o' gowd,
Wi' this tress o' yellow hair;
For meikle my beating heart forebodes
I never maun meet ye mair!’

II. BONNIE LADY ANNE.

There's kames o' hinney 'tween my love's lips,
An' gowd amang her hair,
Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil:
Nae mortal een keek there.
What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,
Or what arm o' love dare span
The hinney lips, the creamy loof,
Or the waist o' Lady Anne?

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;
But gentle lip, nor simple lip,
Maun touch her lady mou';
But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd,
Her jimpy waist maun span.
O, she's an armfu' fit for heaven,
My bonnie Lady Anne!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers
Tied up wi' silver thread,
An' comely sits she in the midst,
Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,
Wi' her milky, milky han',
An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God,
My bonnie Lady Anne!

The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd,
Like my love's broider'd cap,
An' on the mantle which my love wears
Is monie a gowden drap.
Her bonnie eebree's a holie arch
Cast by nae earthly han',
An' the breath o' God's atween the lips
O' my bonnie Lady Anne!

I am her father's gard'ner lad,
An' poor, poor is my fa';
My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa:
But my Lady comes, my Lady gaes
Wi' a fou and kindly han':
O, the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my love,
An' fa' on Lady Anne!

III. SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
She's gane to dwall in heaven:
‘Ye're owre pure,’ quo' the voice o' God,
‘For dwalling out o' heaven!’

O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
O what'll she do in heaven?
She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
She was beloved by a';
But an angel fell in love wi' her,
An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly there thou lies;
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;
Thou left me naught to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I looked on thy death-cold face;
Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I looked on thy death-shut eye;
An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath o' heaven
That sang the evening Psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'!

IV. THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad ay be mine!
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt ay be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,
An' the heart that wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose the band,
Save the finger o' God above.
Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
An' my claithing e'er sae mean,
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' love,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean!

Her white arm wad be a pillow to me,
Fu' safter than the down,
An Love wad winnow owre us his kind, kind, wings
An' sweetly I'd sleep an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,
Come here and kneel wi' me;
The morning is fu' o' the presence o' God,
An' I canna pray but thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,
The wee birds sing kindly an' hie,
Our gude-man leans owre his kail-yard dyke,
An' a blythe auld body is he.
The Book maun be taen whan the carle comes hame,
Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
And I will speak o' thee!

V. THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE.

Here's a dud to hap its head,
An' a clout to rowe the feetie o 't,—
Here's twa arms can nurse it weel,
Twa een can greet wi' pity o 't.
But where's my mither a' the while?
She'll hear the wee, wee greetie o 't.

O lie thee still, my sweet, wee babe,
Lift nae thy white wee hannie, O;
Thou art thy father frae the chin to the ee,
But sae fause as him thou cannie, O.
O, if thou pruive as fause as him
Thou hast nae 't frae thy mammie, O.

It 's nae thy gowd, nor thy siller clear,
Nor thy laced caps sae bonnie, O,
Can gie me back that peace I tint,
Or heal the heart of Annie, O !—
But speak to thy God of the vows ye broke,
For ye hae broken monie, O.

VI. THE RETURN OF SPRING.

Cauld winter is awa', my love,
And Spring is in her prime,
The breath o' heaven stirs a' to life,
The grasshoppers to chime:
The birds canna contain themsels
Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudly, loudly sing o' love—
A theme which pleaseth me.

The blackbird is a pawkie loun,
An' kens the gate o' love;
Fu' weel the sleekit mavis kens
The melting lilt maun move.
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,
And ever singeth he,
‘Come here, come here, my spousal dame’—
A theme which pleaseth me.

What says the sangster rose-linnet?
His breast is beating high:
‘Come here, come here, my ruddy mate,
The gate o' love to try.’
The lav'rock calls his freckled mate,
Frae near the sun's ee-bree,
‘Come, make on the knowe our nest, my love’—
A theme which pleaseth me.

The hares hae brought forth twins, my love,
Sae has the cushat doo;
The raven croaks a softer way,
His sooty love to woo:
And nought but love, love breathes around,
Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Soft whispering love to Jeanie's heart—
A theme which pleaseth me.

O lassie, is thy heart mair hard
Than mavis on the bough?
Say, maun the hale creation wed,
And Jean remain to woo?
Say, has the holy lowe o' love
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?
O! if thou canst na feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me!

VII. THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met, amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet, amang the grass,
Shone like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seemed looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, ‘Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks craw, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holmes an' monie a hill;’—
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, ‘Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and gang wi' me:’
A lovelier face, O! never looked up,
And the tears were drapping frae her ee:
‘I hae a lad, wha's far awa',
That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already fu' o' love,’
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

‘Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countree?’—
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kissed them frae her ee.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
‘For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' other love,’
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She stretched to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery ee;—

‘Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee;—
While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drap o' blood be still,
My heart shall haud nae other love,’
Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
Dwells monie a gentle dame, I trow!
O, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there's a light puts them a' out,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill!

VIII. GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.

Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

Cauld's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither sae dear:
I'll meet them baith in heaven,
At the spring o' the year.

IX. THE EWE-BUGHTS.

The lark dried his dewy wings i' the sun,
Aboon the rigs o' barley,
When a bonnie lad came to my window bredd,
Wi' me to haud a parley:
‘O are ye sleeping, my bonnie, bonnie lass,
Or are ye wauken I ferlie?
Will ye rise an' come to the faulds wi' me?
Our ewes are bleating sairlie.’

First I pat on my jupes sae green,
An' kilted my coaties rarely;
Awa' I gaed but stockings or shoon
Amang the dews sae pearlie!
He played his hand 'mang my lang brown hair,
An' kittled my white cheek fairlie,
Till his een o'erbrimmed wi' kin', kin' love,
An' haith! I pitied him sairlie.

The sun it raise, an' better raise,
An' owre the hills lowed rarely;
The wee lark sang, an' higher sang
Aboon the bearded barley.
We touzled sae lang on the sunny knowe-side,
Whare the gowan-heads hang pearlie,
That the bluidy, bluidy Tod had worried a' the faul',
An' left my lad fu' barely.

X. DERWENTWATER.

O Derwentwater's a bonnie lord,
Fu' yellow is his hair,
And bright-o'-blee wi' a hawking ee,
And kind love dwalling there.

Yestreen he came to our lord's yett,
An' loud, loud cou'd he ca':
‘Rise up, rise up, for gude King James,
An' buckle, and come awa'.’

Our lady held her ain dear lord,
Wi' weel love-locked hands;
But Lord Derwent sued, with so sweet a mood,
That she loosed the snawy bands.

An' when young Derwentwater said,
‘My gentle fair ladie,’
The tears gave way to the glow o' love,
In our gude lady's ee.

O never a word our lady spake,
As he press'd her snawy hand,
An' never a word our lady spake,
As her jimpy waist he spann'd;
But ‘O! my Derwentwater,’ she sigh'd,
When his glowing lips she fand.

Our lady look'd frae the turret-top,
As lang as she could see;
And every sigh for her gude lord,
For Derwent there were three.

XI. THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

Wha the deil hae we got for a King,
But a wee, wee German lairdie!
An' when we gade to bring him hame,
He was delving in his kail-yardie.
Sheughing kail an' dibbling leeks,
Scarce of hose and scant o' breeks,
Up his beggar duds he cleeks,
The wee, wee German lairdie.

An' he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee, wee German lairdie;
O' stinking weeds he's brought the seeds,
An' sawed them in our yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English clowns,
An' brak the harp o' Irish lowns,
But the thristle tap will jag his thumbs,
The wee, wee German lairdie.

Come up amang the Highland hills,
Thou wee, wee German lairdie;
An' see how Charlie's lang kail thrive,
He dibblit in his yardie.
An' if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yoking of a pleugh,
We'll break yere sceptre o'er yere mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nor fitting for a yardie;
An' our norlan' thristles winna pu',
Thou wee, wee German lairdie!
An' we've the trenching blades o' weir,
Wad twine ye o' yere German gear;
An' pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear,
Thou feckless German lairdie!

XII. IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree;
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee:
‘I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

XIII. THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.

O it's nae my ain ruin
That saddens ay my ee,
But the dear Marie I left ahin',
Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,
An' smiled my ain Marie;
I've left a' my heart behin',
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee,
But I'll win back—O never
To my ain countree.

O I am leal to high Heaven,
Where soon I hope to be,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,
Frae my ain countree!

XIV. THE WAES O' SCOTLAND.

When I left thee, bonnie Scotland,
Thou wert fair to see,
Fresh as a bonnie bride i' the morn
When she maun wedded be!

When I came back to thee, Scotland,
Upon a May-morn fair,
A bonnie lass sat at our town-en',
Kaming her yellow hair.

‘O hey! O hey!’ sung the bonnie lass,
‘O hey! an' wae 's me!
There 's joy to the Whigs, an' land to the Whigs,
An' nought but wae to me!

‘O hey! O hey!’ sung the bonnie lass,
‘O hey! an' wae 's me!
There 's siccan sorrow in Scotland,
As een did never see.

‘O hey! O hey for my father auld!
O hey! for my mither dear!
An' my heart will burst for the bonnie lad
Wha left me lanesome here!’

I had na gane in my ain Scotland
Mae miles than twa or three,
When I saw the head o' my ain father
Coming up the gate to me.

‘A traitor's head!’ and ‘a traitor's head!’
Loud bawled a bluidy loon;
But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir,
An' strak the reaver down.

I hied me hame to my father's ha';
Alas and alack anee!
My dear mither lay 'mang the ashes gray,
And the death-tear in her ee.

‘O wha has wrought this bluidy wark?
Had I the reaver here,
I 'd wash his sark in his ain heart's blude,
And gie 't to his love to wear!’

I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd,
When a' folk are asleep,
And lie owre my father and mither's grave,
An hour or twa to weep!

O fatherless and motherless,
Without a ha' or hame,
I maun wander through my ain Scotland,
And bide a traitor's blame.

XV. THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride of a' the town,
Blythe as the lark on gowan-tap,
Whan frae the nest but newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folks' luve,
At dance she wan the young men's een;
She was the blythest ay o' the blythe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.

As I came in by Inverness,
The simmer-sun was sinking down,
O there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,
And she was greeting through the town.
The gray-haired men were a' i' the streets,
And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
‘The flower o' the lads of Inverness
Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!’

She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
And dighted ay her comely ee;
‘My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,
At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Mae tears could ever blin' my ee;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there couldna be!

‘He trysted me o' love yestreen,
Of love-tokens he gave me three;
But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
O ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest-flowers shall be my bed,
My food shall be the wild-berrie,
The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,
And wauken'd again I winna be.’

O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's ee;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses sad to see.
O spring is blythesome to the year,
Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;
But oh! what spring can raise them up,
That lie on dread Culloden-lee?

The hand o' God hung heavy here,
And lightly touched foul tyrannie!
It struck the righteous to the ground,
And lifted the destroyer hie.
‘But there 's a day,’ quo' my God in prayer,
‘When righteousness shall bear the gree;
I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's ee!’

XVI. CARLISLE YETTS.

White was the rose in his gay bonnet,
As he faulded me in his broached plaidie;
His hand whilk clasped the truth o' love,
O it was ay in battle readie!
His lang lang hair in yellow hanks,
Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie;
But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts
In dripping ringlets soil'd and bluidie.

My father's blood 's in that flower-tap,
My brother's in that hare-bell's blossom,
This white rose was steeped in my love's blood,
An' I 'll ay wear it in my bosom.

When I came first by merry Carlisle,
Was ne'er a town sae sweetly seeming;
The White Rose flaunted owre the wall,
The thristled banners far were streaming!
When I came next by merry Carlisle,
O sad, sad seemed the town an' eerie!
The auld, auld men came out an' wept,
‘O maiden, come ye to seek yere dearie?’

There 's ae drap o' blude atween my breasts,
An' twa in my links o' hair sae yellow;
The tane I 'll ne'er wash, an' the tither ne'er kame,
But I 'll sit an' pray aneath the willow.
Wae, wae upon that cruel heart,
Wae, wae upon that hand sae bluidie,
Which feasts in our richest Scottish blude,
An' makes sae mony a youthfu' widow.

XVII. YOUNG AIRLY.

‘Ken ye aught o' gude Lochiel,
Or ken ye aught o' Airly?’
‘They've belted on their good braid swords,
An' aff an' awa wi' Charlie.’

‘Bring fire to me,’ quo' the hie Argyle,
‘And bring it red and yarely;
And take a last long look at the hame
O' the traitor Lord of Airly!’

‘What lowe is yon?’ quo' the gude Lochiel
‘Whilk rises wi' the sun sae early?’
‘By the God o' my kin,’ quo' Lord Ogilvie,
‘It 's my ain bonnie hame o' Airly!’

‘Put up yere sword,’ quo' the gude Lochiel,
An' ‘Put it up,’ quo' Charlie;
‘We 'll raise sic a lowe roun' the fause Argyle,
Mair bright than yon of Airly!’

‘It 's nae my ha', nor my lands a' reft,
That reddens my cheeks sae sairly;
But the wife and the twa sweet babes I left,
To smoor i' the reek o' Airly!’

XVIII. LAMENT FOR THE LORD MAXWELL.

Lament, bonnie Nithsdale, thy green leaf's in the fa',
Thy noblest and thy bravest are drapping awa';
The white rose in thy bonnet, which flourish'd sae and shone,
Hangs drooping and dead since Lord Maxwell is gone.

O wae upon ye, Southron, ye 're treacherous ane and a';
Ye haud him aye down whase back 's at the wa';
He tauld ye at proud Preston it was ‘Tine the heart, tine a’;
Now he's doomed to cauld airn who was weel worth ye a'.

Now aughty summer shoots on the forest I hae seen,
To the saddle laps in blude i' the battle hae I been;
But I never kenned o' dool till I kenned it yestreen—
O soon aboon my brow will the sods be growing green!

I tint half mysel' when I tint Terreagles' lord:
A truer heart, a bolder hand, ne'er buckled on a sword;
Nor around a gentler heart woman's arms did never twine:
He's a drap o' dearest blude in this auld heart o' mine.

O merry was the lilting amang our ladies a';
They sang in the parlour and danced in the ha',
‘O, Charlie he's come owre and he 'll chase the Whigs awa'!’
But they canna wipe the tears now sae fast as they fa'.

Our lady she turned pale and her damsels fell aswoon,
And her heart was like to loup the gowd lace o' her gown;
She has busked on her gay cleeding an 's off for Lon'on town,
And has wi' her half the hearts o' the country aroun'.

By the bud o' the leaf—by the rising o' the flower,
'Side the sang o' the birds where some burn tottles owre,
I 'll wander awa there an' big a wee bit bower,
For to keep my gray head frae the drap o' the shower.

An' aye I 'll sit an' mane, till my blude stops wi' eild,
For Nithsdale's bonnie lord, wha was bauldest o' the bauld.
O that I were wi' him in death's gory fauld!
O had I but the iron on, whilk hauds him sae cauld!

XIX. CUMBERLAND AND MURRAY'S DESCENT INTO HELL.

Ken ye where cleekie Murray's gane?
He's to dwall in his lang hame.
The beddle clapt him on the doup—
‘Hard I 've earned my gray groat:
Lie thou there, and sleep thou soun',
God winna waken sic a lown!’

Where's his gowd, and where 's his gain,
He rakit out 'neath Satan's wame?
He has nae what 'll pay his shot,
Nor caulk the keel o' Charon's boat.
Be there gowd where he's to beek,
He 'll rake it out o' brunstane-smeek.

He 's in a' Satan's frything pans,
Scouth'ring the blude frae aff his han's;
He 's washing them in brunstane lowe,
His kintra's blude it winna thowe!
The hettest soap-suds o' perdition
Canna out thae stains be washin'.

Ae devil roar'd, till hoarse and roupet,
‘He 's pyking the gowd frae Satan's poupit!’
Anither roar'd, wi' eldritch yell,
‘He 's howking the key-stane out o' hell,
To damn us mair wi' God's day-light!’—
And he douked i' the caudrons out o' sight.

He stole auld Satan's brunstane leister,
Till his waukit loofs were in a blister;
He stole his Whig-spunks, tipt wi' brunstane,
And stole his scalping whittle's set-stane,
And out of its red-hot kist he stole
The very charter rights o' hell.

Satan, tent well the pilfering villain,
He 'll scrimp yere revenue by stealin':
Th' infernal boots in which you stand in,
With which your worship tramps the damn'd in,
He 'll wyle them aff your cloven cloots,
And wade through hell-fire i' yere boots.

Auld Satan cleekit him by the spaul',
And stappit him i' the dub o' hell;—
The foulest fiend there doughtna bide him,
The damn'd they wadna fry beside him,
Till the bluidy Duke came trysting hither,
An' the ae fat butcher fry'd the tither!

Ae devil sat splitting brunstane-matches,
Ane roasting the Whigs like bakers' batches;
Ane wi' fat a Whig was basting,
Spent wi' frequent prayer an' fasting;
A' ceas'd when thae twin butchers roar'd,
And hell's grim hangman stapt an' glowr'd!

‘Fye! gar bake a pye in haste,
Knead it of infernal paste,’
Quo' Satan:—and in his mitten'd hand,
He hynt up bluidie Cumberland,
An' whittlet him down like bow-kail castock,
And in his hettest furnace roasted.

Now hell's black table-claith was spread,
The infernal grace was reverend said:
Yap stood the hungry fiends a' o'er it,
Their grim jaws gaping to devour it;
When Satan cried out, fit to scouner,
‘Owre rank o' judgment 's sic a dinner.’

Hell's black bitch mastiff lapp'd the broo,
And slipp'd her collar and gat gae;
And madd'ning wi' perdition's porridge,
Yamph'd to and fro for wholesome forage;
Unguarded was the hallan gate,
And Whigs pour'd in like Nith in spate.

The worm o' hell, which never dies,
In wyntled coil writhes up and fries;
The porter bitch whilk the broo did lap,
Her blin' whalps bursted at the pap:
Even Hell's grim sultan, red wud glowrin',
Dreaded that Whigs would usurp o'er him!

XX. THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY.

There's a maid has sat on the green merse side
These ten lang years and mair;
An' every first night o' the new moon
She kames her yellow hair.

An' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd,
Fu' sweet she sings an' hie,
Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood,
Is charm'd wi' her melodie.

But wha e'er listens to that sweet sang,
Or gangs the dame to see,
Ne'er hears the sang o' the laverock again,
Nor wakens an earthly ee.

It fell in about the sweet simmer month,
I' the first come o' the moon,
That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock,
A-kaming her silk-locks down.

Her kame was o' the whitely pearl,
Her hand like new-won milk;
Her breasts were all o' the snawy curd,
In a net o' sea-green silk.

She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders,
A fleece baith bonny and lang;
An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows,
She raised a lightsome sang.

I' the very first lilt o' that sweet sang,
The birds forsook their young;
An' they flew i' the gate o' the grey howlet,
To listen the sweet maid's song.

I' the second lilt o' that sweet sang,
Of sweetness it was sae fu';
The tod leap'd out frae the frighted lambs,
And dighted his red-wat mou'.

I' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang,
Red lowed the new-woke moon;
The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap,
Sax miles that maiden roun'.

‘I hae dwalt on the Nith,’ quo' the young Cowehill,
‘These twenty years an' three,
But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip,
Comes thro' the green wood to me.

‘O is it a voice frae twa earthly lips,
Whilk makes sic melodie?
It wad wile the lark frae the morning lift,
And weel may it wile me.’

‘I dreamed a dreary thing, master,
Whilk I am rad ye rede;
I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips,
That drapped o' red heart's-blede.’

‘Come, haud my steed, ye little foot-page,
Shod wi' the red gold roun';
Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet,’
An' lightlie lap he down.

‘Kiss nae the singer's lips, master,
Kiss nae the singer's chin;
Touch nae her hand,’ quo' the little foot-page,
‘If skaithless hame ye 'd win.

‘O wha will sit on yere toom saddle,
O wha will bruik yere gluve;
An' wha will fauld yere erled bride,
I' the kindly clasps o' luve?’

He took aff his hat, a' gold i' the rim,
Knot wi' a siller ban';
He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gold raiment,
As thro' the green wood he ran.

‘The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid,
Aneath the siller moon;
But eerie is thy seat i' the rock,
Washed wi' the white sea faem.

‘Come, wash me wi' thy lilie white hand,
Below and aboon the knee;
An' I 'll kame thae links o' yellow burning gold,
Aboon thy bonnie blue ee.

‘How rosie are thy parting lips,
How lilie-white thy skin,
An' weel I wat thae kissing een
Wad tempt a saint to sin.’

‘Tak aff thae bars an' bobs o' gold,
Wi' thy gared doublet fine;
An' thraw me aff thy green mantle,
Leafed wi' the siller twine.

‘An' all in courtesie, fair knight,
A maiden's love to win;
The gold lacing o' thy green weeds
Wad harm her lilie skin.’

Syne coost he aff his green mantle,
Hemm'd wi' the red gold roun';
His costly doublet coost he aff
Wi' red gold flow'red down.

‘Now ye maun kame my yellow hair,
Down wi' my pearlie kame;
Then rowe me in thy green mantle,
An' take me maiden hame.

‘But first come take me 'neath the chin,
An' syne come kiss my cheek;
An' spread my hanks o' wat'ry hair,
I' the new-moon beam to dreep.’

Sae first he kissed her dimpled chin,
Syne kissed her rosie cheek;
And lang he wooed her willin' lips,
Like heather-hinnie sweet!

‘O! if ye 'll come to the bonnie Cowehill,
'Mang primrose banks to woo,
I 'll wash thee ilk day i' the new-milked milk,
An' bind wi' gold yere brow.

‘An' a' for a drink o' the clear water
Ye 'se hae the rosie wine,
An' a' for the water white lilie,
Ye 'se hae these arms o' mine.’

‘But what 'll she say, yere bonnie young bride
Busked wi' the siller fine,
Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips,
Are left wi' vows on mine?’

He took his lips frae her red-rose mou',
His arms frae her waist sae sma';
‘Sweet maiden, I 'm in bridal speed,
It 's time I were awa'.

‘O gie me a token o' luve, sweet May,
A leal luve-token true;’
She crapped a lock o' yellow golden hair,
An' knotted it roun' his brow.

‘O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May,
But with luve's rose-knot kind;
My head is full of burning pain,
O saft ye maun it bind.’

His skin turned all o' the red-rose hue,
Wi' draps o' bludie sweat;
An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies:
‘Sweet maiden, I maun sleep.’

She tyed ae link of her wet yellow hair,
Aboon his burning bree;
Amang his curling haffet locks
She knotted knurles three.

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie,
Wi' witch-knots mae than nine;
‘Gif ye were seven times bridegroom owre,
This night ye shall be mine.’

O twice he turned his sinking head,
An' twice he lifted his ee;
O twice he sought to loose the links
Were knotted owre his bree.

‘Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits,
An' doubts her ale will sour;
An' wistly looks at the lilie-white sheets,
Down spread in ladie bower.

‘An' she has preened the broidered silk,
About her white hause-bane;
Her princely petticoat is on,
Wi' gold can stan' its lane.’

He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek,
And faintly lift his ee,
And he strave to loose the witching bands
Aboon his burning bree.

Then took she up his green mantle
Of lowing gold the hem;
Then took she up his silken cap,
Rich wi' a siller stem;
An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand
Amang the white sea faem.

She took the bride ring frae his finger
An' threw it in the sea;
‘That hand shall mense nae ither ring
But wi' the will o' me.’

She faulded him i' her lilie arms,
An' took her pearlie kame;
His fleecy locks trailed owre the sand
As she sought the white sea-faem.

First rose the star out owre the hill,
An' neist the lovely moon;
While the beauteous bride o' Galloway
Looked for her blythe bridegroom.

Lightlie she sang while the new moon rose,
Blythe as a young bride May,
Whan the New Moon lights her lamp o' luve,
An' blinks the bride away.

‘Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden,
Wi' monie a winsome flower;
But the princeliest rose o' that garden
Maun blossom in my bower.

‘O gentle be the wind on thy leaf,
And gentle the gloaming dew;
And bonnie and balmy be thy bud,
Of a pure and steadfast hue;
And she who sings this sang in thy praise,
Shall love thee leal and true.’

An' ay she sewed her silken snood,
An' sung a bridal sang;
But oft the tears drapt frae her ee,
Afore the grey morn cam'.

The sun leamed ruddie 'mang the dew,
Sae thick on bank and tree;
The plough-boy whistled at his darg,
The milk-may answered hie;

But the lovely bride o' Galloway
Sat wi' a tear-wet ee.

Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves—
She heard the bridegroom's tongue,
And she heard the bridal-coming lilt
In every bird which sung.

She sat high on the tap tower stane,
Nae waiting May was there;
She loosed the gold busk frae her breast,
The kame frae 'mang her hair;
She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee,
An' looked lang and sair.

First sang to her the blythe wee bird,
Frae aff the hawthorn green:
‘Loose out the love curls frae yere hair,
Ye plaited sae weel yestreen.’

An' the spreckled lark frae 'mang the clouds
Of heaven came singing down:
‘Take out the bride-knots frae yere hair
An' let these lang locks down.’

‘Come, bide wi' me, ye pair o' sweet birds,
Come down and bide wi' me;
Ye sall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine,
And gold yere cage sall be.’

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head,
An' syne below her feet;
An' laid her down 'tween the lilie-white sheets,
An' soundlie did she sleep!

It seemed i' the mid-hour o' the night,
Her siller-bell did ring;
An' soun't as if nae earthlie hand
Had pou'd the silken string.

There was a cheek touch'd that ladie's,
Cauld as the marble stane;
An' a hand cauld as the drifting snaw
Was laid on her breast-bane.

‘O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie,
O cauld, cauld is thy cheek;
An' wring these locks o' yellow hair,
Frae which the cauld draps dreep.’

‘O seek anither bridegroom, Marie,
On these bosom-faulds to sleep;
My bride is the yellow water lilie,
Its leaves my bridal sheet!’

Part the Second. POEMS AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

XXI. THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD.

Child of the Country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee
Nurs'd to sweet music on the knee.
Lull'd in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June:
I sing of thee;—'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the Town! for thee I sigh;
A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless wood,
Thy rushing deer 's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,—

Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines:
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair.

Child of the Country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet:
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young;
The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins the timorous hare;
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue-bells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells;
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool;
The shilfa's nest that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,—
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

Child of the Town! for thee, alas!
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run:
A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree,
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare;

Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawk'd, clamorous, o'er the city round:
No roses, twin-born on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk;
No voice of birds,—but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.

Child of the Country! on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring;
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree—
For climbing's sake—'Tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,
Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the Town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak;

And thou art cabin'd and confined,
At once from sun, and dew, and wind,
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone.
The coachman there careering reels,
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And Commerce pours each prosing son
In pelf's pursuit and hollos ‘Run’:
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb o'er which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

XXII. THE MOTHER'S CALL.

Come, sweet ones, come to the fields with me,
I hear the hum of the honey bee,
I hear the call of the gray cuckoo,
I hear the note of the shrill curlew;
I hear the cry of the hunting hawk,
The sound of the dove in our 'custom'd walk,
The song of the lark, the tongue of the rill,
The shepherds' shout on the pasture hill.

My sweet ones, all come forth and play,
The air is balm, and I smell new hay;
Come, breathe of the flowers, and see how neat
The milkmaid trips on her scented feet;
Young folks come forth all joy, and run
Abroad as bright as beams of the sun;
Old men step out with a sadder grace,
And matrons come with a graver pace.

The smoke streams up, and the air is rife
With joy, and all is light and life;
From east to west there 's not a stain
In all the sky, and the birds are fain,
And the beasts are glad, while man in song
Breaks out, for rain has lorded long,
And earth has drunk more than her need
To fill her flowers and nurse her seed.

Now, now ye come, my little ones all,
As the young doves come at their mothers' call;
One run to yon tall foxglove, and see
At his breakfast of balm the golden bee;
Another go hunt from bud to bloom
The worm that flies with a painted plume,
Or see the doe solicitous lead
Her twin fawns forth to the odorous mead,
Or mark the nestlings newly flown,
With their tender wings and their crests of down.

But stay, my children. Ere ye run,
Who made the sky and yon glorious sun?
Who framed the earth, and strewed it sweet
With flowers, and set it 'neath mankind's feet?
'Twas one in heaven. Kneel down, and lay
Your white foreheads to the grass, and pray;
And render him praise, and seek to be
Pure, good, and modest—then come with me.

XXIII. THE ORPHAN CHILD.

As I went down through London town,
The sun an hour had shone,
And there I saw a bonnie boy,
Sit singing on a stone:
But sooty were his shining locks,
And dark his snowy feet,
And bleeding were his tender hands,
And O, his voice was sweet!
A lady came and look'd and sigh'd,
And ceased to pass along,
‘My blessings on this comely child,
He sings a melting song.’

‘O white, white, lady, is thy neck,
Where gold and jewels shine;
My arms have clasp'd as white a neck,
As kind a breast as thine.
A mother's hands have gently nursed
Me on a gentle knee;—
And oft I weep above her grave,
Aneath the churchyard tree.

The sea-waves o'er my father roll,
Full fifty fathom deep.’
He ceased his song, that orphan boy,
And loudly 'gan to weep.

That lady's silken dress was shower'd
All round with jewels rare;
Ye might have bought a baron's land
With diamonds from her hair;
The red gold glitter'd round her waist,
And sparkled at her feet,
Ten thousand eyes her beauty bless'd
As she walk'd down the street.
Though like sun-light her beauty shone
From green earth to the sky,
Curse on the Muse who names a name
That heeds not sorrow's cry.

That lady went,—the orphan child
Sat still on the cold stone;
He look'd in no one's face, he sung,—
'Twas less of song than moan.
And lo! another lady came,
Straight to that comely child;
She took his dusky hand, her eyes
More than her ripe lips smiled:
‘Come tell me now, my pretty youth,
A tender mother's care
How could ye leave, all thus to stain
Thy face and shining hair?’

‘My father's dead,’ thus said the child,
‘O'er him the salt sea sweeps;
My mother broke her heart;—Oh! come
And see how low she sleeps!
For often I go to her grave,
And lie the cold night long;
I could not do 't, but that I keep
My heart up with my song.
O, ere the green turf o'er her closed,
Ere her sweet lips were cold,
That bless'd me, to this cruel trade
Her only son was sold.’

That lady turned away,—she turn'd
But went not; like the dew
On lilies, 'tween her fingers white
The shining tears dropt through.
She stroked his sooty locks, and smiled,
While o'er the dusky boy,
As streams the sunbeam through a cloud
There came a flush of joy.
She took him from his cruel trade,
And soon the milk-white hue
Came to his neck: he, with the Muse,
Sings ‘Bless thee, Montagu!’

XXIV. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

O! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain;
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As, when beneath Arbigland tree,
We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon,
Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet,
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time and care and birthtime woes
Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er,
How we should deck our humble bower:
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine:
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower;
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine,
The best of all things not divine.

XXV. GORDON OF BRACKLEY.

Down Dee side came Inveraye,
Whistling and playing;
And called loud at Brackley gate,
Ere the day dawing,
‘Come, Gordon of Brackley,
Proud Gordon, come down;
A sword's at your threshold,
Mair sharp than your own.’

‘Arise now, gay Gordon,’
His lady gan cry;
‘Look, there is bold Inveraye
Driving your kye.’
‘How can I go, ladye,
To win them agen?
I have but ae sword,
And rude Inveraye ten.’

‘Arise, all my maidens,
With roke and with fan;
How blest had I been
Had I married a man!
Arise, all my maidens,
Take buckler and sword;
Go milk the ewes, Gordon,
And I shall be lord.’

The Gordon sprang up,
Put his helm on his head;
Laid his hand on his sword,
And his thigh on his steed,
And stoop'd low and said,
As he kiss'd his young dame,
‘There's a Gordon rides out
That will never ride hame.’

Wi' sword and wi' dagger
He rush'd on him rude;
And the gay gallant Gordon
Lies bathed in his blude.
Frae the sources of Dee
To the mouth of the Spey,
The Highlanders mourn for him
And curse Inveraye.

‘O came ye by Brackley,
And what saw ye there?
Was his young widow weeping
And tearing her hair?’

‘I came in by Brackley,
I came in, and oh!
There was mirth, there was feasting,
But nothing of woe.

‘As a rose bloom'd the lady,
And blythe as a bride;
Like a bridegroom bold Inveraye
Smiled at her side.
And she feasted him there,
As she ne'er feasted lord,
Though the blood of her husband
Was moist on his sword.’

There's grief in the cottage
And tears in the ha',
For the gay gallant Gordon
That's dead and awa'.
To the bush comes the bud,
And the flower to the plain,
But the good and the brave,
They come never again.

XXVI. THE ENGLISH SEA CAPTAIN'S SONG.

Now the sea-raven mute
On the water is lying;
Now the night-wind's last sob
On the billow is dying;
And the full moon is up,
Whom no dark clouds encumber,
While the numberless stars
Lie around her in slumber.
All beneath us is bright—
All above us is glowing—
And the night's in her prime,
And the tide in the flowing.
Lo! a land-breeze awakens,
And shakes mast and pennon;
Loud the mariner shouts,
With his hand on the cannon:
‘Up halsers! with foam,
See the ocean is hoary!’
And away shoots my ship
In her pride and her glory!

How we love the black storm!
How we tread on the billows!
How our strong timbers quake,
And our masts bend like willows!
See, the moon hides her head,
And the waves rise in mountains;
Clouds spout liquid fire,
Heaven opes all her fountains:
Yet our ship rides as safely
As when, in dews nourished,
An oak, 'mid the forests
Of Chatsworth, she flourished!
See! see! how the flame-crested
Billows she's cleaving!—
See! see! in the race how
Old England she's leaving!
She was wood when she grew
In the depth of the forest:
Now a sea-queen she smiles
When the tempest is sorest!

How she smiles 'mid the tempest,
And longs for the rattle
Of gun and of musket
To burst into battle!
At the thrust of her pike,
At the glance of her pennon,
At a move of her helm,
At the flash of her cannon,—

The Eagle of Russia
Plies landward her pinion,
Nor dares on the ocean
To found her dominion;
The Lilies of Bourbon
Seem wither'd and dying,
Like weeds in the sun,
Where her banner is flying.
Blake, Raleigh, Monk, Nelson,
Reign kings in sea-story;
And Britain breeds none
Will diminish their glory.

XXVII. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG.

Away with bayonet and with lance
With corslet, casque and sword;
Our island-king no war-horse needs,
For on the sea he's lord.
His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck,
His sceptre is the mast;
His kingdom is the rolling wave,
His servant is the blast.
His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag
Proud to the mast he nails;
Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads,
For there your terror sails.

I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand,
Her children's sharp swords out;—
Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red,
When rose the closing shout.
But soon the steeds rush'd masterless,
By tower and town and wood;
For lordly France her fiery youth
Poured o'er them like a flood.

Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels,
And let your steeds run free;
Then come to our unconquer'd decks,
And learn to reign at sea.

Behold yon black and batter'd hulk
That slumbers on the tide,
There is no sound from stem to stern,
For peace has pluck'd her pride.
The masts are down, the cannon mute,
She shows nor sheet nor sail,
Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze,
Nor answers shout nor hail.
Her merry men, with all their mirth,
Have sought some other shore;
And she with all her glory on,
Shall rule the sea no more.

So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts
Are quivering in the sky;
Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised,
There sweeps she gallant by.
A thousand warriors fill her decks;
Within her painted side
The thunder sleeps—man's might has nought
Can match or mar her pride.
In victor glory goes she forth;
Her stainless flag flies free;
Kings of the earth, come and behold
How Britain reigns on sea!

When on your necks the armed foot
Of fierce Napoleon trod,
And all was his, save the wide sea,
Where we triumphant rode,
He launched his terror and his strength,
Our sea-born pride to tame;
They came—they got the Nelson-touch,
And vanish'd as they came.
Go, hang your bridles in your halls,
And set your war-steeds free:
The world has one unconquer'd king,
And he reigns on the sea!

XXVIII. THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG.

I'll launch my gallant bark no more,
Nor smile to see how gay
Her pennon dances as we bound
Along the watery way.
The wave I walk on 's mine—the God
I worship is the breeze,
My rudder is my magic rod
Of rule on isles and seas;
Blow, blow ye winds for lordly France,
Or shores of swarthy Spain;
Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord,
When monarch of the main.

When last upon the surge I rode,
A strong wind on me shot,
And tossed me, as I toss my plume,
In battle fierce and hot:

Three days and nights nor sun I saw
Nor gentle star nor moon,
Three foot of foam flash'd o'er my decks:
I sang to see it soon.
The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,
Broad dimpling smiled the brine,
I leaped on Ireland's shore, and made
Half of her riches mine.

The grey hawk wets her yellow foot
In blood of serf and king,
Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,
And helm and cuirass ring;
The foam flies from the charger's flanks
Like wreathes of winter snow,
Spears shiver and the bright shafts start
In thousands from the bow.
Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all,
Use tongue and tuneful chord—
No—No—my music is the clang
Of cleaving axe and sword.

Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust
In mortar and in stone—
Who rears a wall or builds a tower,
Or makes on earth his throne.
My monarch's throne's the willing wave
That bears me to the beach;
My sepulchre's the deep sea surge,
Where lead shall never reach;

My death-song is the howling wind
That bends my quivering mast:
Bid England's maidens join the song—
I there made orphans last.

Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me:
Oft, oft by frith and flood
I call'd ye forth to feast on kings—
Who now shall give you food?
Mourn too, thou deep devouring sea,
For of earth's proudest lords
I served thee oft a sumptuous feast,
With our sharp shining swords.
Mourn, midnight, mourn—no more thou 'lt hear
Arm'd thousands shout my name,
Nor see me rushing, red-wet shod,
Through cities doom'd to flame.

My race is run, my flight is flown,
And, like the eagle free,
That soars into the cloud and dies,
I leave my life at sea.
To man I yield not—spear nor sword
Ne'er harm'd me in their ire;
Vain on me Europe shower'd her shafts
And Asia pour'd her fire.
Nor wound nor scar my body bears—
My lip made never moan—
And Odin bold, who gave me life,
Now comes and takes his own.

Light—light there! Let me get one look:
Yon is the golden sky,
With all its glorious lights, and there
My subject sea flows by.
Around me all my comrades stand,
Who oft have trod with me
On princes' necks—a joy that is,
And never more must be.
Now put my helmet on my head,
My bright sword in my hand,
That I may die as I have lived,
In arms and high command.

XXIX. THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

The sails are spread, the tapering mast
Bends leeward, quivering in the blast;
Kind hands that ne'er may clasp again,
Have ta'en their last and fondest strain;
Eyes gushing like a spring-time brook,
Have had their latest, saddest look;
And from Old England's anchoring ground
My bark bursts seaward with a bound,
While following on our foaming path,
The ravening storm howls in his wrath.

Some o'er the gladsome billows dance,
To woo the sun-burned belles of France,
Or through fallen Rome's luxurious clime,
Make music plume the steps of time,—
For glory some, and more for gain,
Rejoicing brave the perilous main;
But Fate on sterner terms wafts me
Thus sorrowing, o'er the stormy sea,—
A song of mingled scorn and wo
Bursts from my lips as forth I go.

No more, roused by the summoning horn,
I'll reap Old England's golden corn,
Or dalesward walk, and whistling blythe,
The fragrant sward sweep with the scythe,
Or round the May-pole leaping light,
Make mirth the partner of midnight.
In vain, for me, from conquering hordes,
My sires the Isle saved with their swords;
A haughty band, a pamper'd race,
Have push'd me from my dwelling-place.

The Isle is theirs! They are the heirs
Of land that yields, of tree that bears,
Of waters too—the plough and line
Are used but that the proud may dine.
The wind is theirs, with all it brings
Of wild-fowl to the groves and springs:
The tim'rous hare, the bounding deer,
The bleating herd, the fattening steer,
Are theirs—the poor may naked lie,
And, hungering, curse their lot and die.

For me! my heart in youth-hood's hour,
Can take a flight beyond their power,
And borne upon the barren brine,
Far northward from the burning line;
I'll dwell where drear Mackenzie flows,
'Mongst howling wolves, and falling snows;
By Huron's yet unvoyaged lake,
Ohio's thick unthreaded brake—

I'll roam, and fish, and hunt, and sing,
And be of mine own person king.

Or let the rough winds waft me far,
To climes beneath the eastern star;
Where free the tameless Tartar ranges—
Where eagles build beyond the Ganges—
Where Himalaya rears her mountains—
Where Boorampooter pours her fountains—
Where England's flag hath never flutter'd—
I'll live—her name by me unutter'd,
Save when, for much unkindness sighing,
I'll strive to bless her whilst I'm dying.

XXX. NATURE.

O Nature! holy, meek, and mild,
Thou dweller on the mountain wild;
Thou haunter of the lonesome wood;
Thou wanderer by the secret flood;
Thou lover of the daisied sod,
Where Spring's white foot hath lately trod;
Finder of flowers fresh-sprung and new,
Where sunshine comes to seek the dew;
Twiner of bowers for lovers meet;
Smoother of sods for poets' feet;
Thrice-sainted matron! in whose face,
Who looks in love will light on grace;
Far-worshipp'd goddess! one who gives
Her love to him who wisely lives;—
Oh! take my hand, and place me on
The daisied footstool of thy throne;
And pass before my darken'd sight
Thy hand which lets in charmed light;
And touch my soul, and let me see
The ways of God, fair dame, in thee.

Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads,
Even as her child the mother leads;
Where corn, yet milk in its green ears,
The dew upon its shot-blade bears;
Where blooming clover grows, and where
She licks her scented foot, the hare;
Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs
The thistle with ten thousand stings;
Untrodden flowers and unpruned trees,
Gladden'd with songs of birds and bees;
The ring where last the fairies danced—
The place where dank Will latest glanced—
The tower round which the magic shell
Of minstrel threw its lasting spell—
The stream that steals its way along,
To glory consecrate by song:
And while we saunter, let thy speech
God's glory and his goodness preach.

Or, when the sun sinks, and the bright
Round moon sheds down her lust'rous light;
When larks leave song, and men leave toiling;
And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling:
When hoary hinds, with rustic saws,
Lay down to youth thy golden laws;
And beauty is her wet cheek laying
To her sweet child, and silent praying:
With Thee in hallow'd mood I'll go,
Through scenes of gladness or of woe:

Thy looks inspired, thy chasten'd speech,
Me more than man hath taught, shall teach;
And much that's gross, and more that's vain,
As chaff from corn, shall leave my strain.

I feel thy presence and thy power,
As feels the rain yon parched flower;
It lifts its head, spreads forth its bloom,
Smiles to the sky, and sheds perfume.
A child of woe, sprung from the clod,
Through Thee seeks to ascend to God.

XXXI. MARGARET AND MARY

Young Margaret woke, and waking cried,—
Rise, Mary! lo, on Dunscore side,
The morning sun shines bright; and hear!—
The reapers' horns ring far and near!
The thrush sings loud in bush and bower,
The doves coo loud on Isle old tower;
The poet's walk, by Ellisland,
Is rife with larks that love the sand;
The pars are leaping in the Rack,
The cornecrake calls from fair Portrack;
There's silver, sure, in yon sweet rill
That flows 'tween this and blithe Cowehill;
And see! from green Dalswinston's lake,
Their distant flight the herons take.
I'm glad I've wakened—'tis so sweet,
To see the dew shine on our feet;
To see the morn diffuse its wealth—
Light, life, and happiness, and health;

And then the sounds which float abroad
Are Nature's, and come all from God!
Young Mary thus: from London fair
She came to Margaret for sweet air;
Not sisters born, yet sisters they
In heart, in spirit, and in play.
See, see! the farmer quits his horn—
Fast 'neath the sickle sinks the corn!
The bandsmen all with hoary locks
Tie up the sheaves and set the shocks;
The busy maids, with snooded tresses,
Dish sweet milk pottage out in messes;
E'en now upon Nith's winding stream
The glad sun sheds a brighter beam;
Dark Blackwood smiles, and 'mongst her trees
Carse lists the music of her bees;
And from Dalswinton, broad and fair,
The smell of fruit fills all the air:
Old Age in sunshine walks abroad
Thankful, and gives his thoughts to God!
See, children, see!—'Twas thus another
Voice spoke, of aunt perchance, or mother—
That stream has run, yon sun has shone,
Yon hills have stood, that wind has blown,
Since first God framed them with his hand—
All else is changed within this land:
Landmarks decay, tombs yield their trust,
Youth fades, and old age sinks to dust!
Ten ancient names have ceased in story,
Ten ancient towers have lost their glory,

Two kirks, where Learning's lamp and cowl
Were trimm'd, now shelter bat and owl!
For Seton's soul, where monks said masses,
The wandering gipsies graze their asses;
Full sixty halls where Maxwells dwelt,
The sway of strangers' hands have felt;
The Douglas—but I shall not say
What chances wrought their sad decay—
Or stern Kirkpatrick, whose dread dirk
Won Scotland's freedom in her kirk;
Or Charteris, whose proud feudal power
From Tinwald reached to Liddel's tower;
Or Halliday, whose hounds could range
From Solway sands to Moffat grange;
All these—the brightness of their days
Are gone—their power the stranger sways—
Or sad on their diminish'd bounds
They rule, nor hosts, nor deep-mouthed hounds.
Fair children, this stern lesson learn:—
What merit wins and worth can earn,
May, in some inconsiderate hour,
Be pluck'd—as now I pluck this flower!
The flower will rise with sun and rain
In summer, and bloom bright again:
But when fame goes, its emblem see,
My children, in yon stricken tree!
It lies—it rots—nor from its side
Sends shoots to be the forest's pride!

XXXII. THE POET'S INVITATION.

So, thou wilt quit thy comrades, sweet,
Nith's fountains, sweeping grove, and holme,
For distant London's dusty street?
Then come my youngest, fairest, come;
For not the sunshine following showers,
Nor fruit-buds to the wintry bowers,
Nor ladye-bracken to the hind,
Nor warm bark to the tender rind,
Nor song-bird to the sprouting tree,
Nor heath-bell to the gathering bee,
Nor golden day-light to sad eyes,
Nor morn-star showing larks to rise,
Nor son long lost in some far part,
Who leaps back to his mother's heart.
Nor lily to Dalswinton lea,
Nor moonlight to the fairy,
Can be so dear as thou to me,
My youngest one, my Mary.

Look well on Nithsdale's lonely hills,
Where they who love thee, lived of yore;

And dip thy small feet in the rills,
Which sing beside thy mother's door.
There's not a bush on Blackwood lea,
On broad Dalswinton not a tree,
By Carse there's not a lily blows,
On Cowehill bank there's not a rose;
By green Portrack no fruit-tree fair,
Hangs its ripe clusters in mid-air,
But what in hours not long agone,
In idling mood were to me known;
And now, though distant far, they seem
Of heaven, and mix in many a dream.
Of Nith's fair land limn all the charms
Upon thy heart, and carry
The picture to thy father's arms,
My youngest one, my Mary.

Nor on the lovely land alone,
Be all thy thoughts and fancy squander'd;
Look at thy right hand, there is one
Who long with thee hath mused and wander'd,—
Now with the wild-bee 'mongst the flowers,
Now with the song-bird in the bowers;
Or plucking balmy blooms and throwing
Them on the winds or waters flowing;
Or marking with a mirthsome scream,
Your shadows changing in the stream;
Or gay o'er summer's painted ground,
Danced till the trees seemed reeling round,

Or listening to some far-heard tune,
Or gazing on the clam clear moon.
O! think on her whose nature sweet
Would neither shift nor vary
From gentle deeds and words discreet—
Such Margaret was to Mary.

The pasture hills fade from thy sight,
Nith sinks with all her silver waters,
With all that's gentle, mild, and sweet,
Of Nithsdale's dames and daughters.
Proud London with her golden spires,
Her painted halls and festal fires,
Calls on thee with a mother's voice,
And bids thee in her arms rejoice.
But still when Spring with primrose mouth,
Breathes o'er the violets of the south
Thou 'lt hear the far wind-wafted sounds
Of waves in Siddick's cavern'd bounds.
The music of unnumbered rills,
Which sport on Nithsdale's haunted hills;
And see old Molach's hoary back,
That seems the cloud to carry,
And dream thyself in green Portrack,
My darling child, my Mary.

XXXIII. A FAREWELL TO DALSWINTON

‘A cot, a kale-yard, and a cow,’
Said fair Dalswinton's lady,
‘Are thine,’ and so the Muse began
To make her dwelling ready.
She rear'd her walls, she laid her floors,
And finish'd roof and rafter;
But looking on her handy-work
She scarce refrain'd from laughter.
A cot sketch'd from some fairy's dream,
In fancy's strangest tinting,
Would mock the beauteous banks and streams
Of thee, my lov'd Dalswinton!

When I look, lady, on thy land,
It fills my soul with gladness,
Till I think on my youthful days,
And then I sink in sadness.
With mind unfurnish'd with an aim
Among your groves I wander'd,
And dreaming much and doing nought
My golden hours I squander'd;
Or follow'd Folly's meteor light,
Oft till the sun came glintin',
And seem'd to say, 'tis for thy sake
I shine, my sweet Dalswinton!

There stands the hill where first I roam'd,
Before the Muse had own'd me—
There is the glen where first she wove
Her web of witchcraft round me:
The wizard tree, the haunted stream,
Where in my waking slumbers
Fair fruitful Fancy on my soul
Pour'd fast her flowing numbers.
Dalswinton-hill, Dalswinton-holm,
And Nith, thou gentle river,
Rise in my heart, flow in my soul,
And dwell with me for ever.

My father's feet seem on thy braes,
And on each haugh and hollow;
I grow a child again and seem
His manly steps to follow:

Now on the spot where glad he sat,
As bright our hearth was blazing,
The gowans grow, and harebells blow,
And fleecy flocks are grazing.
Farewell Dalswinton's hill and grove,
Farewell, too, its fair lady—
I'll think on all, when far I rove,
By vale and woodland shady.

Farewell thy flowers in whose rich bloom
The honey-bees are swarming—
Farewell thy woods, with every smell,
And every sound that's charming—
Farewell thy banks of golden broom,
The hills with fox-gloves glowing,
The ring-dove haunts, where fairy streams
Are in their music flowing.
Farewell thy hill, farewell thy halls—
Dark fate to me is hinting,
I've seen the last I e'er shall see
Of thee, my sweet Dalswinton!

Part the Third. SONGS.

XXXIV. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free—
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free—
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

XXXV. MY NANIE-O.

Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie-o,
Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie-o;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
My kind and winsome Nanie-o,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do 't but Nanie-o.

In preaching time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie-o;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
The world's in love with Nanie-o;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie-o.

100

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely-o;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely-o;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
The flower of Nithsdale's Nanie-o;
Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, I dwell with Nanie-o.

Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew
When coming frae my Nanie-o;
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
Nane ken o' me and Nanie-o;
The stars and moon may tell 't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie-o!

101

XXXVI. KNOW YE THE FAIR ONE.

Know ye the fair one whom I love?
High is her white and holy brow;
Her looks so saintly-sweet and pure,
Make men adore who come to woo;
Her neck, o'er which her tresses hing,
Is snow beneath a raven's wing.

Her lips are like the red-rose bud,
Dew-parted in a morn of June,
Her voice is gentler than the sound
Of some far heard and heavenly tune,
Her little finger, white and round
Can make a hundred hearts to bound.

My love's two eyes are bonnie stars,
Born to adorn the summer skies;
And I will by our tryste-thorn sit,
To watch them at their evening rise:
That when they shine on tower and tree,
Their heavenly light may fall on me.

102

Come, starry Eve, demure and gray,
Now is the hour when maidens woo,
Come shake o'er wood, and bank, and brae
Thy tresses moist with balmy dew:
Thy dew ne'er dropt on flower or tree,
So lovely or so sweet as she.

The laverock's bosom shone with dew,
Beside us on the lilied lea,
She sung her mate down from the cloud
To warble by my love and me;
Nor from her young ones sought to move,
For well she saw our looks were love.

103

XXXVII. PHEMIE IRVING.

Gay is thy glen, Corrie,
With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter
Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder
Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.

104

The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
With sighing and suing;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She's a flow'ret too lovely
To bloom for my pu'ing.

O were I yon violet,
On which she is walking!
O were I yon small bird,
To which she is talking!
Or yon rose in her hand,
With its ripe ruddy blossom!
Or some pure gentle thought,
To be blest with her bosom!

105

XXXVIII. THE SAILOR'S LADY.

Come busk you gallantlie,
Busk and make you ready,
Maiden, busk and come,
And be a sailor's lady.
The foamy ocean 's ours,
From Hebride to Havannah,
And thou shalt be my queen,
And reign upon it, Anna.

See my bonnie ship,
So stately and so steady;
Thou shalt be my queen,
And she maun be my lady:
The west wind in her wings,
The deep sea all in motion,
Away she glorious goes,
And crowns me king of ocean.

106

The merry lads are mine,
From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon;
The Bourbon flowers grow pale
When I hang out my pennon;
I'll win thee gold and gems
With pipe and cutlass clashing,
With all my broad sails set,
And all my cannon flashing.

Come with me and see
The golden islands glowing,
Come with me and hear
The flocks of India lowing;
Thy fire shall be of spice,
The dews of eve drop manna,
Thy chamber floor of gold,
And men adore thee, Anna.

107

XXXIX. MY GENTLE HUGH HERRIES.

Go seek in the wild glen,
Where streamlets are falling,—
Go seek on the lone hill,
Where curlews are calling,—
Go seek where the clear stars
Shine down without number,
For there ye will find him
My true love in slumber.

They sought in the wild glen—
The glen was forsaken;
They sought on the mountain,
'Mang lang lady bracken;
And sore, sore they hunted
My true love to find him,
With the strong bands of iron
To fetter and bind him.

108

Yon green hill I'll give thee
Where falcons are flying,
To shew me the den, where
This bold traitor's lying—
O make me of Nithsdale's
Fair princedom the heiress,
Is that worth one smile of
My gentle Hugh Herries?

The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him,
And safe in my fond arms,
I clasp'd, and I wound him:
I warn you—go not where
My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping,
Behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,
'Mang banks of blae-berries,
I dwell with my loved one,
My gentle Hugh Herries.

109

XL. MONTGOMERY'S MISTRESS.

O nature lavish'd on my love
Each charm and winning grace,
It is a glad thing to sad eyes
To look upon her face;
While she looks through her clustering hair
That o'er her temples hings—
She's sweeter than the sunny air
In which the lily springs,
I'd stand and look on my true love
Like one grown to the ground;
There's none like her in loveliness,
Search all the world around.

Her looks are like the May-day dawn,
When light comes on the streams;
Her eyes are like the star of love,
With bright and amorous beams;

110

She walks—the blushing brook-rose seems
Unworthy of her foot;
She sings—the lark that hearkens her
Will evermore be mute;
For from her eyes there streams such light,
And from her lips such sound—
There's none like her in loveliness,
Search all the world around.

111

XLI. THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE.

Down yon green glen, in yon wee bower,
Lived fair and lovely Annie:
Ere she saw seventeen simmer suns,
She waxed wond'rous bonnie.
Young Lord Dalzell at her bower door
Had privily been calling
When she grew faint and sick of heart,
And moanings fill'd her dwalling.

I found her as a lily flower
When dew hangs in its blossom,
Wet were her cheeks, and a sweet babe
Hung smiling at her bosom.
Such throbs ran through her frame, as seem'd
Her heart and soul to sever;
In no one's face she look'd—her bloom
Was fading—and for ever.

112

Thou hast thy father's smile, my babe,
Maids' eyes to dim with grieving,
His wyling glance, which woman's heart
Could fill with fond believing;
A voice that made his falsest vows
Seem breathings of pure heaven,
And get from hearts which he had broke,
His injuries forgiven.

My false love came to me yestreen,
With words all steep'd in honey,
And kiss'd his babe, and said, Sweet wean,
Be as thy mother bonnie.
And out he pull'd a purse of gold,
With rings and rubies many—
I look'd at him, but could not speak
Ye've broke the heart of Annie!

It's not thy gold and silver bright,
Thy words like dropping honey,
Thy silken scarfs, and bodice fine,
And caps all laced an' bonnie,
Can bring me back the peace I've tint,
Or heal the heart of Annie;
Speak to thy God of thy broken vows,
For thou hast broken many.

113

XLII. LOW GERMANIE.

As I sail'd past green Jura's isle,
Among the waters lone,
I heard a voice—a sweet low voice,
Atween a sigh and moan:
With ae babe at her bosom, and
Another at her knee,
A mother wail'd the bloody wars
In Low Germanie.

O woe unto these cruel wars
That ever they began,
For they have swept my native isle
Of many a pretty man:
For first they took my brethren twain,
Then wiled my love frae me,
Woe, woe unto the cruel wars
In Low Germanie.

I saw him when he sail'd away,
And furrow'd far the brine;
And down his foes came to the shore,
In many a glittering line:

114

The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves,
The guns came flashing free,
But could nae keep my gallant love
From Low Germanie.

Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen
When swells the battle cry,
A stately youth with bonnet blue
And feather floating high,—
An eye that flashes fierce for all,
But ever mild to me?—
Oh that's the lad who loves me best
In Low Germanie.

Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard,
And cittern sweeter far,—
Where'er the trumpet blast is blown,
And horses rush to war;
The blithest at the banquet board,
And first in war is he,
The bonnie lad, whom I love best,
In Low Germanie.

I sit upon the high green land,
When mute the waters lie,
And think I see my true-love's sail
Atween the sea and sky.
With ae bairn at my bosom, and
Another at my knee,
I sorrow for my soldier lad
In Low Germanie.

115

XLIII. THE PIRATE'S SONG.

O lady, come to the Indies with me,
And reign and rule on the sunny sea;
My ship's a palace, my deck's a throne,
And all shall be thine the sun shines on.

A gallant ship, and a boundless sea,
A piping wind and the foe on our lee,
My pennon streaming so gay from the mast,
My cannon flashing all bright and fast.

The Bourbon lilies wax wan as I sail;
America's stars I strike them pale:
The glories of sea and the grandeur of land,
All shall be thine for the wave of thy hand.

Thy shining locks are worth Java's isle—
Can the spices of Saba buy thy smile?
Let kings rule earth by a right divine,
Thou shalt be queen of the fathomless brine.

116

XLIV. THE THISTLE 'S GROWN ABOON THE ROSE.

Full white the Bourbon lily blows,
Still fairer haughty England's rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
But when his crest the warrior rears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
O there it blossoms—there it blows—
The Thistle 's grown aboon the Rose.

Bright like a steadfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous sight;
And the best blood that warms my vein,
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame
From matchless Bruce to dauntless Graeme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows;—
The Thistle 's grown aboon the Rose.

117

What conquer'd aye and nobler spared,
And firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill?
What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo?
That spirit which no tremor knows;—
The Thistle 's grown aboon the Rose.

I vow—and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less—
Men blither at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth—more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true,
Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew;
Unflinching friends—unconquer'd foes,
The Thistle 's grown aboon the Rose.

118

XLV. MORNING SONG.

O come! for the lily
Is white on the lea;
O come! for the wood-doves
Are paired on the tree:
The lark sings with dew
On her wings and her feet;
The thrush pours his ditty,
Loud, varied, and sweet:
So come where the twin-hares
'Mid fragrance have been,
And with flowers I will weave thee
A crown like a queen.

O come! hark the throstle
Invites you aloud;
And wild comes the plover's cry
Down from the cloud:

119

The stream lifts its voice,
And yon daisy's begun
To part its red lips
And drink dew in the sun:
The sky laughs in light,
Earth rejoices in green—
So come, and I'll crown thee
With flowers like a queen!

O, haste! hark the shepherd
Hath waken'd his pipe,
And led out his lambs
Where the blae-berry's ripe:
The bright sun is tasting
The dew on the thyme;
Yon glad maiden's lilting
An old bridal-rhyme:
There's joy in the heaven
And gladness on earth—
So, come to the sunshine,
And mix in the mirth.

120

XLVI. MARY HALLIDAY.

Bonnie Mary Halliday,
Turn again, I call you;
If you leave your father's ha'
Sorrow will befall you;
The cushat, hark, a tale of woe
Is to its true love telling,
And Annan stream in drowning wrath
Is through the greenwood swelling.

Gentle Mary Halliday,
Born to be a lady,
Upon the Annan's woody side
Thy saddled steed stands ready;
For thy haughty kinsman's threats
Will thy true faith falter?
The bridal banquet's ready made,
The priest stands by the altar.

121

Bonnie Mary Halliday,
Turn again, I tell you;
For wit, and grace, and loveliness,
What maiden can excel you?
Though Annan has its beauteous dames,
And Corrie mony a fair one,
We canna spare thee frae our sight,
Thou lovely and thou rare one.

Gentle Mary Halliday,
When the cittern 's sounding
We'll miss the music of thy foot
Amang the blythe lads bounding—
The summer sun will freeze our blood,
The winter moon will warm us,
Ere the like o' thee will come again
To cheer us and to charm us.

122

XLVII. NANCIE CORRIE.

O ken ye lovely Nancie,
Of Corrie's fairy water?
O ken ye bonnie Nancie,
John Corrie's only daughter?

She's peerless when she speaks,
When silent she's a shiner,
There's sorcery in her song,
And her dancing 's still diviner.

O were I but the light
Of the morning to awake her,
When she rises pure and bright,
In the glory of her Maker!

123

XLVIII. MY LASSIE WI' THE SUNNY LOCKS.

My lassie wi' the sunny locks
Dwells in a moorlan ha';
Oh! the flower of the wilderness
Blooms fairest flower of a';
When there 's nought save the dew,
In its bosom to fa'.

My love 's the balmy seed
Of the garden's sweetest flower,
Nursed up in fragrant beauty
By the golden sun and shower:
And nane save the wild birds
Ken o' its power.

Oh! lightsome are her looks,
And as sweet as sweet can be;
She is the light of morning,
In ilka bodie's e'e,
And a drap of dearest blood
In this bosom to me.

124

A maid of eighteen's kindest,
A maid of eighteen 's best;
She's like the merle's gorlin,
Stown out of the nest,
That sings aye the sweeter
The mair it is carest.

Oh! sixteen 's a honey pear,
Beginning for to blaw,
And seventeen is drop-ripe,
And tempting witha',
And eighteen is pou 't,
If ye e'er pou 't ava.

125

XLIX. MY BONNIE LASSIE.

Let the table be spread,
Bring me wine of the rarest,
And fill me a cup:
Here's the health of the fairest!
The ladies of Nithsdale
Are stately and saucie,
But there 's nane of them a'
Like my Bonnie Lassie.

She has nae broad lands
To maintain her in grandeur,
Nor jewels to light all
The kirk with their splendour:
But Nature has made her
Sae lovesome and gaucie,
That a gray gown 's enough
For sae Bonnie a Lassie.

126

Her forehead is clearer
Than Nith when it 's sunny;
Her bright laughing e'en
Amang lads are uncannie.
Her lang clustering love-locks—
Here, fill me the tassie:
There 's nane of them a'
Like my Bonnie Lassie.

I am drunk wi' her love,
And forget, in her presence,
But that she 's divine,
And I owe her obeisance;
And I saunter at eve,
Though the big rain be falling,
And count myself blest
With a sight of her dwelling.

127

She's a wise and mirthsome quean,
And gay as ony fairy—
She's a sharp sarcastic lass,
Though she is my dearie;
And when the moon is moving,
I love to go a roving,
Wi' her baith leal and loving,
My sweet and gentle Mary.

128

LI. THE MARINER.

Ye winds, which sweep the grove's green tops,
And kiss the mountains hoar,
O softly stir the ocean-waves
Which sleep along the shore!
For my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea;
O bend his masts with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.

O leave nae mair the bonnie glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,
Where first we walk'd in gloaming gray,
And sigh'd and look'd of love;
For faithless is the ocean wave,
And faithless is the wind:
Then leave nae mair my heart to break
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.

129

LII. THE WARRIOR.

His foot's in the stirrup,
His hand 's on the mane,
He is up and away,
Shall we see him again?
He thinks on his ladye-love,
Little he heeds
The levelling of lances,
Or rushing of steeds;
He thinks on his true-love,
And rides in an armour
Of proof, woven sure
By the spells of his charmer.

How young and how comely,
Lo! look on him now,
How steadfast his eye,
And how tranquil his brow!

130

The gift of his ladye-love
Glitters full gay,
As down like an eagle
He pours on his prey.
Go sing it in song,
And tell it in story:
He went in his strength,
And return'd in his glory!

131

LIII. THE CAVALIER.

All saddled and bridled,
And booted and ready,
He stopt but to whisper
One word to his lady.
He stroked his white war-horse,
He touch'd his sword-hilt:
‘These hoofs shall be moisten'd,
This blade shall be gilt
In blood, ere I come again.’
Other words none
He spoke—like a sunbeam
He gleam'd, and was gone.

He rode to the combat
With princes and peers,
To the rending of corslets
And splintering of spears;
He rode to the combat
Of rustics with lords,
To the flashing of muskets,
And thrusting of swords;

132

With his sharp blade he pointed
To lines long and large,
Crying ‘Down with the churls!’
And spurr'd to the charge.

All plumed like young eagles,
And bright as the beams
Of the sun, when he wakens
In June on the streams;
All fierce as young eagles
When stooping half-way,
Down from Heaven they come
With a scream on their prey—
So rush'd knights and nobles
On peasants and grooms,
With the sounding of trumpets
And tossing of plumes.

Behold! he hath been
Where the striving was hot,
And pierced with the lances,
And torn with the shot
His war-horse has sunk;
Never more will he hear
The trumpet, or rush
On the sabre or spear;
And to him who bestrode him,
What minstrel will yield
More meed than he merits
Who flies from the field.

133

LIV. LORD RANDAL.

A cold wind and a starless sky,
Hills white with sifted snaw,
A lady weeping at midnight,
By a lone castle wa'.
‘O come Lord Randal, open your door,
O open and let me in,
The snaw hangs on my scarlet robe,
The sleet dreeps down my chin.

‘O come Lord Randal, open your door,
O open that I may see
That gentle form, and gentle look,
That charmed my heart frae me;
O come Lord Randal, open your door,
Or speak that I may know
Once more the music of that tongue
Which brought me all my woe.’

134

Her voice sank low as the tender babe's
Which makes a gentle moan,
A cry still heard by that castle wa'
At midnight mirk and lone;
Lord Randal called his true-love thrice,
But there was none could hear,
For ah! ne'er mortal voice again
Could win that lady's ear.

135

LV. THE SHEPHERD.

The laverock dried his wings i' the sun,
Aboon the bearded barley,
When a shepherd lad to my window came,
Wi' me to haud a parley.
‘O are ye sleeping, my lovesome lass,
And dreaming of love I ferlie?
Arise and come to the heights wi' me
Amang the dews sae pearlie.’

First I pat on my jupes o' green,
An' kilted my coaties rarely;
And dipt my feet in the May morn dew,
And gade wi' mirthsome Charlie.
It is sweet to be waken'd by one we love
By night or morning early;
It is sweet to be woo'd as forth we walk,
By the lad whom we love dearly.

136

The sun he raise, and better raise,
An' owre the hill lowed rarely,
The wee lark sang, and higher sang,
Amang the bearded barley;
We woo'd sae lang on the sunny knowe side
Where the gowans' heads hung pearlie,
That the tod broke in to the bughted lambs,
And left my lad fu' barely.

137

LVI. SATURDAY'S SUN.

O Saturday's sun sinks down wi' a smile,
On a man who is weary and worn wi' his toil;
Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder too the looks to his little ones he gives.
His gudemother is glad, though her glass is nigh run,
To smile wi' his weans at the setting of the sun;
When the voice of prayer is heard and the holy holy tune,
Wha wadna be glad when the sun's sinking down?

Tho' thy cheek, my sweet wife, has lost some of the glow
Of bright seventeen, and there's care on thy brow;
Tho' the blythe blinks are forsaking thy ee,
What matter! thou 'rt dearer and dearer to me.
I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine
On a face half so fair or a form so divine;
Thou wert wooed in the parlour and courted in the ha',
I came and I won thee frae the wit o' them a'.

138

My home is my lairdship well stocket and fou,
My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I loe;
My wife is the gowd and delight o' my ee,
Weel worth the wide earth and its grandeur to me.
O wha wad fade awa like a flower i' the dew,
And no leave a sprout for kind heaven to pou?
Wha wad rot 'mang the mools like the stump of a tree,
Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be.

139

LVII. ALLAN-A-MAUT.

Gude Allan-a-maut lay on the rigg,
Ane called him bear, ane called him bigg;
An auld wife slipt on her glasses; ‘Aha,
He'll waken,’ quo' she, ‘wi' joy to us a'.’
The sun shone out, down dropt the rain,
He laughed as he came to life again;
And carles and carlins sang wha saw 't,
Gude luck to your rising, Allan-a-maut.

Gude Allan-a-maut grew green and rank,
Wi' a golden beard and a shapely shank;
An' rose sae steeve and waxed sae stark,
That he whomelt the maid and coupet the clark.
The sick and lame leaped hale and weel,
The faint of heart grew firm as steel,
The douce nae mair thought mirth a faut;
‘Sic charms are mine’ quo' Allan-a-maut.

140

LVIII. TAM BO, TAM BO.

‘Will ye fee wi' me, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
Will ye fee wi' me, my heart and my jo'?
An' yese be at hame like my tae e'e,
If ye 'll fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

‘Tam Bo was steeve and Tam Bo was stark,
Wi' an e'e like puss and a voice like a lark;
The widow was rosie and weel to leeve,
Wi' sense in her noddle and silk in her sleeve.

‘I'll gie ye marks three, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
Three lily white sarks, my heart and my jo',
An' mony braw things when there 's nane to see,
If ye'll fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

‘A gliff i' the gloaming to daut and woo,
A gude sharp sock and a weel gaun plough;
Wi' a simmer sun and a lilie lea;
Will ye fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me?

141

‘A cozie bed and a cannie darke,
An' late to rise and soon frae wark,
A kindlie kiss and uncounted fee;
Will ye fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me?’

‘Thae bright een gang through me like swords,
And thy ripe lips hae weel waled words,
That may win my saul and then work it woe,
We are fallible creatures,’ quo' douce Tam Bo.

Now what to do or say or look,
Tam wistna while the widow she took
Frae her silken purse the gowd sae free;
Will ye fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me?

Tam yoked the plough, he furrowed the lea,
He sowed the corn, and he pouched his fee,
While the widow she sang neither lowne nor lowe,
‘He's a capital bargain, this young Tam Bo.’

142

LIX. THE LASS OF LAMMERMOOR.

I met a lass on Lammermoor
Atween the corn and blooming heather,
Around her neck red gowd she wore,
And in her cap she wore a feather.
Her step was light, her eyes were bright,
Her face shone out like summer weather,
Birds sing, sweet lass, they love to see
Sic beauty 'mang the blooming heather.

O sic a geck she gave her head,
And sic a toss she gave her feather,
‘Man, saw ye ne'er a bonnie lass
Before amang the blooming heather?’
‘Pass on, pass on, so fair a ane
Might be less scornfu'; I would rather
Ha'e one whom I ken in her snood,
Than thee in thy bright cap and feather.’

143

LX. THE LEA SHALL HAVE ITS LILY BELLS.

The lea shall have its lily bells,
The tree its bud and blossom,
But when shall I have my leal love
Hame frae the faithless ocean?

Sair, sair, I pled, and followed him
With weeping and with wailing;
He broke his vow, and broke my heart;
And sighed, and went a sailing.

All night I woo the tender stars,
With eyes upturned and mourning;
And every morn look to the sea,
For my leal love returning.

Oh, sweetly sweet would be the sleep,
That knows no dream or waking;
And lang and green may the grass grow
Aboon a heart that's breaking.

144

LXI. BONNIE JEANIE WALKINSHAW.

The moonbeam sleeps on Undercliff,
The sea is lulled and calm,
The honey-bee has left the rose,
The lily lies in balm:
And all is music that we hear,
All lovely that we see—
O bonnie Jeanie Walkinshaw,
'Tis then I think on thee.

The gladsome sun of May returns,
With sweet flowers in his train,
And bird and bee in bower and lea
Break into song again.
What May's bright sun is to the flowers,
The flowers to bird and bee,
O gentle Jeanie Walkinshaw,
Thou'rt that and more to me.

145

I see thee shining on thy hills,
Like a young beam of light,
And O I think how bright thou'lt be
When all with me is night!
But, gentle one, a smile of thine
Will make my song flow free,
Then, bonnie Jeanie Walkinshaw,
I'll owe my fame to thee.

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