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269
To the Sons of St. Andrew on the celebration of a late festival.
December 1, 1790.
IF gude St. Andrew's saul, a wee—
Bit, could be spar'd frae he'ven,
It wad delight his sprite tae see
How ye did spend the ev'en.
Bit, could be spar'd frae he'ven,
It wad delight his sprite tae see
How ye did spend the ev'en.
For weel I wat, the sangs aboon
The lift are scarce as gude,
And Scotts' sauls even in the moon,
Tae hear them wad rin wid.
The lift are scarce as gude,
And Scotts' sauls even in the moon,
Tae hear them wad rin wid.
Wad pit them in the mind o' braes,
And knows where they were born,
And springs they play'd, and bony haes,
They danc'd among the corn.
And knows where they were born,
And springs they play'd, and bony haes,
They danc'd among the corn.
Ah: had I but the soul o' song,
My kintra kens in weel,
The pleasant melody ere lang,
Wad sound o'er vale and hill.
My kintra kens in weel,
The pleasant melody ere lang,
Wad sound o'er vale and hill.
270
My name be heard on Allegane,
And ilka neighbouring burn,
When I am laid beneath a stane
And marrows left tae mourn.
And ilka neighbouring burn,
When I am laid beneath a stane
And marrows left tae mourn.
But aw my wish, and aw my vows,
Will no'e gae sick a strain,
As is, “The broom of Cowden Knows,”
Or, 'Tae the Greenwood gane.
Will no'e gae sick a strain,
As is, “The broom of Cowden Knows,”
Or, 'Tae the Greenwood gane.
For spirit o' sick sang is gane
Simplicity sae sweet,—
And artificial airs hae taen,
Its place, which gars me greet.
Simplicity sae sweet,—
And artificial airs hae taen,
Its place, which gars me greet.
But blessings on the kindly bairns
That keep it up a wee.
By chaunting here amang the kernes,
A wee thing o't tae me.
That keep it up a wee.
By chaunting here amang the kernes,
A wee thing o't tae me.
For ay my heart e'en on these braes
Clings tae the pleasing thought,
Remembrance o' the sweet strath-speys
My native music taught,
Clings tae the pleasing thought,
Remembrance o' the sweet strath-speys
My native music taught,
As when the love sick saul o' ane
Has lost his dearest mate,
He hankers still about the stane
And winna gae his gate.
Has lost his dearest mate,
He hankers still about the stane
And winna gae his gate.
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