The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
|
| MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. |
 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.
Where am I gaun?
Where am I gaun?—I darena tell;
Alas! I hardly ken mysel':
There's something burning in my brain,
That leads me out this gate my lane.
It's no to be where I hae been,
It's no to see wha I hae seen;
Ah no! 'tis to the cauld kirkyard,
To greet aboon the lonely sward.
Alas! I hardly ken mysel':
There's something burning in my brain,
That leads me out this gate my lane.
It's no to be where I hae been,
It's no to see wha I hae seen;
Ah no! 'tis to the cauld kirkyard,
To greet aboon the lonely sward.
Oh, my Matilda! when with pain,
I left thy side to cross the main,
I left all dearest to my life,
A new made mother and a wife.
I see thee still—thou sobb'd and wept
Above our baby as he slept:
That look of sorrow, and that tear,
My very soul, till death, will sear.
I left thy side to cross the main,
I left all dearest to my life,
A new made mother and a wife.
I see thee still—thou sobb'd and wept
Above our baby as he slept:
That look of sorrow, and that tear,
My very soul, till death, will sear.
I kiss'd thee—left thee—where art thou?
I have no wife nor baby now;
I look around me in despair,
And then to heaven, for they are there.
I did not see my baby die;
I did not close his mother's eye;
Nor hear a blessing from her tongue,
When the last sigh upon it hung.
I have no wife nor baby now;
I look around me in despair,
And then to heaven, for they are there.
I did not see my baby die;
I did not close his mother's eye;
Nor hear a blessing from her tongue,
When the last sigh upon it hung.
When death had reft her baby sweet,
She wound him in his winding sheet,
An' followed to his grave, resigned,
But ah! she could not stay behind.
Where am I gaun? I know it now;
To a dear grave—aye, there are two;
A very low and little one
Lies 'twixt the other and the sun.
She wound him in his winding sheet,
An' followed to his grave, resigned,
But ah! she could not stay behind.
Where am I gaun? I know it now;
To a dear grave—aye, there are two;
A very low and little one
Lies 'twixt the other and the sun.
There I must wend, though all alone;
An inward anguish drags me on,
O'er these new graves, beneath the yew,
My tears to mingle with the dew.
For all that to my soul endear'd,
I lov'd, I cherish'd, and rever'd,
Lie there within a lowly shrine—
Can there be earthly woe like mine?
An inward anguish drags me on,
O'er these new graves, beneath the yew,
My tears to mingle with the dew.
For all that to my soul endear'd,
I lov'd, I cherish'd, and rever'd,
Lie there within a lowly shrine—
Can there be earthly woe like mine?
The sweetest bud that ever grew
Has faded like the morning dew;
The parent stem that gave it birth,
Has sunk into her native earth.
My wife—my baby—Oh how sweet!
But there's a home where we shall meet;
Beyond yon blue and diamond dome,
We'll find an everlasting home.
Has faded like the morning dew;
The parent stem that gave it birth,
Has sunk into her native earth.
My wife—my baby—Oh how sweet!
But there's a home where we shall meet;
Beyond yon blue and diamond dome,
We'll find an everlasting home.
An aged Widow's Lament.
Oh, is he gane, my good auld man?
And am I left forlorn?
And is that manly heart at rest,
The kindest e'er was born?
And am I left forlorn?
And is that manly heart at rest,
The kindest e'er was born?
We've sojourn'd here, thro' hope and fear,
For fifty years and three,
And ne'er in all that happy time
Said he harsh word to me.
For fifty years and three,
404
Said he harsh word to me.
And mony a braw and buirdly son,
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.
I dinna greet the day to see
That he to them has gane;
But oh, it's fearful thus to be
Left in a world alane,
That he to them has gane;
But oh, it's fearful thus to be
Left in a world alane,
Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,
Whose race of joy is run,
And scarce has little opening left
For aught aneath the sun.
Whose race of joy is run,
And scarce has little opening left
For aught aneath the sun.
My life nor death I winna crave,
Nor fret, nor yet despond;
But a' my hope is in the grave,
And the dear hame beyond.
Nor fret, nor yet despond;
But a' my hope is in the grave,
And the dear hame beyond.
M'Kimman.
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Kimman?
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch that welcomed to foe to Ben-Aer
Be hushed when we seek the red wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone—
Like the course of the fire-flaught their clansmen pass'd on;
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have bound them,
And have taken the field with their vassals around them.
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again.
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch that welcomed to foe to Ben-Aer
Be hushed when we seek the red wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone—
Like the course of the fire-flaught their clansmen pass'd on;
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have bound them,
And have taken the field with their vassals around them.
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again.
Youth of the daring heart, bright be thy doom
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now;
But the fate of M'Kimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow.
Victorious in joy thou'lt return to Ben-Aer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there;
But M'Kimman, M'Kimman, M'Kimman shall never—
O never—never—never—never!
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now;
But the fate of M'Kimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow.
Victorious in joy thou'lt return to Ben-Aer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there;
But M'Kimman, M'Kimman, M'Kimman shall never—
O never—never—never—never!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can shun not, M'Kimman?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Kimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not.
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind—
There our broad pennon flies, and our keen steeds are prancing
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the bright weapons glancing!
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Kimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not.
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind—
There our broad pennon flies, and our keen steeds are prancing
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the bright weapons glancing!
Then raise the wild slogan-cry, On to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-wood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
Song of the times of Charles First.
See now, my brethren, heaven is clear,
And all the clouds are gone;
The righteous man shall flourish now—
Brave days are coming on.
Come then, dear comrades, and be glad,
And eke rejoice with me;
Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,
And hey, then up go we!
And all the clouds are gone;
The righteous man shall flourish now—
Brave days are coming on.
Come then, dear comrades, and be glad,
And eke rejoice with me;
Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,
And hey, then up go we!
Whate'er the bishops' hands have built,
Our hammers shall undo;
We'll break their pipes, and burn their copes,
And burn their churches too.
We'll exercise within the groves,
And preach beneath the tree?
We'll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then up go we!
Our hammers shall undo;
We'll break their pipes, and burn their copes,
And burn their churches too.
We'll exercise within the groves,
And preach beneath the tree?
We'll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then up go we!
We'll down with deans and prebends too,
And I rejoice to tell ye,
How we shall eat good pigs our fill,
And capons stew'd in jelly.
We'll burn the fathers' learned books,
And make the schoolmen flee;
We'll down with all that smells of wit,
And hey, then up go we!
And I rejoice to tell ye,
How we shall eat good pigs our fill,
And capons stew'd in jelly.
We'll burn the fathers' learned books,
And make the schoolmen flee;
We'll down with all that smells of wit,
And hey, then up go we!
If once the greedy churchmen crew
Be crush'd and overthrown,
We'll teach the nobles how to stoop,
And keep the gentry down.
Good manners have an ill report,
And turn to pride we see;
We'll therefore cry good manners down,
And hey, then up go we!
Be crush'd and overthrown,
We'll teach the nobles how to stoop,
And keep the gentry down.
Good manners have an ill report,
And turn to pride we see;
We'll therefore cry good manners down,
And hey, then up go we!
The name of lord shall be abhorr'd,
For every man's a brother;
No reason why, in church or state,
One man should rule another.
Now when this change of government
Has set our fingers free,
We'll make their saucy dames come down,
And hey, then up go we!
For every man's a brother;
No reason why, in church or state,
One man should rule another.
405
Has set our fingers free,
We'll make their saucy dames come down,
And hey, then up go we!
What though the king and parliament
Do now accord together?
We have more cause to be content,
This is our sunshine weather.
For if that reason should take place,
And they should disagree,
For us there would be little grace;
For hey, then up go we!
Do now accord together?
We have more cause to be content,
This is our sunshine weather.
For if that reason should take place,
And they should disagree,
For us there would be little grace;
For hey, then up go we!
What should we do then in such case?
Let's put it to a venture;
If we can hold out seven years' space,
We'll sue out our indenture.
A time may come to make us rue,
Yet time may set us free,
Unless the gallows claim his due,
And hey, then up go we!
Let's put it to a venture;
If we can hold out seven years' space,
We'll sue out our indenture.
A time may come to make us rue,
Yet time may set us free,
Unless the gallows claim his due,
And hey, then up go we!
Gin ye meet a Bonnie Lassie.
Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,
Gie her a kiss and let her gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe and gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Gie her a kiss and let her gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe and gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Be sure ye dinna quat the grip
O ilka joy while ye are young,
Afore auld age your veetals nip,
An' lay ye twafauld ower a rung.
But look out for a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe an' gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
O ilka joy while ye are young,
Afore auld age your veetals nip,
An' lay ye twafauld ower a rung.
But look out for a bonnie lassie,
Brisk an' bonnie, blithe an' gay;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Auld age an' youth has joys apart,
An' though they dinna weel combine,
The honest, kind, an' gratefu' heart
Will aye be blithe like your's an' mine.
But nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Dearer gift Heav'n never gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
An' though they dinna weel combine,
The honest, kind, an' gratefu' heart
Will aye be blithe like your's an' mine.
But nought is like a bonnie lassie,
Dearer gift Heav'n never gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hussey,
Fy gae rub her ower wi' strae.
Moggy an' me.
Oh wha are sae happy as me an' my Moggy?
Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,
An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae;
An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
When down the glen I come weary an' wae.
Oh wha are sae happy as Moggy an' me?
We're baith turnin' auld, an' our walth is soon tauld,
But contentment bides aye in our cottage sae wee.
She toils a' the day when I'm out wi' the hirsel,
An' chants to the bairns while I sing on the brae;
An' aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
When down the glen I come weary an' wae.
Aboon our auld heads we've a nice little biggen,
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa;
We've twa wabs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',
As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;
We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,
A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand;
An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press
To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa;
We've twa wabs o' linen o' Moggy's ain spinnin',
As thick as silk velvet and white as the snaw;
We've kye in the byre, an' yauds in the stable,
A grumphie sae fat that she hardly can stand;
An' something, I guess, in yon auld painted press
To cheer up the speerits an' steady the hand.
'Tis true we hae had mony sorrows an' crosses,
Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care;
But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,
Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share.
I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father,
Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae;
We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',
To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.
Our pouches oft toom, an' our hearts fu' o' care;
But wi' a' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,
Contentment, thank heaven! has aye been our share.
I've an auld roostit sword that was left by my father,
Whilk aye has been drawn when my king had a fae;
We hae friends ane or twa that aft gie us a ca',
To laugh when we're happy or grieve when we're wae.
Our duke may hae goud mair than schoolmen can reckon,
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e,
His lady aye braw sittin' prim in the ha';
But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?
A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',
You'll learn it by looking at Moggy an' me.
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e,
His lady aye braw sittin' prim in the ha';
But are they sae happy as Moggy an' me?
A' ye wha ne'er fand the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' o' whilk I've been tellin',
You'll learn it by looking at Moggy an' me.
Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men.
Rise! rise! lowland and highland men;
Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! rise! mainland and island men;
Belt on your broadswords, and fight for Prince Charlie!
Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! rise! mainland and island men;
Belt on your broadswords, and fight for Prince Charlie!
Down from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothy, and sheeling;
Bugle and battle-drum,
Bid chief and vassal come;
Loudly our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothy, and sheeling;
Bugle and battle-drum,
Bid chief and vassal come;
Loudly our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.
CHORUS.
Rise, rise, &c.
Men of the mountains!—descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers,—
Say, shall the Sassenach Southron not fear us,
When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls
Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin:
Seize, then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Brae-Mar, and Breadalbane.
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers,—
Say, shall the Sassenach Southron not fear us,
When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls
Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin:
406
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Brae-Mar, and Breadalbane.
CHORUS.
Rise, rise, &c.
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart?
Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal.
Come, chief of Clanronald,
And gallant M'Donald;
Come Lovet, Lochiel, with the Grant and the Gordon;
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man;
Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broadsword on!
When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart?
Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal.
Come, chief of Clanronald,
And gallant M'Donald;
Come Lovet, Lochiel, with the Grant and the Gordon;
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man;
Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broadsword on!
CHORUS.
Rise! rise! lowland and highland men;Bald sire to beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! rise! mainland and island men;
Belt on your broadswords, and fight for Prince Charlie!
Lock the Door, Lariston.
“Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddesdale;
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on;
The Armstrongs are flying,
The widows are crying,
The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone!
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on;
The Armstrongs are flying,
The widows are crying,
The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone!
“Lock the door, Lariston—high on the weather-gleam
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky—
Yeomen and carbineer,
Billman and halberdier,
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry!
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky—
Yeomen and carbineer,
Billman and halberdier,
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry!
“Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar;
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;
Hidley and Howard there,
Wandale and Windermere;
Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;
Hidley and Howard there,
Wandale and Windermere;
Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.
“Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?
Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?
Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger;
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.”
Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?
Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger;
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.”
Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;
“Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;
“Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
“Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here;
Little know you of our moss-troopers' might—
Linhope and Sorbie true,
Sundhope and Milburn too,
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
Little know you of our moss-troopers' might—
Linhope and Sorbie true,
Sundhope and Milburn too,
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
“I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn and Netherbie,
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
Come all Northumberland,
Teesdale and Cumberland,
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.”
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
Come all Northumberland,
Teesdale and Cumberland,
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.”
Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddesdale,
Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye,
Mirror'd that morning sky,
Never more oped on his orbit of gold.
Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye,
Mirror'd that morning sky,
Never more oped on his orbit of gold.
Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior's shout,
Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;
Helmet and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain,
Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;
Helmet and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain,
Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
See how they wane—the proud files of the Windermere!
Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!
Hear the wide welkin rend,
While the Scots' shouts ascend—
“Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!”
Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!
Hear the wide welkin rend,
While the Scots' shouts ascend—
“Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!”
The Bower of Tay.
Wear away, ye hues of spring,
Ye blooms of summer fade away;
Round the welcome season bring
That leads my steps to Highland Tay.
Dear to me the day—the hour,
When last her winding wave I saw,
But dearer still the bonnie bower
That lies aneath yon greenwood shaw.
Ye blooms of summer fade away;
Round the welcome season bring
That leads my steps to Highland Tay.
Dear to me the day—the hour,
When last her winding wave I saw,
But dearer still the bonnie bower
That lies aneath yon greenwood shaw.
Aye we sat, and aye we sighed,
For there was one my arms within;
Aye the restless stream we eyed,
And heard its soft and soothing din:
The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade,
Forth peered the evening's modest gem;
And every little cloud that strayed
Looked gaudy in its gowden hem.
For there was one my arms within;
Aye the restless stream we eyed,
And heard its soft and soothing din:
The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade,
Forth peered the evening's modest gem;
And every little cloud that strayed
Looked gaudy in its gowden hem.
The playful breeze across the plain
Brought far the wood-lark's wooer tale,
And gambolled o'er the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale.
I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie,
And, sweeter far, the crystal tear
That trembled in a lovely eye.
Brought far the wood-lark's wooer tale,
And gambolled o'er the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale.
I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie,
And, sweeter far, the crystal tear
That trembled in a lovely eye.
When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind
The spring-flush of the blooming year;
But oh! their parting leaves behind
A glow to memory ever dear.
Ettrick's fairy banks are green,
And Yarrow braes are mooned with gray;
But gloaming fall was never seen
Like that I viewed in bower of Tay.
The spring-flush of the blooming year;
But oh! their parting leaves behind
A glow to memory ever dear.
407
And Yarrow braes are mooned with gray;
But gloaming fall was never seen
Like that I viewed in bower of Tay.
The Bittern's Quavering Trump on High.
The bittern's quavering trump on high—
The beetle's drowsy distant hum—
Have sung the day's wild lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The beetle's drowsy distant hum—
Have sung the day's wild lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The golden primrose from the wood,
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel buds, I've strewed
Deep in my Peggie's woodland bower.
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel buds, I've strewed
Deep in my Peggie's woodland bower.
Oh come, my love! the branches link
Above our bed of blossoms new;
The stars behind their curtains wink
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.
Above our bed of blossoms new;
The stars behind their curtains wink
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.
No human eye nor heavenly gem,
With envious smile our bliss shall see;
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
With envious smile our bliss shall see;
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
Oh let me hear thy fairy tread
Come gliding through the broomwood still;
Then on my bosom lean thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.
Come gliding through the broomwood still;
Then on my bosom lean thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.
And I will watch thy witching smile,
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till dies the sweet reproof away.
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till dies the sweet reproof away.
The Lassie of Yarrow.
“What makes my heart beat high,
What makes me heave the sigh,
When yon green den I spy,
Lonely and narrow?
Sure on your braken lea
Under the hawthorn tree,
Thou hast bewitched me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
What makes me heave the sigh,
When yon green den I spy,
Lonely and narrow?
Sure on your braken lea
Under the hawthorn tree,
Thou hast bewitched me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
“Yon braken den so lone,
Rueful I ponder on;
Lad, though my vow ye won,
'Twas to deceive thee.
Sore, sore I rue the day
When in your arms I lay,
And swore by the hawthorn gray,
Never to leave thee.”
Rueful I ponder on;
Lad, though my vow ye won,
'Twas to deceive thee.
Sore, sore I rue the day
When in your arms I lay,
And swore by the hawthorn gray,
Never to leave thee.”
“Mary, thy will is free;
All my fond vows to thee
Were but in jest and glee;
Could'st thou believe me?
I have another love
Kind as the woodland dove;
False to that maid to prove,
Oh, it would grieve me!”
All my fond vows to thee
Were but in jest and glee;
Could'st thou believe me?
I have another love
Kind as the woodland dove;
False to that maid to prove,
Oh, it would grieve me!”
Mary's full eye so blue,
Mild as the evening dew,
Quick from his glance withdrew,
Soft was her sighing;
Keen he the jest renewed,
Hard for his freedom sued—
When her sweet face he viewed,
Mary was crying.
Mild as the evening dew,
Quick from his glance withdrew,
Soft was her sighing;
Keen he the jest renewed,
Hard for his freedom sued—
When her sweet face he viewed,
Mary was crying.
“Cheer thee,” the lover said,
“Now thy sharp scorn repaid,
Never shall other maid
Call me her marrow.
Far sweeter than sun or sea,
Or aught in this world I see,
Is thy love-smile to me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
“Now thy sharp scorn repaid,
Never shall other maid
Call me her marrow.
Far sweeter than sun or sea,
Or aught in this world I see,
Is thy love-smile to me,
Lassie of Yarrow!”
The Soldier's Widow.
The flag waved o'er the castle wa',
The hind came lilting o'er the lea,
Loud joy rang through the lighted ha',
An' ilka ane was blithe but me;
For, ah! my heart had tint its glee,
Although the wars had worn away—
The breast, that used my stay to be,
Was lying cauld in foreign clay.
The hind came lilting o'er the lea,
Loud joy rang through the lighted ha',
An' ilka ane was blithe but me;
For, ah! my heart had tint its glee,
Although the wars had worn away—
The breast, that used my stay to be,
Was lying cauld in foreign clay.
I lookit east, I lookit west,
I saw the darksome coming even—
The wild bird had its cozie nest,
The kid was to the hamlet driven:
But house nor hame aneath the heaven,
Except the skeuch of greenwood tree,
To seek a shelter in was given
To my three little bairns and me.
I saw the darksome coming even—
The wild bird had its cozie nest,
The kid was to the hamlet driven:
But house nor hame aneath the heaven,
Except the skeuch of greenwood tree,
To seek a shelter in was given
To my three little bairns and me.
I had a prayer I cou'dna say,
I had a vow I cou'dna breathe—
For aye they led my words astray,
An' aye they were connected baith
Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death:
I lookit round wi' watery e'e—
Hope wasna there, but I was laith
To see my little babies dee.
I had a vow I cou'dna breathe—
For aye they led my words astray,
An' aye they were connected baith
Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death:
I lookit round wi' watery e'e—
Hope wasna there, but I was laith
To see my little babies dee.
Just as the breeze the aspen stirred,
And bore aslant the falling dew,
I thought I heard a bonnie bird
Singing amid the air so blue:
It was a lay that did renew
The hope deep sunk in misery;
It was of ane my woes that knew,
And some kind hearts that cared for me.
And bore aslant the falling dew,
I thought I heard a bonnie bird
Singing amid the air so blue:
408
The hope deep sunk in misery;
It was of ane my woes that knew,
And some kind hearts that cared for me.
Oh, sweet as breaks the rising day,
Or sunbeam through the wavy rain,
Fell on my soul the cheering lay—
Was it an angel poured the strain?—
Wha kens a yearning mother's pain,
Bent o'er the child upon her knee?
Oh, mine will bless, and bless again
The generous hearts that cared for me.
Or sunbeam through the wavy rain,
Fell on my soul the cheering lay—
Was it an angel poured the strain?—
Wha kens a yearning mother's pain,
Bent o'er the child upon her knee?
Oh, mine will bless, and bless again
The generous hearts that cared for me.
A cot was reared by mercy's hand
Amid the Grampian wilderness—
It rose as if by magic wand,
A shelter to forlorn distress.
An' weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The hearts that issued the decree—
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray an' slighted be.
Amid the Grampian wilderness—
It rose as if by magic wand,
A shelter to forlorn distress.
An' weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The hearts that issued the decree—
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray an' slighted be.
John of Brackadale.
Came ye o'er by Moravich?
Saw ye John of Brackadale?
At his nose a siller quaich,
At his knee a water pail.
Copper nose and haffets gray,
Bald head and bosom hale,
John has drunken usquebae,
Mair than a' Loch Brackadale.
Hey John! ho John!
Hey John of Brackadale!
Saw ye John of Brackadale?
At his nose a siller quaich,
At his knee a water pail.
Copper nose and haffets gray,
Bald head and bosom hale,
John has drunken usquebae,
Mair than a' Loch Brackadale.
Hey John! ho John!
Hey John of Brackadale!
Hey John! ho John!
Waes me gin ye should fail,
Auld John, bauld John,
Brave John of Brackadale!
Waes me gin ye should fail,
Auld John, bauld John,
Brave John of Brackadale!
But John will wear away,
And the weary usquebae
Will grow cheaper by a third
When they delve him in the yird.
Oh, the gay hearts at Portree
Will lament sair for thee!
And I mysel' raise sic a wail
A' the rocks of Skye shall peal!
Hey John! ho John! &c.
And the weary usquebae
Will grow cheaper by a third
When they delve him in the yird.
Oh, the gay hearts at Portree
Will lament sair for thee!
And I mysel' raise sic a wail
A' the rocks of Skye shall peal!
Hey John! ho John! &c.
In a subsequent edition the concluding verse runs thus:—
Sic a carle, to wear away,
An' lye down quiet in the yird,
Just when the glorious usquebae
Is growing cheaper by a third—
It winna do—I'll no believe it,
For ne'er was carle sae blithe an' hale:
Then hey for routh o' barley bree,
An' brave John o' Brackadale.
An' lye down quiet in the yird,
Just when the glorious usquebae
Is growing cheaper by a third—
It winna do—I'll no believe it,
For ne'er was carle sae blithe an' hale:
Then hey for routh o' barley bree,
An' brave John o' Brackadale.
Why should I Sit an' Sigh.
Why should I sit an' sigh
When the greenwood blooms sae bonnie?
Laverocks sing, flowrets spring,
A' but me are cheery.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting,
Ochon, O ri! I'm weary;
Nae young, blithe, an' bonnie lad,
Comes o'er the knowe to cheer me.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
When the greenwood blooms sae bonnie?
Laverocks sing, flowrets spring,
A' but me are cheery.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting,
Ochon, O ri! I'm weary;
Nae young, blithe, an' bonnie lad,
Comes o'er the knowe to cheer me.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
When the day wears away,
Sair I look adown the valley,
Ilka sound wi' a stound
Sets my heart a thrilling:
When I see the plover rising,
Or the curlew wheeling,
Then I trow some bonnie lad
Is coming to my shieling.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
Sair I look adown the valley,
Ilka sound wi' a stound
Sets my heart a thrilling:
When I see the plover rising,
Or the curlew wheeling,
Then I trow some bonnie lad
Is coming to my shieling.
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
Come away, come away,
Herd, or hind, or boatman laddie;
I hae cow, kid and ewe,
Gowd and gear to gain thee!
My wee cot is blessed and happy;
Oh, 'tis neat and cleanly!
Sweet the brier that blooms beside it,
Kind the heart that's lanely:
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
Herd, or hind, or boatman laddie;
I hae cow, kid and ewe,
Gowd and gear to gain thee!
My wee cot is blessed and happy;
Oh, 'tis neat and cleanly!
Sweet the brier that blooms beside it,
Kind the heart that's lanely:
Ochon, O ri! there's something wanting, &c.
The Last Cradle Song.
A Border Melody.
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Light be thy care and cumber;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sweet be thy sinless slumber.
Ere thou wert born my youthful heart
Yearned o'er my babe with sorrow;
Long is the night-noon that we must part,
But bright shall arise the morrow.
Light be thy care and cumber;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sweet be thy sinless slumber.
Ere thou wert born my youthful heart
Yearned o'er my babe with sorrow;
Long is the night-noon that we must part,
But bright shall arise the morrow.
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Here no more will I see thee;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sair is my heart to lea' thee.
But far within yon sky so blue,
In love that fail shall never,
In valleys beyond the land of the dew,
I'll sing to my baby for ever.
Here no more will I see thee;
Bawloo, my bonnie baby, bawlililu,
Oh, sair is my heart to lea' thee.
But far within yon sky so blue,
In love that fail shall never,
In valleys beyond the land of the dew,
I'll sing to my baby for ever.
409
What gars the Parting Day-beam Blush?
What gars the parting day-beam blush,
An' linger owre yon summit lowering?
It sees me in the greenwood bush,
Ahint the brier an' willow cowering.
The gloaming starn keeks owre the yoke,
An' strews wi' gowd the stream sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
An' linger owre yon summit lowering?
It sees me in the greenwood bush,
Ahint the brier an' willow cowering.
The gloaming starn keeks owre the yoke,
An' strews wi' gowd the stream sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
Weel may I tent the siller dew,
That comes at e'en sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
Of nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree;
The night breeze owre the broom-wood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping:
That comes at e'en sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
Of nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree;
The night breeze owre the broom-wood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping:
For gin my Jeanie war but here,
My flower sae lovely an' sae loving,
I'll see nought but her e'en sae clear,
I'll hear nought but her accents moving.
Although the bat wi' velvet wing
Wheels round our bed sae damp an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Locked in thy arms, my bonnie lassie!
My flower sae lovely an' sae loving,
I'll see nought but her e'en sae clear,
I'll hear nought but her accents moving.
Although the bat wi' velvet wing
Wheels round our bed sae damp an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Locked in thy arms, my bonnie lassie!
Nae art hast thou, nae pawkie wile,
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
Can I—can ane o' human race
Ere wound thy peace or evil treat thee?
For sure thy bonnie harmless face
Wad melt the lion's heart to pity.
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
Can I—can ane o' human race
Ere wound thy peace or evil treat thee?
For sure thy bonnie harmless face
Wad melt the lion's heart to pity.
Alas! that love's relucent lowe
A bleered regret should ever sloken;
That heavenly gleed, that living glow,
Of endless happiness the token.
I'll fling my waes upon the wind;
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye;
Nae thought shall waver through my mind
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
A bleered regret should ever sloken;
That heavenly gleed, that living glow,
Of endless happiness the token.
I'll fling my waes upon the wind;
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye;
Nae thought shall waver through my mind
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
This primrose bank shall be our bed,
Our canopy the waving willow,
This briery brake shall guard our head,
Its wild rose nodding owre our pillow:
Her lips, her bosom, pressed to mine,
Ah, paradise, it must surpass ye!
I'll ask nae purer joys divine,
Than sic a bower, an' sic a lassie.
Our canopy the waving willow,
This briery brake shall guard our head,
Its wild rose nodding owre our pillow:
Her lips, her bosom, pressed to mine,
Ah, paradise, it must surpass ye!
I'll ask nae purer joys divine,
Than sic a bower, an' sic a lassie.
Poor Little Jessie.
Oh, what gart me greet when I parted wi' Willie,
While at his guid fortune ilk ane was sae fain?
The neighbours upbraidit an' said it was silly,
When I was sae soon to see Willie again.
He gae me his hand as we gaed to the river,
For oh, he was aye a kind brother to me;
Right sair was my heart from my Willie to sever,
An' saut was the dew-drop that smartit my e'e.
While at his guid fortune ilk ane was sae fain?
The neighbours upbraidit an' said it was silly,
When I was sae soon to see Willie again.
He gae me his hand as we gaed to the river,
For oh, he was aye a kind brother to me;
Right sair was my heart from my Willie to sever,
An' saut was the dew-drop that smartit my e'e.
It wasna the kiss that he gae me at parting,
Nor yet the kind squeeze that he gae to my hand;
It wasna the tear frae his blue eye was starting,
As slow they war shoving the boat frae the land:
The tear that I saw owre his bonnie cheek straying,
It pleased me indeed, but it doubled my pain;
For something within me was constantly saying,
“Ah, Jessie, ye'll never see Willie again!”
Nor yet the kind squeeze that he gae to my hand;
It wasna the tear frae his blue eye was starting,
As slow they war shoving the boat frae the land:
The tear that I saw owre his bonnie cheek straying,
It pleased me indeed, but it doubled my pain;
For something within me was constantly saying,
“Ah, Jessie, ye'll never see Willie again!”
The bairn's unco wae to be taen frae its mother,
The wee bird is wae when bereaved o' its young,
But oh, to be reft of a dear only brother—
That feeling can neither be paintit nor sung.
I dreamed a' the night that my Willie was wi' me,
Sae kind to his Jessie, at meeting sae fain,
An' just at the dawning a friend came to see me,
An' taul me I never wad see him again.
The wee bird is wae when bereaved o' its young,
But oh, to be reft of a dear only brother—
That feeling can neither be paintit nor sung.
I dreamed a' the night that my Willie was wi' me,
Sae kind to his Jessie, at meeting sae fain,
An' just at the dawning a friend came to see me,
An' taul me I never wad see him again.
I hae naebody now to look kind an' caress me;
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
The warld has little mair pleasure for me.
It's lang sin' I lost baith my father and mother,
I'm simple, an' poor an' forlorn on the way;
I had ane that I likit, an only dear brother,
My Willie—but he's lying cauld i' the clay.
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
The warld has little mair pleasure for me.
It's lang sin' I lost baith my father and mother,
I'm simple, an' poor an' forlorn on the way;
I had ane that I likit, an only dear brother,
My Willie—but he's lying cauld i' the clay.
In the first draft the concluding stanza is as follows:—
I hae naebody now to look kind an' caress me;
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
Life has nae mair comfort or pleasure for me.
Hard want may oppress me, and sorrow harass me,
But dearest affection shall ever remain,
An' wandering weary this wilderness dreary,
I'll lang for the day that will meet us again.
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see;
I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie,
Life has nae mair comfort or pleasure for me.
Hard want may oppress me, and sorrow harass me,
But dearest affection shall ever remain,
An' wandering weary this wilderness dreary,
I'll lang for the day that will meet us again.
Ah, Peggie, since thou'rt gane away.
Ah, Peggie, since thou'rt gane away,
An' left me here to languish,
I canna fend anither day
In sic regretfu' anguish.
My mind's the aspen i' the vale
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail
On life's unstable ocean.
An' left me here to languish,
I canna fend anither day
In sic regretfu' anguish.
My mind's the aspen i' the vale
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail
On life's unstable ocean.
I downa bide to see the moon
Blink owre the glen sae clearly:
Aince on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I looed dearly.
An' when beside yon water clear,
At e'en I'm lanely roaming,
I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
Blink owre the glen sae clearly:
Aince on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I looed dearly.
An' when beside yon water clear,
At e'en I'm lanely roaming,
I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
410
When I think on thy cheerfu' smile,
Thy words sae free an' kindly,
Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
The unbidden tear will blind me.
The rose's deepest blushing hue
Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
But ae kiss o' thy cheery mou'
Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Thy words sae free an' kindly,
Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
The unbidden tear will blind me.
The rose's deepest blushing hue
Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
But ae kiss o' thy cheery mou'
Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Oh! in the slippery paths of love,
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
An' virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger;
An' he wha ance has wandered wrang
Is best aware o' danger.
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
An' virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger;
An' he wha ance has wandered wrang
Is best aware o' danger.
May still thy heart be kind an' true,
A' ither maids excelling;
May heaven distil its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flowerets spring, an' wild-birds sing
Around thee late an' early;
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that lo'ed thee dearly.
A' ither maids excelling;
May heaven distil its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flowerets spring, an' wild-birds sing
Around thee late an' early;
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that lo'ed thee dearly.
The Broom sae Green.
Lang I sat by the broom sae green,
An' oh, my heart was eerie,
For aye this strain was breathed within,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
An' oh, my heart was eerie,
For aye this strain was breathed within,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
His leifu' sang the robin sung
On the bough that hung sae near me;
Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung,
For oh, the strain was dreary!
The robin's sang it coudna be
That gart the tear-drap blind my e'e;
How ken'd the wee bird on the tree
That my laddie wad no come near me?
On the bough that hung sae near me;
Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung,
For oh, the strain was dreary!
The robin's sang it coudna be
That gart the tear-drap blind my e'e;
How ken'd the wee bird on the tree
That my laddie wad no come near me?
The new-wean'd lamb on yonder lea
It bleats out through the braken,
The herried bird upon the tree
Mourns o'er its nest forsaken;
If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky;
The lad I lo'e he cares nae by,
Though my fond heart is breaking!
It bleats out through the braken,
The herried bird upon the tree
Mourns o'er its nest forsaken;
If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky;
The lad I lo'e he cares nae by,
Though my fond heart is breaking!
Flora Macdonald's Farewell.
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung
Away, on the wave, like a bird of the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
An' down by the correi that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung
Away, on the wave, like a bird of the main,
An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The muircock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he—
The conflict is past, and our name is no more—
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he—
The conflict is past, and our name is no more—
There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just,
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue:
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good;
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue:
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good;
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,
Down by the Tummel, or banks o' the Garry;
Saw ye our lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
Down by the Tummel, or banks o' the Garry;
Saw ye our lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;
But if I had ten, they should follow Glengary.
Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan-Ronald,
For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
But if I had ten, they should follow Glengary.
Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan-Ronald,
For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave M'Intosh he shall fly to the field with them;
These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave M'Intosh he shall fly to the field with them;
These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore,
Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore,
Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly:
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
411
The Skylark.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
Gang to the Brakens wi' me.
I'll sing of yon glen of red heather,
An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
Wha's a' made o' love-life thegither,
Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime.
Love beckons in every sweet motion,
Commanding due homage to gie;
But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
Is the bend o' her bonnie e'e-bree.
An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
Wha's a' made o' love-life thegither,
Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime.
Love beckons in every sweet motion,
Commanding due homage to gie;
But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
Is the bend o' her bonnie e'e-bree.
I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But, though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was—“Laith wad I be!
I neither hae father nor mither
Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never
To gang to the brakens wi' thee.”
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But, though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was—“Laith wad I be!
I neither hae father nor mither
Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never
To gang to the brakens wi' thee.”
Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,
An' try your ain love to beguile?
For ye are the richest young lady
That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile.
Your smile, that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' e'e-bree,
An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonnie,
Are five hunder thousand to me!
An' try your ain love to beguile?
For ye are the richest young lady
That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile.
Your smile, that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' e'e-bree,
An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonnie,
Are five hunder thousand to me!
She turn'd her around, an' said, smiling,
While the tear in her blue eye shone clear,
“You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
For, oh, you hae valued it dear:
Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave o' your finger,
I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!”
While the tear in her blue eye shone clear,
“You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
For, oh, you hae valued it dear:
Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave o' your finger,
I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!”
There's joy in the bright blooming feature,
When love lurks in every young line;
There's joy in the beauties of nature,
There's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,
And that is to love and to cherish
The fond little heart that's our ain!
When love lurks in every young line;
There's joy in the beauties of nature,
There's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,
And that is to love and to cherish
The fond little heart that's our ain!
The Minstrel Boy.
The minstrel boy to the glen is gone,
In its deepest dells you'll find him,
Where echoes sing to his music's tone,
And fairies listen behind him.
He sings of nature all in her prime,
Of sweets that around him hover,
Of mountain heath and moorland thyme,
And trifles that tell the lover.
In its deepest dells you'll find him,
Where echoes sing to his music's tone,
And fairies listen behind him.
He sings of nature all in her prime,
Of sweets that around him hover,
Of mountain heath and moorland thyme,
And trifles that tell the lover.
How wildly sweet is the minstrel's lay,
Through cliffs and wild woods ringing!
For ah, there is love to beacon his way,
And hope in the song he's singing!
The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,
And maidens may chorus it rarely;
But unless there be love in the heart within,
The ditty will charm but sparely.
Through cliffs and wild woods ringing!
For ah, there is love to beacon his way,
And hope in the song he's singing!
The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,
And maidens may chorus it rarely;
But unless there be love in the heart within,
The ditty will charm but sparely.
Farewell to Glen-Shalloch.
Farewell to Glen-Shalloch,
A farewell for ever;
Farewell to my wee cot
That stands by the river!
The fall is loud sounding
In voices that vary,
And the echoes surrounding
Lament with my Mary.
A farewell for ever;
Farewell to my wee cot
That stands by the river!
The fall is loud sounding
In voices that vary,
And the echoes surrounding
Lament with my Mary.
I saw her last night,
'Mid the rocks that inclose them,
With a child at her knee,
And a child at her bosom:
I heard her sweet voice
'Mid the depth of my slumber,
And the sang that she sung
Was of sorrow and cumber.
'Mid the rocks that inclose them,
With a child at her knee,
And a child at her bosom:
I heard her sweet voice
'Mid the depth of my slumber,
And the sang that she sung
Was of sorrow and cumber.
“Sleep sound, my sweet babe!
There is nought to alarm thee;
The sons of the valley
No power have to harm thee.
I'll sing thee to rest
In the balloch untrodden,
With a coronach sad
For the slain of Culloden.
There is nought to alarm thee;
The sons of the valley
No power have to harm thee.
412
In the balloch untrodden,
With a coronach sad
For the slain of Culloden.
“The brave were betray'd,
And the tyrant is daring
To trample and waste us,
Unpitying, unsparing.
Thy mother no voice has,
No feeling that changes,
No word, sign, or song,
But the lesson of vengeance!
And the tyrant is daring
To trample and waste us,
Unpitying, unsparing.
Thy mother no voice has,
No feeling that changes,
No word, sign, or song,
But the lesson of vengeance!
“I'll tell thee, my son,
How our laurels are withering;
I'll bind on thy sword
When the clansmen are gathering;
I'll bid thee go forth
In the cause of true honour,
And never return
Till thy country hath won her!
How our laurels are withering;
I'll bind on thy sword
When the clansmen are gathering;
I'll bid thee go forth
In the cause of true honour,
And never return
Till thy country hath won her!
“Our tower of devotion
Is the house of the reaver;
The pride of the ocean
Is fallen for ever;
The pride of the forest,
That time could not weaken,
Is trod in the dust,
And its honours are shaken.
Is the house of the reaver;
The pride of the ocean
Is fallen for ever;
The pride of the forest,
That time could not weaken,
Is trod in the dust,
And its honours are shaken.
“Rise, spirits of yore,
Ever dauntless in danger!
For the land that was yours
Is the land of the stranger.
Oh come from your caverns,
All bloodless and hoary,
And these fiends of the valley
Shall tremble before ye!”
Ever dauntless in danger!
For the land that was yours
Is the land of the stranger.
Oh come from your caverns,
All bloodless and hoary,
And these fiends of the valley
Shall tremble before ye!”
The Laird o' Lamington.
Can I bear to part wi' thee,
Never mair your face to see?
Can I bear to part wi' thee,
Drunken Laird o' Lamington?
Canty war ye o'er your kale,
Toddy jugs, an' caups o' ale,
Heart aye kind, an' leal, an' hale.
Honest Laird o' Lamington.
Never mair your face to see?
Can I bear to part wi' thee,
Drunken Laird o' Lamington?
Canty war ye o'er your kale,
Toddy jugs, an' caups o' ale,
Heart aye kind, an' leal, an' hale.
Honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that swears is but so so,
He that lies to hell must go,
He that falls in bagnio,
Falls in the devil's frying-pan.
Wha wa'st ne'er pat aith to word?
Never lied for duke nor lord?
Never sat at sinfu' board?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that lies to hell must go,
He that falls in bagnio,
Falls in the devil's frying-pan.
Wha wa'st ne'er pat aith to word?
Never lied for duke nor lord?
Never sat at sinfu' board?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that cheats can ne'er be just;
He that prays is ne'er to trust;
He that drinks to drauck his dust,
Wha can say that wrang is done?
Wha was't ne'er to fraud inclin'd?
Never pray'd sin' he can mind?
Ane wha's drouth there's few can find?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
He that prays is ne'er to trust;
He that drinks to drauck his dust,
Wha can say that wrang is done?
Wha was't ne'er to fraud inclin'd?
Never pray'd sin' he can mind?
Ane wha's drouth there's few can find?
The honest Laird o' Lamington.
I like a man to tak' his glass,
Toast a friend or bonnie lass;
He that winna is an ass—
Deil send him ane to gallop on!
I like a man that's frank an' kind,
Meets me when I have a mind,
Sings his sang, an' drinks me blind,
Like the Laird o' Lamington.
Toast a friend or bonnie lass;
He that winna is an ass—
Deil send him ane to gallop on!
I like a man that's frank an' kind,
Meets me when I have a mind,
Sings his sang, an' drinks me blind,
Like the Laird o' Lamington.
The Souters o' Selkirk.
Up wi' the souters o' Selkirk,
The sons of an auld pedigree!
An' up wi' the lads o' the forest,
Renown'd for their leal loyaltie!
I may be mista'en, but I carena,
My error I never shall rue;
Of all manly virtues, I value
The heart that is loyal and true.
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim, &c.
The sons of an auld pedigree!
An' up wi' the lads o' the forest,
Renown'd for their leal loyaltie!
I may be mista'en, but I carena,
My error I never shall rue;
Of all manly virtues, I value
The heart that is loyal and true.
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim, &c.
Let them brag o' their factious republics,
Of brawling an' plebeian birth;
The land that has got a good sovereign,
Has got the best blessing on earth.
Then up wi' our auld-fashion'd structure,
An' Willie the tap o' the tree!
An' up wi' the souters o' Selkirk!
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim,
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tee;
Then up wi' the souters o' Selkirk,
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
Of brawling an' plebeian birth;
The land that has got a good sovereign,
Has got the best blessing on earth.
Then up wi' our auld-fashion'd structure,
An' Willie the tap o' the tree!
An' up wi' the souters o' Selkirk!
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim,
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tee;
Then up wi' the souters o' Selkirk,
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Oh, my lassie, our joy to complete again,
Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
Love be thy sure defence,
Beauty and innocence—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
Love be thy sure defence,
Beauty and innocence—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Sweetly blows the haw an' the rowan-tree,
Wild roses speck our thicket sae briery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary,
List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
Then come with fairy haste,
Light foot, an' beating breast—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Wild roses speck our thicket sae briery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
413
List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
Then come with fairy haste,
Light foot, an' beating breast—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Far, far will the bogle an' brownie be,
Beauty an' truth they darena come near it;
Kind love is the tie of our unity,
A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,
Love gars a' nature look bonnie that's near ye;
That makes the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip and violet—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Beauty an' truth they darena come near it;
Kind love is the tie of our unity,
A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,
Love gars a' nature look bonnie that's near ye;
That makes the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip and violet—
Oh, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Arabian Song.
Meet me at even, my own true love;
Meet me at even, my honey, my dove,
Where the moonbeam revealing
The cool fountain stealing
Away and away
Through flow'rets so gay,
Singing its silver roundelay.
Meet me at even, my honey, my dove,
Where the moonbeam revealing
The cool fountain stealing
Away and away
Through flow'rets so gay,
Singing its silver roundelay.
Love is the fountain of life and bliss,
Love is the valley of joyfulness;
A garden of roses,
Where rapture reposes;
A temple of light,
All heavenly bright—
Oh, virtuous love is the soul's delight!
Love is the valley of joyfulness;
A garden of roses,
Where rapture reposes;
A temple of light,
All heavenly bright—
Oh, virtuous love is the soul's delight!
The Village of Balmaquhapple.
D'ye ken the big village of Balmaquhapple,
The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple?
'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple,
An' what's to become o' poor Balmaquhapple?
Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks,
And pray to St. Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo'ks;
Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion:
The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple?
'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple,
An' what's to become o' poor Balmaquhapple?
Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks,
And pray to St. Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo'ks;
Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion:
“O blessed St. Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo'k,
Men fo'k or women fo'k, country or city fo'k,
Come for this aince wi' the auld thief to grapple,
An' save the great village of Balmaquhapple
Frae drinking an' leeing, an' flyting an' swearing,
An' sins that ye wad be affrontit at hearing,
An' cheating an' stealing; oh, grant them redemption,
All save an' except the few after to mention:
Men fo'k or women fo'k, country or city fo'k,
Come for this aince wi' the auld thief to grapple,
An' save the great village of Balmaquhapple
Frae drinking an' leeing, an' flyting an' swearing,
An' sins that ye wad be affrontit at hearing,
An' cheating an' stealing; oh, grant them redemption,
All save an' except the few after to mention:
“There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye,
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, an' sae greedy;
Wha prays every hour as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses:
He's cheated a thousand, an' e'en to this day yet
Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it;
Then gie him his gate; he's sae slee an' sae civil,
Perhaps in the end he may wheedle the devil.
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, an' sae greedy;
Wha prays every hour as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses:
He's cheated a thousand, an' e'en to this day yet
Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it;
Then gie him his gate; he's sae slee an' sae civil,
Perhaps in the end he may wheedle the devil.
“There's Cappie the cobbler, an' Tammie the tinman,
An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman,
An' Geordie our deacon for want of a better,
An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her.
O worthy St. Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye,
If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit,
Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit.
An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman,
An' Geordie our deacon for want of a better,
An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her.
O worthy St. Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye,
If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit,
Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit.
“But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them,
Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them;
But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails.
An' save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk's bonny daughters, an' Bell in particular;
For ye ken that their beauty's the pride an' the staple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple!”
Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them;
But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails.
An' save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk's bonny daughters, an' Bell in particular;
For ye ken that their beauty's the pride an' the staple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple!”
Callum-a-Glen.
Was ever old warrior of suffering so weary?
Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den?
The southern bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me,
No child to protect me where once there were ten;
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen!
Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den?
The southern bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me,
No child to protect me where once there were ten;
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen!
The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,
The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew;
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen;
The pride of my country is fallen for ever—
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?
The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew;
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen;
The pride of my country is fallen for ever—
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?
The sun in his glory has look'd on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea;
Oh! is there no day-spring for Scotland—no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken;
The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea;
Oh! is there no day-spring for Scotland—no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,
Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken;
The day is abiding of stern retribution
On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.
When the Kye comes Hame.
[_]
In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song. I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way (“when the kye come hame”), when a tailor, scratching his head, said, “It was a terrible affected way that!” I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.
414
Come all ye jolly shepherds
That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.
That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbour of the great—
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbour of the great—
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
There the blackbird bigs his nest
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
Oh, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
Oh, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her e'e,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Drops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her e'e,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Drops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
See yonder pawkie shepherd,
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
Oh there's a joy sae dear,
That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame!
When the kye comes hame, &c.
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
Oh there's a joy sae dear,
That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye comes hame!
When the kye comes hame, &c.
Then since all nature joins
In this love without alloy,
Oh, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha wad choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!
In this love without alloy,
Oh, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha wad choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!
The Shepherd afterwards gave the following version of the very beautiful song:
Come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame.
I'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame.
CHORUS.
When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame,'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, when the kye come hame.
'Tis not beneath the burgonet, nor yet beneath the crown,
'Tis not on couch of velvet nor yet in bed of down—
'Tis beneath the spreading birch, in the dell without a name
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame.
'Tis not on couch of velvet nor yet in bed of down—
'Tis beneath the spreading birch, in the dell without a name
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame.
Then the eye shines so bright, the hale soul to beguile,
There's love in every whisper, and joy in every smile:
Oh, wha wad choose a crown, wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame?
There's love in every whisper, and joy in every smile:
Oh, wha wad choose a crown, wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame?
See yonder pawkie shepherd, that lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie, when the key come hame.
His ewes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie, when the key come hame.
Awa' wi' fame an fortune—what comfort can they gi'e?
And a' the arts that prey upon man's life and liberty:
Gi'e me the highest joy that the heart o' man can frame—
My bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame!
And a' the arts that prey upon man's life and liberty:
Gi'e me the highest joy that the heart o' man can frame—
My bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame!
Lenachan's Farewell.
[_]
Alexander Stuart of Lenachan was a man of gigantic strength and an officer of the regiment of Appin. He was obliged to make his escape to America, several years subsequent to the forty-five, to elude the vengeance of the Campbells.
Fare thee weel, my native cot,
Bothy o' the birken-tree!
Sair the heart an' hard the lot
O' the man that parts wi' thee!
My good grandsire's hand thee rear'd—
Then thy wicker-work was full;
Many a Campbell's glen he clear'd,
Hit the buck, an' hough'd the bull.
Bothy o' the birken-tree!
Sair the heart an' hard the lot
O' the man that parts wi' thee!
My good grandsire's hand thee rear'd—
Then thy wicker-work was full;
Many a Campbell's glen he clear'd,
Hit the buck, an' hough'd the bull.
In thy green and grassy crook
Mair lies hid than crusted stanes;
In thy bein and weirdly nook
Lie some stout Clan-Gillan banes.
Thou wert aye the kinsman's hame—
Routh and welcome was his fare;
But if serf or Saxon came,
He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair.
Mair lies hid than crusted stanes;
In thy bein and weirdly nook
Lie some stout Clan-Gillan banes.
415
Routh and welcome was his fare;
But if serf or Saxon came,
He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair.
Never hand in thee yet bred
Kendna how the sword to wield;
Never heart of thine had dread
Of the foray or the field:
Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed,
Son of thine lay down to dee;
Every lad within thee bred
Died beneath heaven's open e'e.
Kendna how the sword to wield;
Never heart of thine had dread
Of the foray or the field:
Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed,
Son of thine lay down to dee;
Every lad within thee bred
Died beneath heaven's open e'e.
Charlie Stuart he came here,
For our king as right became;
Wha could shun the Bruce's heir,
Or desert his royal name?
Firm to stand and free to fa',
Forth we march'd right valiantlie—
Gane is Scotland's king and law,
And woe to Appin and to me!
For our king as right became;
Wha could shun the Bruce's heir,
Or desert his royal name?
Firm to stand and free to fa',
Forth we march'd right valiantlie—
Gane is Scotland's king and law,
And woe to Appin and to me!
Freeman yet, I'll scorn to fret;
Here nae langer I maun stay,
But when I my hame forget,
May my heart forget to play!
Fare thee weel, my father's cot,
Bothy o' the birken tree!
Sair the heart, and hard the lot
O' the warrior leaving thee!
Here nae langer I maun stay,
But when I my hame forget,
May my heart forget to play!
Fare thee weel, my father's cot,
Bothy o' the birken tree!
Sair the heart, and hard the lot
O' the warrior leaving thee!
The Stuarts of Appin.
[_]
No national calamity has ever given me so much pain as the total bereavement of the brave clans who stood to the last for the cause of the house of Stuart. It is a stain on the annals of our legislature which can never be blotted out.
I sing of a land that was famous of yore,
The land of Green Appin, the ward of the flood,
Where every gray cairn that broods o'er the shore,
Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good:
The land where the strains of gray Ossian were framed—
The land of fair Selma, and reign of Fingal—
And late of a race, that with tears must be named,
The noble Clan Stuart, the bravest of all.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For the clan is no more,
And the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin.
The land of Green Appin, the ward of the flood,
Where every gray cairn that broods o'er the shore,
Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good:
The land where the strains of gray Ossian were framed—
The land of fair Selma, and reign of Fingal—
And late of a race, that with tears must be named,
The noble Clan Stuart, the bravest of all.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For the clan is no more,
And the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin.
In spite of the Campbells, their might and renown,
And all the proud files of Glenorchy and Lorn,
While one of the Stuarts held claim on the crown,
His banner full boldly by Appin was borne.
And ne'er fell the Campbells in check or trepan,
In all their Whig efforts their power to renew,
But still on the Stuarts of Appin they ran,
To wreak their proud wrath on the brave and the few.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
And all the proud files of Glenorchy and Lorn,
While one of the Stuarts held claim on the crown,
His banner full boldly by Appin was borne.
And ne'er fell the Campbells in check or trepan,
In all their Whig efforts their power to renew,
But still on the Stuarts of Appin they ran,
To wreak their proud wrath on the brave and the few.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
In the year of the Graham, while in oceans of blood
The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing,
It was then that the Stuarts the foremost still stood,
And paid back a share of the debt they were owing.
O proud Inverlochy! O day of renown!
Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of Cruachin,
Was ne'er such an host by such valour o'erthrown,
Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing,
It was then that the Stuarts the foremost still stood,
And paid back a share of the debt they were owing.
O proud Inverlochy! O day of renown!
Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of Cruachin,
Was ne'er such an host by such valour o'erthrown,
Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
And ne'er for the crown of the Stuarts was fought
One battle on vale, or on mountain deer-trodden,
But dearly to Appin the glory was bought,
And dearest of all on the field of Culloden!
Lament, O Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel,
High offspring of heroes, who conquer'd were never;
For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal,
And the bold clan of Stuart must perish for ever!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
One battle on vale, or on mountain deer-trodden,
But dearly to Appin the glory was bought,
And dearest of all on the field of Culloden!
Lament, O Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel,
High offspring of heroes, who conquer'd were never;
For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal,
And the bold clan of Stuart must perish for ever!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
Clan-Chattan is broken, the Seaforth bends low,
The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour;
Glencoe and Clan-Donnachie, where are they now?
And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber?
All gone with the house they supported!—laid low,
While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping,
Trod down by a proud and a merciless foe—
The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-on, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour;
Glencoe and Clan-Donnachie, where are they now?
And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber?
All gone with the house they supported!—laid low,
While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping,
Trod down by a proud and a merciless foe—
The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-on, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
They are gone, they are gone, the redoubted, the brave!
The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing;
Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave
Where the unconquered foes of the Campbell are lying.
But long as the gray hairs wave over this brow,
And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping,
My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow,
And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For their star is no more,
And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin!
The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing;
Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave
Where the unconquered foes of the Campbell are lying.
But long as the gray hairs wave over this brow,
And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping,
My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow,
And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin!
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin!
The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin!
Their glory is o'er,
For their star is no more,
And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin!
The Poor Man.
Loose the yett, an' let me in,
Lady wi' the glistening e'e,
Dinna let your menial train
Drive an auld man out to dee.
Cauldrife is the winter even,
See the rime hangs at my chin;
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Lady wi' the glistening e'e,
Dinna let your menial train
Drive an auld man out to dee.
Cauldrife is the winter even,
See the rime hangs at my chin;
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
416
Ye shall gain a virgin hue,
Lady, for your courtesye,
Ever beaming, ever new,
Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee.
Lady, there's a lovely plain
Lies beyond yon setting sun,
There we soon may meet again—
Short the race we hae to run.
Lady, for your courtesye,
Ever beaming, ever new,
Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee.
Lady, there's a lovely plain
Lies beyond yon setting sun,
There we soon may meet again—
Short the race we hae to run.
'Tis a land of love an' light;
Rank or title is not there;
High an' low maun there unite,
Poor man, prince, an' lady fair.
There, what thou on earth hast given,
Doubly shall be paid again:
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Rank or title is not there;
High an' low maun there unite,
Poor man, prince, an' lady fair.
There, what thou on earth hast given,
Doubly shall be paid again:
Lady, for the sake of heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Blessings rest upon thy head,
Lady of this lordly ha'!
That bright tear that thou didst shed
Fell nae down amang the snaw!
It is gane to heaven aboon,
To the fount of charity;
When thy days on earth are done,
That blest drop shall plead for thee.
Lady of this lordly ha'!
That bright tear that thou didst shed
Fell nae down amang the snaw!
It is gane to heaven aboon,
To the fount of charity;
When thy days on earth are done,
That blest drop shall plead for thee.
The Women Fo'k.
Oh sairly may I rue the day
I fancied first the womankind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae
Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!
They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye for a' their witchery,
The pawky things I lo'e them still.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh, the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
I fancied first the womankind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae
Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!
They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye for a' their witchery,
The pawky things I lo'e them still.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh, the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I've lo'ed them better than mysell,
I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I've lo'ed them better than mysell,
I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
That they hae gentle forms and meet,
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, and faces sweet,
An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud;
An' een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd—
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, and faces sweet,
An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud;
An' een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd—
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
Oh, the women fo'k, &c.
Even but this night nae farther gane,
The date is neither lost nor lang;
I tak ye witness ilka ane,
How fell they fought an' fairly dang.
Their point they've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
The date is neither lost nor lang;
I tak ye witness ilka ane,
How fell they fought an' fairly dang.
Their point they've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
Oh the women fo'k! Oh the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
Oh weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!
M'Lean's Welcome.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And though you be weary,
We'll make your heart cheery,
And welcome our Charlie,
And his loyal train.
We'll bring down the track deer,
We'll bring down the black steer,
The lamb from the bracken,
And doe from the glen;
The salt sea we'll harry,
And bring to our Charlie
The cream from the bothy,
And curd from the pen.
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And though you be weary,
We'll make your heart cheery,
And welcome our Charlie,
And his loyal train.
We'll bring down the track deer,
We'll bring down the black steer,
The lamb from the bracken,
And doe from the glen;
The salt sea we'll harry,
And bring to our Charlie
The cream from the bothy,
And curd from the pen.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the sea, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And you shall drink freely
The dews of Glen-sheerly,
That stream in the starlight
When kings do not ken.
And deep be your meed
Of the wine that is red,
To drink to your sire,
And his friend the M'Lean.
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the sea, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And you shall drink freely
The dews of Glen-sheerly,
That stream in the starlight
When kings do not ken.
And deep be your meed
Of the wine that is red,
To drink to your sire,
And his friend the M'Lean.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
If aught will invite you,
Or more will delight you,
'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
All ranged on the heather,
With bonnet and feather,
Strong arms and broad claymores,
Three hundred and ten!
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
If aught will invite you,
Or more will delight you,
'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
All ranged on the heather,
With bonnet and feather,
Strong arms and broad claymores,
Three hundred and ten!
417
The Maid of the Sea.
Come from the sea,
Maiden to me,
Maiden of mystery, love, and pain!
Wake from thy sleep,
Low in the deep;
Over thy green waves sport again!
Come to this sequester'd spot, love,
Death's where thou art, as where thou art not, love;
Then come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and stormy main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Maiden to me,
Maiden of mystery, love, and pain!
Wake from thy sleep,
Low in the deep;
Over thy green waves sport again!
Come to this sequester'd spot, love,
Death's where thou art, as where thou art not, love;
Then come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and stormy main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Is not the wave
Made for the slave,
Tyrant's chains, and stern control;
Land for the free
Spirit like thee,
Thing of delight to a minstrel's soul?
Come, with thy song of love and of sadness,
Beauty of face and rapture of madness;
Oh, come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and surging main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Made for the slave,
Tyrant's chains, and stern control;
Land for the free
Spirit like thee,
Thing of delight to a minstrel's soul?
Come, with thy song of love and of sadness,
Beauty of face and rapture of madness;
Oh, come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
Rise from the wild and surging main;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again!
Go Home to your Rest.
Go home, go home to your rest, young man,
The sky looks cold in the west, young man;
For should we rove
Through Morna's grove,
A noontide walk is the best, young man.
Go sleep, the heavens look pale, young man,
And sighs are heard in the gale, young man:
A walk in the night,
By the dim moonlight,
A maiden might chance to bewail, young man!
The sky looks cold in the west, young man;
For should we rove
Through Morna's grove,
A noontide walk is the best, young man.
Go sleep, the heavens look pale, young man,
And sighs are heard in the gale, young man:
A walk in the night,
By the dim moonlight,
A maiden might chance to bewail, young man!
When all the world's awake, young man,
A proffer of love I may take, young man;
But the star of truth,
The guide of my youth,
Never pointed to midnight wake, young man.
Go sleep till rise of the sun, young man,
The sage's eye to shun, young man;
For he's watching the flight
Of demons to-night,
And may happen to take thee for one, young man.
A proffer of love I may take, young man;
But the star of truth,
The guide of my youth,
Never pointed to midnight wake, young man.
Go sleep till rise of the sun, young man,
The sage's eye to shun, young man;
For he's watching the flight
Of demons to-night,
And may happen to take thee for one, young man.
The Harp of Ossian.
[_]
I have been sorely blamed by some friends for a sentiment expressed in this song; but I have always felt it painfully that the name of Scotland, the superior nation in everything but wealth, should be lost, not in Britain, for that is proper, but in England. In all despatches we are denominated the English, forsooth! We know ourselves, however, that we are not English, nor never intend to be.
Old harp of the Highlands, how long hast thou slumber'd
In cave of the correi, ungarnish'd, unstrung!
Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd,
Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung.
A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending,
A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole;
Some spirit unseen on the relic attending,
Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul:
In cave of the correi, ungarnish'd, unstrung!
Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd,
Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung.
A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending,
A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole;
Some spirit unseen on the relic attending,
Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul:
“My country, farewell! for the days are expired
On which I could hallow the deeds of the free;
Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired,
They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me.
All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation
Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe;
Then why should the lay of our last degradation
Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow?
On which I could hallow the deeds of the free;
Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired,
They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me.
All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation
Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe;
Then why should the lay of our last degradation
Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow?
“My country, farewell! for the murmurs of sorrow
Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become;
Her sons condescend from new models to borrow,
And voices of strangers prevail in the hum.
Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders,
Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free;
Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers,
Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!”
Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become;
Her sons condescend from new models to borrow,
And voices of strangers prevail in the hum.
Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders,
Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free;
Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers,
Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!”
When Maggy Gangs Away.
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day:
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
When Maggy gangs away?
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day:
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't—
A waefu' wight is he;
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,
An' laid him down to dee;
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
An' learnin' fast to pray:
And oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
A waefu' wight is he;
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,
An' laid him down to dee;
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
An' learnin' fast to pray:
And oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said—in confidence—
The lassie was divine,
And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than ony priest should say:
But oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said—in confidence—
The lassie was divine,
418
Than ony priest should say:
But oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high;
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood,
The laverock frae the sky;
The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise an' join the lay:
An' hey! what a day will be
When Maggy gangs away!
That day will quaver high;
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood,
The laverock frae the sky;
The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise an' join the lay:
An' hey! what a day will be
When Maggy gangs away!
A Father's Lament.
How can you bid this heart be blithe,
When blithe this heart can never be?
I've lost the jewel from my crown—
Look round our circle, and you'll see
That there is ane out o' the ring
Who never can forgotten be—
Ay, there's a blank at my right hand,
That ne'er can be made up to me!
When blithe this heart can never be?
I've lost the jewel from my crown—
Look round our circle, and you'll see
That there is ane out o' the ring
Who never can forgotten be—
Ay, there's a blank at my right hand,
That ne'er can be made up to me!
'Tis said, as water wears the rock,
That time wears out the deepest line;
It may be true wi' hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
For I have learn'd to know and feel—
Though losses should forgotten be—
That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
That time wears out the deepest line;
It may be true wi' hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
For I have learn'd to know and feel—
Though losses should forgotten be—
That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
I blame not Providence's sway,
For I have many joys beside,
And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate'er betide.
A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the supreme decree;
Yet, oh! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
For I have many joys beside,
And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate'er betide.
A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the supreme decree;
Yet, oh! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
There's Gowd in the Breast.
There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale,
An' siller in every blossom;
There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,
And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come my love, at the hour of joy,
When warbling birds sing o'er us;
Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.
An' siller in every blossom;
There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,
And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come my love, at the hour of joy,
When warbling birds sing o'er us;
Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.
The courtier joys in bustle and power,
The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
The proud in their pomp surrounding:
But we hae yon heaven, sae bonnie and blue,
And laverocks skimming out o'er us;
The breezes of health and the valleys of dew—
Oh, the world is all before us!
The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
The proud in their pomp surrounding:
But we hae yon heaven, sae bonnie and blue,
And laverocks skimming out o'er us;
The breezes of health and the valleys of dew—
Oh, the world is all before us!
Why Weeps yon Highland Maid?
Why weeps yon Highland maid
Over the tartan plaid—
Is it a pledge of care,
Or are the blood-drops there?
Tell me, thou hind of humble seeming,
Why the tears on her cheek are gleaming?
Why should the young and fair
Thus weep unpitied there?
Over the tartan plaid—
Is it a pledge of care,
Or are the blood-drops there?
Tell me, thou hind of humble seeming,
Why the tears on her cheek are gleaming?
Why should the young and fair
Thus weep unpitied there?
Stranger, that Highland plaid
Low in the dust was laid;
He who the relic wore,
He is, alas! no more:
He and his loyal clan were trodden
Down by slaves on dark Culloden.
Well o'er a lover's pall,
Well may the tear-drops fall!
Low in the dust was laid;
He who the relic wore,
He is, alas! no more:
He and his loyal clan were trodden
Down by slaves on dark Culloden.
Well o'er a lover's pall,
Well may the tear-drops fall!
Where now her clansman true?
Where is the bonnet blue?
Where the claymore that broke
Fearless through fire and smoke?
Not one gleam by glen or river;
It lies dropp'd from the hand for ever.
Stranger, our fate deplore,
Our ancient name's no more!
Where is the bonnet blue?
Where the claymore that broke
Fearless through fire and smoke?
Not one gleam by glen or river;
It lies dropp'd from the hand for ever.
Stranger, our fate deplore,
Our ancient name's no more!
My Emma, my Darling.
My Emma, my darling, from winter's domain
Let us fly to the glee of the city again,
Where a day never wakes but some joy it renews,
And a night never falls but that joy it pursues;
Where the dance is so light, and the hall is so bright,
And life whirls onward one round of delight.
Would we feel that we love and have spirits refined,
We must mix with the world, and enjoy humankind.
Let us fly to the glee of the city again,
Where a day never wakes but some joy it renews,
And a night never falls but that joy it pursues;
Where the dance is so light, and the hall is so bright,
And life whirls onward one round of delight.
Would we feel that we love and have spirits refined,
We must mix with the world, and enjoy humankind.
Mute nature is lovely in earth and in sky,
It cheers the lone heart and enlivens the eye;
But nowhere can beauty and dignity shine,
So as in the human race fair and divine.
'Mongst these could I love thee, and that love enjoy,
But, ah! in the wilderness fond love would cloy;
To the homes of our kindred our spirits must cling,
And away from their bosoms at last take their wing!
It cheers the lone heart and enlivens the eye;
But nowhere can beauty and dignity shine,
So as in the human race fair and divine.
'Mongst these could I love thee, and that love enjoy,
But, ah! in the wilderness fond love would cloy;
To the homes of our kindred our spirits must cling,
And away from their bosoms at last take their wing!
The Mermaid's Song.
Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Long is thy night of sorrow;
Thy maiden of the mountain deep
Shall meet thee on the morrow.
But oh, when shall that morrow be,
When my true love shall waken;
When shall we meet, refined and free,
Amid the moorland braken?
Long is thy night of sorrow;
Thy maiden of the mountain deep
Shall meet thee on the morrow.
419
When my true love shall waken;
When shall we meet, refined and free,
Amid the moorland braken?
Full low and lonely is thy bed,
The worm even flies thy pillow;
Where now the lips, so comely red,
That kiss'd me 'neath the willow?
Oh, I must smile, and weep the while,
Amid my song of mourning,
At freaks of man in life's short span,
To which there's no returning.
The worm even flies thy pillow;
Where now the lips, so comely red,
That kiss'd me 'neath the willow?
Oh, I must smile, and weep the while,
Amid my song of mourning,
At freaks of man in life's short span,
To which there's no returning.
Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Hope lingers o'er thy slumber:
What though thy years beneath the steep
Should all its flowers outnumber;
Though moons steal o'er, and seasons fly
On time-swift wing unstaying?
Yet there's a spirit in the sky,
That lives o'er thy decaying.
Hope lingers o'er thy slumber:
What though thy years beneath the steep
Should all its flowers outnumber;
Though moons steal o'er, and seasons fly
On time-swift wing unstaying?
Yet there's a spirit in the sky,
That lives o'er thy decaying.
In domes beneath the water springs,
No end hath my sojourning;
And to this land of fading things
Far hence be my returning;
For all the spirits of the deep
Their long last leave are taking.
Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Till the last morn is breaking.
No end hath my sojourning;
And to this land of fading things
Far hence be my returning;
For all the spirits of the deep
Their long last leave are taking.
Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Till the last morn is breaking.
Donald M'Gillavry.
Donald's gane up the hill hard an' hungry,
Donald's come down the hill wild an' angry;
Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly;
Here's to the king, an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry;
Balance them fair, an' balance them cleverly,
Off wi' the counterfeit, Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald's come down the hill wild an' angry;
Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly;
Here's to the king, an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald M'Gillavry;
Balance them fair, an' balance them cleverly,
Off wi' the counterfeit, Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald's come o'er the hill trailin' his tether, man,
As he war wud, or stang'd wi' an' ether, man;
When he gaes back, there's some will look merrily;
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry;
Pack on your back an elwand o' steelary,
Gie them full measure, my Donald M'Gillavry!
As he war wud, or stang'd wi' an' ether, man;
When he gaes back, there's some will look merrily;
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a weaver, Donald M'Gillavry;
Pack on your back an elwand o' steelary,
Gie them full measure, my Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald has foughten wi' reif and roguery,
Donald has dinner'd wi' banes an' beggary;
Better it war for whigs an' whiggery
Meeting the deevil, than Donald M'Gillavry.
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Push about, in an' out, thimble them cleverly,
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald has dinner'd wi' banes an' beggary;
Better it war for whigs an' whiggery
Meeting the deevil, than Donald M'Gillavry.
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a tailor, Donald M'Gillavry,
Push about, in an' out, thimble them cleverly,
Here's to King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald's the callant that bruiks nae tangleness,
Whigging an' prigging an' a' newfangleness;
They maun be gane, he winna be baukit, man,
He maun hae justice, or rarely he'll tak it, man.
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry;
Bore them, an' yerk them, an' lingel them cleverly—
Up wi' King James and Donald M'Gillavry!
Whigging an' prigging an' a' newfangleness;
They maun be gane, he winna be baukit, man,
He maun hae justice, or rarely he'll tak it, man.
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like a cobbler, Donald M'Gillavry;
Bore them, an' yerk them, an' lingel them cleverly—
Up wi' King James and Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald was mumpit wi' mirds and mockery,
Donald was blindit wi' bladds o' property;
Arles ran high, but makings war naething, man;
Gudeness! how Donald is flyting an' fretting, man!
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry;
Skelp them an' scadd them pruved sae unbritherly—
Up wi' King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
Donald was blindit wi' bladds o' property;
Arles ran high, but makings war naething, man;
Gudeness! how Donald is flyting an' fretting, man!
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry,
Come like the deevil, Donald M'Gillavry;
Skelp them an' scadd them pruved sae unbritherly—
Up wi' King James an' Donald M'Gillavry!
O'er the Ocean Bounding.
O'er the ocean bounding,
Other lands surrounding,
Love, I will think of thee!
Though new skies me cover,
And other stars shine over,
Yet thou art still with me.
When at morn or even,
Low I kneel to heaven,
Be my sins forgiven
As my love shall be!
When my hopes are dearest,
And my soul sincerest,
Then I'll remember thee!
Other lands surrounding,
Love, I will think of thee!
Though new skies me cover,
And other stars shine over,
Yet thou art still with me.
When at morn or even,
Low I kneel to heaven,
Be my sins forgiven
As my love shall be!
When my hopes are dearest,
And my soul sincerest,
Then I'll remember thee!
Thee, my soul's sole pleasure,
Thee, its dearest treasure,
Life, health, all to me.
All of land or ocean,
All a world's commotion,
Knits me the more to thee.
When new passions move me,
When I cease to love thee,
May the heavens above me,
Chasten my perfidy!
Even in woe and cumber,
Even in death's last slumber,
I will remember thee!
Thee, its dearest treasure,
Life, health, all to me.
All of land or ocean,
All a world's commotion,
Knits me the more to thee.
When new passions move me,
When I cease to love thee,
May the heavens above me,
Chasten my perfidy!
Even in woe and cumber,
Even in death's last slumber,
I will remember thee!
Charlie is my Darling.
'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.
An' Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.
420
My darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
As Charlie he came up the gate,
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
An' Charlie is my darling, &c.
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
An' Charlie is my darling, &c.
Then ilka bonnie lassie sang,
As to the door she ran,
Our king shall hae his ain again,
An' Charlie is the man:
For Charlie he's my darling, &c.
As to the door she ran,
Our king shall hae his ain again,
An' Charlie is the man:
For Charlie he's my darling, &c.
Outower yon moory mountain,
An' down the craigy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing
But Charlie an' his men.
An' Charlie he's my darling, &c.
An' down the craigy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing
But Charlie an' his men.
An' Charlie he's my darling, &c.
Our Highland hearts are true an' leal,
An' glow without a stain;
Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he's our ain.
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.
An' glow without a stain;
Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he's our ain.
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.
If e'er I am thine.
If e'er I am thine, the birds of the air,
The beasts of the field, and fish of the sea,
Shall in our love and happiness share,
Within their elements fair and free,
And rejoice because I am thine, love.
The beasts of the field, and fish of the sea,
Shall in our love and happiness share,
Within their elements fair and free,
And rejoice because I am thine, love.
We'll have no flowers, nor words of love,
Nor dreams of bliss that never can be;
Our trust shall be in Heaven above:
Our hope in a far futurity
Must arise, when I am made thine, love.
Nor dreams of bliss that never can be;
Our trust shall be in Heaven above:
Our hope in a far futurity
Must arise, when I am made thine, love.
And this shall raise our thoughts more high
Than visions of vanity here below;
For chequer'd through life our path must lie—
Mid gleams of joy and shades of woe
We must journey, when I am thine, love.
Than visions of vanity here below;
For chequer'd through life our path must lie—
Mid gleams of joy and shades of woe
We must journey, when I am thine, love.
Meg o' Marley.
Oh ken ye Meg o' Marley glen,
The bonnie blue-e'ed dearie?
She's play'd the deil amang the men,
An' a' the land's grown eery.
She's stown the “Bangor” frae the clerk,
An' snool'd him wi' the shame o't;
The minister's fa'n through the text,
An' Meg gets a' the blame o't.
The bonnie blue-e'ed dearie?
She's play'd the deil amang the men,
An' a' the land's grown eery.
She's stown the “Bangor” frae the clerk,
An' snool'd him wi' the shame o't;
The minister's fa'n through the text,
An' Meg gets a' the blame o't.
The ploughman ploughs without the sock;
The gadman whistles sparely;
The shepherd pines amang his flock,
An' turns his e'en to Marley;
The tailor lad's fa'n ower the bed;
The cobbler ca's a parley;
The weaver's neb's out through the web,
An' a' for Meg o' Marley.
The gadman whistles sparely;
The shepherd pines amang his flock,
An' turns his e'en to Marley;
The tailor lad's fa'n ower the bed;
The cobbler ca's a parley;
The weaver's neb's out through the web,
An' a' for Meg o' Marley.
What's to be done, for our gudeman
Is flyting late an' early?
He rises but to curse an' ban,
An' sits down but to ferly.
But ne'er had love a brighter lowe,
Than light his torches sparely
At the bright e'en an' blithesome brow
O' bonnie Meg o' Marley.
Is flyting late an' early?
He rises but to curse an' ban,
An' sits down but to ferly.
But ne'er had love a brighter lowe,
Than light his torches sparely
At the bright e'en an' blithesome brow
O' bonnie Meg o' Marley.
The Ladies' Evening Song.
Oh the glass is no for you,
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
For it dyes your manly brow,
An' it fills you roarin' fu',
Bonnie laddie O.
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
Bonnie laddie O!
The glass is no for you,
For it dyes your manly brow,
An' it fills you roarin' fu',
Bonnie laddie O.
Then drive us not away
Wi' your drinkin' O;
We like your presence mair
Than you're thinkin' o';
How happy will you be
In our blithesome companye,
Taking innocence and glee
For your drinking O!
Wi' your drinkin' O;
We like your presence mair
Than you're thinkin' o';
How happy will you be
In our blithesome companye,
Taking innocence and glee
For your drinking O!
Now your e'en are glancing bright,
Bonny laddie O,
Wi' a pure an' joyfu' light,
Bonnie laddie O:
But at ten o'clock at night,
Take a lady's word in plight,
We will see another sight,
Bonnie laddie O.
Bonny laddie O,
Wi' a pure an' joyfu' light,
Bonnie laddie O:
But at ten o'clock at night,
Take a lady's word in plight,
We will see another sight,
Bonnie laddie O.
There's a right path an' a wrang,
Bonnie laddie O;
An' you needna argue lang,
Bonnie laddie O.
For the mair you taste an' see
O' our harmless companye,
Aye the happier you will be,
Bonnie laddie O!
Bonnie laddie O;
An' you needna argue lang,
Bonnie laddie O.
For the mair you taste an' see
O' our harmless companye,
Aye the happier you will be,
Bonnie laddie O!
421
Mary, canst thou leave me?
Mary, canst thou leave me?
Is there nought will move thee?
Dearest maid, believe me,
I but live to love thee.
When we two are parted,
When the seas us sever,
Still this heart, deserted,
Clings to thee for ever.
Days so dull and dreary,
Nights so mirk and eerie,
Is there nought can cheer me?
Never! my love, never!
Is there nought will move thee?
Dearest maid, believe me,
I but live to love thee.
When we two are parted,
When the seas us sever,
Still this heart, deserted,
Clings to thee for ever.
Days so dull and dreary,
Nights so mirk and eerie,
Is there nought can cheer me?
Never! my love, never!
Connal, cease to borrow
Rueful words to chide me!
From this land of sorrow
Haste, oh, haste to hide thee!
Spirits round us hover,
Breathing death and plunder;
But when this is over,
Which we tremble under,
Then, dear youth, believe me,
Though this time I grieve thee,
Kindly I'll receive thee,
Never more to sunder!
Rueful words to chide me!
From this land of sorrow
Haste, oh, haste to hide thee!
Spirits round us hover,
Breathing death and plunder;
But when this is over,
Which we tremble under,
Then, dear youth, believe me,
Though this time I grieve thee,
Kindly I'll receive thee,
Never more to sunder!
Mary is my only Joy.
Mary is my only joy,
Mary is blithe and Mary is coy,
Mary's the gowd where there's nae alloy;
Though black—yet oh, she's bonnie;
Her breath is the birken bower o' spring,
Her lips the young rose opening,
And her hair is the hue of the raven's wing;
She's black, but oh, she's bonnie.
Mary is blithe and Mary is coy,
Mary's the gowd where there's nae alloy;
Though black—yet oh, she's bonnie;
Her breath is the birken bower o' spring,
Her lips the young rose opening,
And her hair is the hue of the raven's wing;
She's black, but oh, she's bonnie.
The star that gilds the evening sky,
Though bright its ray, may never vie
Wi' Mary's dark and liquid eye;
Though black, yet oh, she's bonnie.
In yon green wood there is a bower,
Where lies a bed of witching power;
Under that bed there blooms a flower,
That steals the heart unwary!
Though bright its ray, may never vie
Wi' Mary's dark and liquid eye;
Though black, yet oh, she's bonnie.
In yon green wood there is a bower,
Where lies a bed of witching power;
Under that bed there blooms a flower,
That steals the heart unwary!
Oh, there is a charm, and there is a spell,
That, oh and alack! I know too well—
A pang that the tongue may hardly tell,
Though felt baith late and early.
The beauteous flower beneath the tree,
The spell of the wildest witcherye,
The gowd and the gear, an' a' to me,
Is my black but my bonnie Mary!
That, oh and alack! I know too well—
A pang that the tongue may hardly tell,
Though felt baith late and early.
The beauteous flower beneath the tree,
The spell of the wildest witcherye,
The gowd and the gear, an' a' to me,
Is my black but my bonnie Mary!
O, weel befa' the Maiden gay.
Oh, weel befa' the maiden gay,
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonnie May
That wons in yonder glen;
Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Among sae mony men.
Oh, weel befa' the bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonnie May
That wons in yonder glen;
Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Among sae mony men.
Oh, weel befa' the bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
'Tis sweet to hear the music float
Along the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkin's lightsome race—
The speckled kid in wanton chase—
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowery den;
But sweeter far the bonnie face
That smiles in yonder glen!
Along the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkin's lightsome race—
The speckled kid in wanton chase—
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowery den;
But sweeter far the bonnie face
That smiles in yonder glen!
Oh, had it no' been for the blush
O' maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;
But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;
But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!
O' maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;
But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;
But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!
There's beauty in the violet's vest—
There's hinney in the haw—
There's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main—
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far my bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
There's hinney in the haw—
There's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main—
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far my bonnie thing
That wons in yonder glen!
Cameron's Welcome Hame.
Oh strike your harp, my Mary,
Its loudest, liveliest key,
An' join the sounding correi
In its wild melody;
For burn, an' breeze, an' billow,
Their sangs are a' the same,
And every waving willow
Soughs “Cameron's welcome hame.”
Its loudest, liveliest key,
An' join the sounding correi
In its wild melody;
For burn, an' breeze, an' billow,
Their sangs are a' the same,
And every waving willow
Soughs “Cameron's welcome hame.”
422
Oh list yon thrush, my Mary,
That warbles on the pine,
His strain, sae light an' airy,
Accords in joy wi' thine;
The lark that soars to heaven,
The sea-bird on the faem,
Are singing, frae morn till even,
Brave “Cameron's welcome hame.”
That warbles on the pine,
His strain, sae light an' airy,
Accords in joy wi' thine;
The lark that soars to heaven,
The sea-bird on the faem,
Are singing, frae morn till even,
Brave “Cameron's welcome hame.”
D'ye mind, my ain dear Mary,
When we hid in the tree,
An' saw our Auchnacarry
All flaming fearfully?
The fire was red, red glaring,
An' ruefu' was the scene,
An' aye you cried, despairing,
My father's ha's are gane!
When we hid in the tree,
An' saw our Auchnacarry
All flaming fearfully?
The fire was red, red glaring,
An' ruefu' was the scene,
An' aye you cried, despairing,
My father's ha's are gane!
I said, my ain dear Mary,
D'ye see yon cloud sae dun,
That sails aboon the carry,
An' hides the weary sun?
Behind yon curtain dreary,
Beyond, and far within,
There's Ane, my dear wee Mary,
Wha views this deadly sin.
D'ye see yon cloud sae dun,
That sails aboon the carry,
An' hides the weary sun?
Behind yon curtain dreary,
Beyond, and far within,
There's Ane, my dear wee Mary,
Wha views this deadly sin.
He sees this waefu' reaving,
The rage o' dastard knave,
He saw our deeds of bravery,
And He'll reward the brave.
Though all we had was given
For loyalty an' faith,
I still had hopes that Heaven
Would right the hero's skaith.
The rage o' dastard knave,
He saw our deeds of bravery,
And He'll reward the brave.
Though all we had was given
For loyalty an' faith,
I still had hopes that Heaven
Would right the hero's skaith.
The day is dawn'd in heaven
For which we a' thought lang;
The good, the just, is given
To right our nation's wrang.
My ain dear Auchnacarry,
I hae thought lang for thee;
Oh sing to your harp, my Mary,
An' sound its bonniest key!
For which we a' thought lang;
The good, the just, is given
To right our nation's wrang.
My ain dear Auchnacarry,
I hae thought lang for thee;
Oh sing to your harp, my Mary,
An' sound its bonniest key!
Ye Breezes that spring.
Ye breezes that spring in some land unknown,
Or sleep on your clouds of the eider down,
Come over the mountain and over the dale,
More sweet than Arabia's spicy gale!
Come over the heath-flower's purple bloom,
And gather the birk's and the thyme's perfume,
For these are the sweets that bring no alloy
To dark Caledonia's mountain joy.
Or sleep on your clouds of the eider down,
Come over the mountain and over the dale,
More sweet than Arabia's spicy gale!
Come over the heath-flower's purple bloom,
And gather the birk's and the thyme's perfume,
For these are the sweets that bring no alloy
To dark Caledonia's mountain joy.
But oh thou breeze of the valley and hill!
Thou canst bring a richer offering still:
The kindly wish from the hall and the cot,
And the poor man's blessing that's never forgot,
The shepherd's proud boast over every degree,
And the song of the maiden the dearest to me:
Come laden with these, thou breeze of the hill!
And the lay of the Minstrel shall hail thee still.
Thou canst bring a richer offering still:
The kindly wish from the hall and the cot,
And the poor man's blessing that's never forgot,
The shepherd's proud boast over every degree,
And the song of the maiden the dearest to me:
Come laden with these, thou breeze of the hill!
And the lay of the Minstrel shall hail thee still.
Come rowe the Boat
[_]
Was written to a boat-song that I heard in the Highlands, sung by the rowers. It is a short cross measure—one of those to which it is impossible to compose good or flowing verses, but when sung, is very sweet.
Come rowe the boat, rowe the boat,
Ply to the pibroch's note,
Steer for yon lonely cot
O'er the wild main;
For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,
And sorely she'll weary
To hear our bold strain.
Ply to the pibroch's note,
Steer for yon lonely cot
O'er the wild main;
For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,
And sorely she'll weary
To hear our bold strain.
Then rowe for her lover,
And play, boys, to move her;
The tide-stream is over,
And mild blows the gale.
I see her a-roaming
Like swan in the gloaming,
Or angel a-coming
Her Ronald to hail!
And play, boys, to move her;
The tide-stream is over,
And mild blows the gale.
I see her a-roaming
Like swan in the gloaming,
Or angel a-coming
Her Ronald to hail!
The deer of Ben-Aitley
Is comely and stately,
As tall and sedately
She looks o'er the dale;
The sea-bird rides sprightly
O'er billows so lightly,
Or boldly and brightly
Floats high on the gale.
Is comely and stately,
As tall and sedately
She looks o'er the dale;
The sea-bird rides sprightly
O'er billows so lightly,
Or boldly and brightly
Floats high on the gale.
But oh, my dear Mary,
What heart can compare thee
With aught in the valley,
The mountain, or tide?
All nature looks dreary
When thou art not near me,
But lovely and dearly
When thou'rt by my side.
What heart can compare thee
With aught in the valley,
The mountain, or tide?
All nature looks dreary
When thou art not near me,
But lovely and dearly
When thou'rt by my side.
The Highlander's Farewell.
Oh where shall I gae seek my bread,
Or where shall I gae wander?
Oh where shall I gae hide my head,
For here I'll bide nae langer?
The seas may rowe, the winds may blow,
And swathe me round in danger,
But Scotland I maun now forego,
And roam a lonely stranger.
Or where shall I gae wander?
Oh where shall I gae hide my head,
For here I'll bide nae langer?
The seas may rowe, the winds may blow,
And swathe me round in danger,
But Scotland I maun now forego,
And roam a lonely stranger.
The glen that was my father's own,
Maun be by his forsaken;
The house that was my father's home
Is levell'd with the braken.
Oh hon! oh hon! our glory's gone,
Stole by a ruthless reaver—
Our hands are on the broad claymore,
But the might is broke for ever!
Maun be by his forsaken;
The house that was my father's home
Is levell'd with the braken.
423
Stole by a ruthless reaver—
Our hands are on the broad claymore,
But the might is broke for ever!
And thou, my prince, my injured prince,
Thy people have disown'd thee—
Have hunted and have driven thee hence,
With ruined chiefs around thee.
Though hard beset, when I forget
Thy fate, young hapless rover,
This broken heart shall cease to beat,
And all its griefs be over.
Thy people have disown'd thee—
Have hunted and have driven thee hence,
With ruined chiefs around thee.
Though hard beset, when I forget
Thy fate, young hapless rover,
This broken heart shall cease to beat,
And all its griefs be over.
Farewell, farewell, dear Caledon,
Land of the Gael no longer!
Strangers have trod thy glory on,
In guile and treachery stronger.
The brave and just sink in the dust,
On ruin's brink they quiver—
Heaven's pitying eye is closed on thee;
Adieu, adieu for ever!
Land of the Gael no longer!
Strangers have trod thy glory on,
In guile and treachery stronger.
The brave and just sink in the dust,
On ruin's brink they quiver—
Heaven's pitying eye is closed on thee;
Adieu, adieu for ever!
How dear to me the Hour.
How dear to me the hour when daylight springs,
And sheds new glories on the opening view,
When westward far the towering mountain flings
His shadow, fringed with rainbows on the dew,
And the love-waken'd lark enraptured springs
To heaven's own gate, his carols to renew!
And sheds new glories on the opening view,
When westward far the towering mountain flings
His shadow, fringed with rainbows on the dew,
And the love-waken'd lark enraptured springs
To heaven's own gate, his carols to renew!
In every flowering shrub then life is new,
As opening on the sun its gladsome eye;
So is life's morning—blithely we pursue
Hope's gilded rainbow of the heavenly dye,
Till worn and weary we our travel rue,
And in life's cheerless gloaming yearn and die.
As opening on the sun its gladsome eye;
So is life's morning—blithely we pursue
Hope's gilded rainbow of the heavenly dye,
Till worn and weary we our travel rue,
And in life's cheerless gloaming yearn and die.
The Hill of Lochiel.
Long have I pined for thee,
Land of my infancy;
Now will I kneel on thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
Hill of the sturdy steer,
Hill of the roe and deer,
Hill of the streamlet clear,
I love thee well!
Land of my infancy;
Now will I kneel on thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
Hill of the sturdy steer,
Hill of the roe and deer,
Hill of the streamlet clear,
I love thee well!
When in my youthful prime,
Correi or crag to climb,
Or tow'ring cliff sublime,
Was my delight;
Scaling the eagle's nest,
Wounding the raven's breast,
Skimming the mountain's crest,
Gladsome and light.
Correi or crag to climb,
Or tow'ring cliff sublime,
Was my delight;
Scaling the eagle's nest,
Wounding the raven's breast,
Skimming the mountain's crest,
Gladsome and light.
Then rose a bolder game—
Young Charlie Stuart came,
Cameron, that loyal name,
Foremost must be!
Hard then our warrior meed,
Glorious our warrior deed,
Till we were doom'd to bleed
By treachery.
Young Charlie Stuart came,
Cameron, that loyal name,
Foremost must be!
Hard then our warrior meed,
Glorious our warrior deed,
Till we were doom'd to bleed
By treachery.
Then did the red blood stream;
Then was the broadsword's gleam
Quench'd, in fair freedom's beam
No more to shine:
Then was the morning's brow,
Red with the fiery glow;
Fell hall and hamlet low,
All that were mine.
Then was the broadsword's gleam
Quench'd, in fair freedom's beam
No more to shine:
Then was the morning's brow,
Red with the fiery glow;
Fell hall and hamlet low,
All that were mine.
Far in a hostile land,
Stretch'd on a foreign strand,
Oft has the tear-drop bland
Scorch'd as it fell.
Once was I spurn'd from thee,
Long have I mourn'd for thee,
Now I'm return'd to thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
Stretch'd on a foreign strand,
Oft has the tear-drop bland
Scorch'd as it fell.
Once was I spurn'd from thee,
Long have I mourn'd for thee,
Now I'm return'd to thee,
Hill of Lochiel!
The Flowers of Scotland.
What are the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?—
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonnie heather bell,
Oh they're the flowers of Scotland
All others that excel!
All others that excel?
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?—
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonnie heather bell,
Oh they're the flowers of Scotland
All others that excel!
Though England eyes her roses,
With pride she'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
Still nods outow'r the fell;
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather bell?
With pride she'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
Still nods outow'r the fell;
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather bell?
For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the gem away:
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gie his mou a thraw.
Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the gem away:
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gie his mou a thraw.
Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,
The emblems o' the free!
Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we'll be.
A foe had better brave the deil
Within his reeky cell,
Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
Or bonnie heather bell.
The emblems o' the free!
Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we'll be.
424
Within his reeky cell,
Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
Or bonnie heather bell.
My Love's Bonnie.
My love's bonnie as bonnie can be,
My love's blithe as the bird on the tree;
But I like my bonnie lass, an' she loes me,
An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
Oh, how I will cling unto my love's side,
And I will kiss my bonnie, bonnie bride;
And I'll whisper a vow, whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.
My love's blithe as the bird on the tree;
But I like my bonnie lass, an' she loes me,
An' we'll meet by our bower in the morning.
Oh, how I will cling unto my love's side,
And I will kiss my bonnie, bonnie bride;
And I'll whisper a vow, whatever betide,
To my little flower in the morning.
Her breath is as sweet as the fragrant shower
Of dew that is blawn frae the rowan-tree flower;
Oh! never were the sweets of vernal bower,
Like my love's cheek in the morning.
Her eye is the blue-bell of the spring,
Her hair is the blackbird's bonnie wing;
To her dear side, oh! how I'll cling,
On our greenwood walk in the morning.
Of dew that is blawn frae the rowan-tree flower;
Oh! never were the sweets of vernal bower,
Like my love's cheek in the morning.
Her eye is the blue-bell of the spring,
Her hair is the blackbird's bonnie wing;
To her dear side, oh! how I'll cling,
On our greenwood walk in the morning.
Sing on, sing on, my Bonnie Bird.
Sing on, sing on, my bonnie bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen, O,
When here, aneath the hawthorn wild
I met my bonnie Jean, O!
My blude ran prinklin' through my veins,
My hair begoud to steer, O;
My heart play'd deep against my breast,
When I beheld my dear, O!
The sang ye sung yestreen, O,
When here, aneath the hawthorn wild
I met my bonnie Jean, O!
My blude ran prinklin' through my veins,
My hair begoud to steer, O;
My heart play'd deep against my breast,
When I beheld my dear, O!
O weel's me on my happy lot,
O weel's me o' my dearie,
O weel's me o' the charming spot
Where a' combined to cheer me!
The mavis liltit on the bush,
The laverock o'er the green, O,
The lily bloom'd, the daisy blush'd,
But a' war nought to Jean, O!
O weel's me o' my dearie,
O weel's me o' the charming spot
Where a' combined to cheer me!
The mavis liltit on the bush,
The laverock o'er the green, O,
The lily bloom'd, the daisy blush'd,
But a' war nought to Jean, O!
Sing on, sing on, my bonnie thrush,
Be nouther fley'd nor eerie;
I'll wad your love sits in the bush,
That gars ye sing sae cheerie.
She may be kind, she may be sweet,
She may be neat an' clean, O,
But oh, she's but a drysome mate
Compared wi' bonnie Jean, O!
Be nouther fley'd nor eerie;
I'll wad your love sits in the bush,
That gars ye sing sae cheerie.
She may be kind, she may be sweet,
She may be neat an' clean, O,
But oh, she's but a drysome mate
Compared wi' bonnie Jean, O!
If love wad open a' her stores,
An' a' her blooming treasures,
An' bid me rise, an' turn an' choose,
An' taste her chiefest pleasures.
My choice wad be the rosy cheek,
The modest beaming eye, O;
The auburn hair, the bosom fair,
The lips o' coral dye, O!
An' a' her blooming treasures,
An' bid me rise, an' turn an' choose,
An' taste her chiefest pleasures.
My choice wad be the rosy cheek,
The modest beaming eye, O;
The auburn hair, the bosom fair,
The lips o' coral dye, O!
A bramble shade around our head,
A burnie popplin by, O;
Our bed the sward, our sheet the plaid,
Our canopy the sky, O!
An' here's the burn, an' there's the bush,
Around the flowery green, O;
An' this the plaid, an' sure the lass
Wad be my bonnie Jean, O!
A burnie popplin by, O;
Our bed the sward, our sheet the plaid,
Our canopy the sky, O!
An' here's the burn, an' there's the bush,
Around the flowery green, O;
An' this the plaid, an' sure the lass
Wad be my bonnie Jean, O!
Hear me, thou bonnie modest moon,
Ye sternies, twinklin' high, O,
An' a' ye gentle powers aboon,
That roam athwart the sky, O!
Ye see me gratefu' for the past,
Ye saw me blest yestreen, O,
An' ever till I breathe my last,
Ye'll see me true to Jean, O!
Ye sternies, twinklin' high, O,
An' a' ye gentle powers aboon,
That roam athwart the sky, O!
Ye see me gratefu' for the past,
Ye saw me blest yestreen, O,
An' ever till I breathe my last,
Ye'll see me true to Jean, O!
Love Letter.
Ah, Maggy, thou art gane away,
And left me here to languish;
To daunder on frae day to day,
Swathed in a sort o' anguish.
My mind's the aspen o' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean.
And left me here to languish;
To daunder on frae day to day,
Swathed in a sort o' anguish.
My mind's the aspen o' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean.
I downa bide to see the moon
Blink o'er the hill sae dearly,
Late on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I loe dearly.
An' when down by the water clear
At e'en I'm lonely roaming,
I sigh, an' think if ane were here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
Blink o'er the hill sae dearly,
Late on a bonnie face she shone,
A face that I loe dearly.
An' when down by the water clear
At e'en I'm lonely roaming,
I sigh, an' think if ane were here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
Ah, Maggy, thou art gane away,
An' I nae mair shall see thee;
Now a' the lee-lang simmer day,
An' a' the night I weary;
For thou wert aye sae sweet, sae gay,
Sae teazing an' sae canty,
I dinna blush to swear an' say,
In faith I canna want thee!
An' I nae mair shall see thee;
Now a' the lee-lang simmer day,
An' a' the night I weary;
For thou wert aye sae sweet, sae gay,
Sae teazing an' sae canty,
I dinna blush to swear an' say,
In faith I canna want thee!
Oh, in the slippery paths o' love
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
And virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger,
An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang,
Is best aware of danger.
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
And virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger,
An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang,
Is best aware of danger.
425
May still thy heart be kind an' true,
A' ither maids excelling,
An' heaven shall shed its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring, an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early,
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loes thee dearly!
A' ither maids excelling,
An' heaven shall shed its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring, an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early,
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loes thee dearly!
Mischievous Woman.
Could this ill warld hae been contrived
To stand without mischievous woman,
How peacefu' bodies might hae lived,
Released frae a' the ills sae common!
But since it is the waefu' case,
That man maun hae this teazing crony;
Why sic a sweet bewitching face?
Oh, had she no been made sae bonnie!
To stand without mischievous woman,
How peacefu' bodies might hae lived,
Released frae a' the ills sae common!
But since it is the waefu' case,
That man maun hae this teazing crony;
Why sic a sweet bewitching face?
Oh, had she no been made sae bonnie!
I might hae roam'd wi' cheerfu' mind,
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As careless as the wandering wind,
As happy as the lamb beside me;
I might hae screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily,
Had we but wantit a' the Megs,
Wi' glossy een sae dark an' wily.
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As careless as the wandering wind,
As happy as the lamb beside me;
I might hae screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily,
Had we but wantit a' the Megs,
Wi' glossy een sae dark an' wily.
I saw the danger, fear'd the dart,
The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking,
Yet open laid my wareless heart,
An' gat the wound that keeps me waking.
My harp waves on the willow green,
O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony
Sin' e'er I saw that pawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonnie!
The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking,
Yet open laid my wareless heart,
An' gat the wound that keeps me waking.
My harp waves on the willow green,
O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony
Sin' e'er I saw that pawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonnie!
Fair was thy Blossom.
Fair was thy blossom, bonnie flower,
That open'd like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay.
How oft above thy lowly bed,
When all in silence slumber'd low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
That open'd like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay.
How oft above thy lowly bed,
When all in silence slumber'd low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
Fair was thy blossom, bonnie flower,
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower,
In peace thy morning hymn to sing.
Thy little foot across the lawn
Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower,
In peace thy morning hymn to sing.
Thy little foot across the lawn
Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
The fatal shaft was on the wing,
Thy spotless soul from guilt to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string,
That twang'd and seal'd thine eye for ever.
I saw thee late the emblem true
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Stand on the upmost verge in view,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.
Thy spotless soul from guilt to sever;
A tear of pity wet the string,
That twang'd and seal'd thine eye for ever.
I saw thee late the emblem true
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Stand on the upmost verge in view,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.
But now I see thee stretch'd at rest—
To break that rest shall wake no morrow—
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
May thy long sleep be sound and sweet,
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be!
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
To break that rest shall wake no morrow—
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
May thy long sleep be sound and sweet,
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be!
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee.
Courting Song.
The day-beam's unco laith to part,
It lingers o'er yon summit low'ring,
While I stand here with beating heart,
Behind the brier and willow cow'ring.
The gloamin' stern keeks o'er the yoke,
An' strews wi' goud the streams sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
It lingers o'er yon summit low'ring,
While I stand here with beating heart,
Behind the brier and willow cow'ring.
The gloamin' stern keeks o'er the yoke,
An' strews wi' goud the streams sae glassy;
The raven sleeps aboon the rock,
An' I wait for my bonnie lassie.
Weel may I tent the siller dew,
That comes at eve sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
O' nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree,
The night-breeze o'er the broomwood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping.
That comes at eve sae saftly stealing;
The silken hue, the bonnie blue
O' nature's rich an' radiant ceiling;
The lily lea, the vernal tree,
The night-breeze o'er the broomwood creeping;
The fading day, the milky way,
The star-beam on the water sleeping.
For gin my lassie were but here,
The jewel of my earthly treasure,
I'll hear nought but her accents dear,
Whispered in love's delicious measure.
Although the bat, wi' velvet wing,
Wheels round our bower sae dark an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Placed by thy side, my bonnie lassie!
The jewel of my earthly treasure,
I'll hear nought but her accents dear,
Whispered in love's delicious measure.
Although the bat, wi' velvet wing,
Wheels round our bower sae dark an' grassy,
Oh, I'll be happier than a king,
Placed by thy side, my bonnie lassie!
Nae art hast thou, nae pawky wile,
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile,
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
There is a language in thy e'e,
A music in thy voice of feeling,
The mildest virgin modestye,
An' soul that dwells within revealing.
The rapid flow of love impelling;
But oh, the love that lights thy smile,
Wad lure an angel frae his dwelling!
There is a language in thy e'e,
A music in thy voice of feeling,
The mildest virgin modestye,
An' soul that dwells within revealing.
She comes with maiden's cautious art,
Her stealing steps to tears impel me,
For ah! the beatings of her heart
Come flichterin' on the breeze to tell me.
Flee, a' ye sorrows, on the wind,
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye!
Nae thought shall waver through my mind,
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
Her stealing steps to tears impel me,
For ah! the beatings of her heart
Come flichterin' on the breeze to tell me.
Flee, a' ye sorrows, on the wind,
Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye!
Nae thought shall waver through my mind,
But raptures wi' my bonnie lassie.
426
There's nae Laddie coming.
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean,
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,
Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;
An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,
Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;
An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.
O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young,
I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;
You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang,
An' bore me about when you hardly dought gang.
An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery e'e,
You watch'd your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;
I felt the cool hand and the kindly embrace,
An' the warm trickling tears drappin' aft on my face.
I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;
You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang,
An' bore me about when you hardly dought gang.
An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery e'e,
You watch'd your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;
I felt the cool hand and the kindly embrace,
An' the warm trickling tears drappin' aft on my face.
Sae wae was my kind heart to see my Jean weep,
I closed my sick e'e, though I wasna asleep;
And I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee.
Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
Sic true love as I do, or ken ye sae weel;
My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.
I closed my sick e'e, though I wasna asleep;
And I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee.
Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
Sic true love as I do, or ken ye sae weel;
My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.
Appie M'Gie.
O Love has done muckle in city an' glen,
In tears of the women, an' vows of the men;
But the sweet little rogue, wi' his visions o' bliss,
Has never done aught sae unhallow'd as this.
For what do ye think?—at a dance on the green,
Afore the dew fell through the gloamin' yestreen,
He has woundit the bosom, an' blindit the e'e,
Of the flower o' our valley, young Appie M'Gie.
In tears of the women, an' vows of the men;
But the sweet little rogue, wi' his visions o' bliss,
Has never done aught sae unhallow'd as this.
For what do ye think?—at a dance on the green,
Afore the dew fell through the gloamin' yestreen,
He has woundit the bosom, an' blindit the e'e,
Of the flower o' our valley, young Appie M'Gie.
Young Appie was sweet as the zephyr of even,
And blithe as the laverock that carols in heaven;
As bonnie as ever was bud o' the thorn,
Or rose that unfolds to the breath o' the morn.
Her form was the fairest o' nature's design,
And her soul was as pure as her face was divine:
Ah, Love! 'tis a shame that a model so true,
By thee should be melted and moulded anew.
And blithe as the laverock that carols in heaven;
As bonnie as ever was bud o' the thorn,
Or rose that unfolds to the breath o' the morn.
Her form was the fairest o' nature's design,
And her soul was as pure as her face was divine:
Ah, Love! 'tis a shame that a model so true,
By thee should be melted and moulded anew.
The little pale flow'rets blush deep for thy blame;
The fringe o' the daisy is purple wi' shame;
The heath-breeze that kisses the cheeks o' the free,
Has a tint of the mellow soft-breathings of thee.
Of all the wild wasters of glee and of hue,
And eyes that have depths o' the ocean of blue,
Love, thou art the chief: and a shame upon thee,
For this deed thou hast done to young Appie M'Gie!
The fringe o' the daisy is purple wi' shame;
The heath-breeze that kisses the cheeks o' the free,
Has a tint of the mellow soft-breathings of thee.
Of all the wild wasters of glee and of hue,
And eyes that have depths o' the ocean of blue,
Love, thou art the chief: and a shame upon thee,
For this deed thou hast done to young Appie M'Gie!
The Gathering of the Clans.
There's news come ower the Highlands yestreen,
Will soon gar bonnets an' broadswords keen,
An' philabegs short an' tartans green,
Shine over the shore in the morning.
He comes, he comes, our spirits to cheer,
To cherish the land he holds so dear,
To banish the reaver,
The base deceiver,
And raise the fame of the clans for ever;
Our prince's array
Is in Moidart bay;
Come raise the clamour
Of bagpipes' yamour,
And join our loved Prince in the morning.
Will soon gar bonnets an' broadswords keen,
An' philabegs short an' tartans green,
Shine over the shore in the morning.
He comes, he comes, our spirits to cheer,
To cherish the land he holds so dear,
To banish the reaver,
The base deceiver,
And raise the fame of the clans for ever;
Our prince's array
Is in Moidart bay;
Come raise the clamour
Of bagpipes' yamour,
And join our loved Prince in the morning.
Come, brave Lochiel, the honour be thine,
The first in loyal array to shine;
If bold Clan-Ranald and thee combine,
Then who dares remain in the morning?
Glengarry will stand with arm of steel,
And Keppoch is blood from head to heel;
The Whiggers o' Skye may gang to the deil,
When Connal and Donald,
And gallant Clan-Ranald,
Are all in array,
And hasting away
To welcome their Prince in the morning.
The first in loyal array to shine;
If bold Clan-Ranald and thee combine,
Then who dares remain in the morning?
Glengarry will stand with arm of steel,
And Keppoch is blood from head to heel;
The Whiggers o' Skye may gang to the deil,
When Connal and Donald,
And gallant Clan-Ranald,
Are all in array,
And hasting away
To welcome their Prince in the morning.
The Appin will come while coming is good;
The stern M'Intosh is of trusty blood;
M'Kenzie and Fraser
Will come at their leisure,
The Whiggers of Sutherland scorning:
The Athol men keen as fire from steel:
M'Pherson for Charlie will battle the deil;
The hardy Clan-Donnoch,
Is up in the Rannoch,
Unawed by the pride of haughty Argyle;
And lordly Drummond
Is belted, and coming
To join his loved Prince in the morning.
The stern M'Intosh is of trusty blood;
M'Kenzie and Fraser
Will come at their leisure,
The Whiggers of Sutherland scorning:
The Athol men keen as fire from steel:
M'Pherson for Charlie will battle the deil;
The hardy Clan-Donnoch,
Is up in the Rannoch,
Unawed by the pride of haughty Argyle;
And lordly Drummond
Is belted, and coming
To join his loved Prince in the morning.
Come all that are true men, steel to the bane,
Come all that reflect on the days that are gane,
Come all that hae breeks and all that hae nane,
And all that are bred unto sorning—
Come Moidart and Moy, M'Gunn and M'Craw,
M'Dugalds, M'Donalds, M'Devils, an' a',
M'Duffs an' M'Dumpies,
M'Leods an' M'Lumpies,
With claymores gleaming,
And standards streaming,
Come swift as the roe,
For weel or for woe,
That Whigs in their error,
May quake for terror,
To see our array in the morning.
Come all that reflect on the days that are gane,
Come all that hae breeks and all that hae nane,
And all that are bred unto sorning—
Come Moidart and Moy, M'Gunn and M'Craw,
M'Dugalds, M'Donalds, M'Devils, an' a',
M'Duffs an' M'Dumpies,
M'Leods an' M'Lumpies,
With claymores gleaming,
And standards streaming,
Come swift as the roe,
For weel or for woe,
That Whigs in their error,
May quake for terror,
To see our array in the morning.
427
I hae naebody now.
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now,
To meet me upon the green,
Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,
An' joy in her deep blue een;
Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,
An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while
That had happen'd when I was away.
To meet me upon the green,
Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,
An' joy in her deep blue een;
Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,
An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while
That had happen'd when I was away.
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now,
To clasp to my bosom at even,
O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An' pray for a blessing from heaven.
An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face,
In the morning that met my eye,
Where are they now, where are they now?
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
To clasp to my bosom at even,
O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An' pray for a blessing from heaven.
An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face,
In the morning that met my eye,
Where are they now, where are they now?
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens,
An' oh may they never prove,
That sharpest degree o' agony
For the child o' their earthly love—
To see a flower in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay,
Then calmly aneath the hand o' death
Breathe its sweet soul away!
An' oh may they never prove,
That sharpest degree o' agony
For the child o' their earthly love—
To see a flower in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay,
Then calmly aneath the hand o' death
Breathe its sweet soul away!
O dinna break, my poor auld heart,
Nor at thy loss repine,
For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent frae her Father and thine;
Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,
Even till my latest day,
For though my darling can never return,
I can follow the sooner away.
Nor at thy loss repine,
For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent frae her Father and thine;
Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,
Even till my latest day,
For though my darling can never return,
I can follow the sooner away.
The Forty-Second's welcome to Scotland.
Old Scotia! wake thy mountain strain,
In all its wildest splendours,
And welcome back the lads again,
Your honour's dear defenders.
Be every harp and viol strung,
Till all the woodlands quaver;
Of many a band your bards have sung,
But never hail'd a braver.
Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane,
We're all in key to cheer it;
And let it be a martial strain,
That warriors bold may hear it.
In all its wildest splendours,
And welcome back the lads again,
Your honour's dear defenders.
Be every harp and viol strung,
Till all the woodlands quaver;
Of many a band your bards have sung,
But never hail'd a braver.
Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane,
We're all in key to cheer it;
And let it be a martial strain,
That warriors bold may hear it.
Ye lovely maids, pitch high your notes
As virgin voice can sound them;
Sing of your brave, your noble Scots,
For glory blazes round them.
Small is the remnant you will see,
Lamented be the others,
But such a stem of such a tree
Take to your arms like brothers.
Then raise the pibroch, Donald Bane,
Strike all the glen with wonder;
Let the chanter yell, and the drone-notes swell,
Till music speaks in thunder.
As virgin voice can sound them;
Sing of your brave, your noble Scots,
For glory blazes round them.
Small is the remnant you will see,
Lamented be the others,
But such a stem of such a tree
Take to your arms like brothers.
Then raise the pibroch, Donald Bane,
Strike all the glen with wonder;
Let the chanter yell, and the drone-notes swell,
Till music speaks in thunder.
What storm can rend your mountain-rock?
What wave your headlands shiver?
Long have they stood the tempest's shock,
Thou know'st they will for ever.
Sooner your eye those cliffs shall view
Split by the wind and weather,
Than foeman's eye the bonnet blue
Behind the nodding feather.
Oh raise the pibroch, Donald Bane!
Our caps to the sky we'll send them:
Scotland, thy honours who can stain,
Thy laurels who dare rend them?
What wave your headlands shiver?
Long have they stood the tempest's shock,
Thou know'st they will for ever.
Sooner your eye those cliffs shall view
Split by the wind and weather,
Than foeman's eye the bonnet blue
Behind the nodding feather.
Oh raise the pibroch, Donald Bane!
Our caps to the sky we'll send them:
Scotland, thy honours who can stain,
Thy laurels who dare rend them?
The Lass o' Carlisle.
I'll sing ye a wee bit sang,
A sang i' the aulden style,
It is of a bonnie young lass
Wha lived in merry Carlisle.
An' O but this lass was bonnie,
An' O but this lass was braw,
An' she had gowd in her coffers,
An' that was best of a'.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dear;
The lass that has gowd an' beauty
Has naething on earth to fear!
A sang i' the aulden style,
It is of a bonnie young lass
Wha lived in merry Carlisle.
An' O but this lass was bonnie,
An' O but this lass was braw,
An' she had gowd in her coffers,
An' that was best of a'.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dear;
The lass that has gowd an' beauty
Has naething on earth to fear!
This lassie had plenty o' wooers,
As beauty an' wealth should hae;
This lassie she took her a man,
An' then she could get nae mae.
This lassie had plenty o' weans,
That keepit her hands astir;
And then she dee'd and was buried,
An' there was an end of her.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dan,
The best thing in life is to make
The maist o't that we can!
As beauty an' wealth should hae;
This lassie she took her a man,
An' then she could get nae mae.
This lassie had plenty o' weans,
That keepit her hands astir;
And then she dee'd and was buried,
An' there was an end of her.
Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dan,
The best thing in life is to make
The maist o't that we can!
My Love she's but a Lassie yet.
My love she's but a lassie yet,
A lightsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do,
To sit an' woo
Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
But there's a braw time coming yet,
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,
When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
A lightsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do,
To sit an' woo
Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
428
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,
When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
She's neither proud nor saucy yet,
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,
Bonnie blinking,
Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But oh, her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete!
An' right or wrang,
Ere it be lang,
I'll bring her to a parley yet.
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,
Bonnie blinking,
Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But oh, her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete!
An' right or wrang,
Ere it be lang,
I'll bring her to a parley yet.
I'm jealous o' what blesses her,
The very breeze that kisses her,
The flowery beds
On which she treads,
Though wae for ane that misses her.
Then oh to meet my lassie yet,
Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;
For all I see
Are nought to me,
Save her that's but a lassie yet!
The very breeze that kisses her,
The flowery beds
On which she treads,
Though wae for ane that misses her.
Then oh to meet my lassie yet,
Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;
For all I see
Are nought to me,
Save her that's but a lassie yet!
The Moon.
Now fare-ye-weel, bonnie Lady Moon,
Wi' thy still look o' majestye;
For though ye hae a queenly face,
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,
Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Your e'ebrow like the Grampian range,
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.
Wi' thy still look o' majestye;
For though ye hae a queenly face,
'Tis e'en a fearsome sight to see.
Your lip is like Ben-Lomond's base,
Your mouth a dark unmeasured dell;
Your e'ebrow like the Grampian range,
Fringed with the brier an' heather-bell.
Yet still thou bear'st a human face,
Of calm an' ghostly dignity;
Some emblem there I fain wad trace
Of Him that made baith you an' me.
But fare-ye-weel, bonnie Lady Moon,
There's neither stop nor stay for me;
But when this joyfu' life is done,
I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee.
Of calm an' ghostly dignity;
Some emblem there I fain wad trace
Of Him that made baith you an' me.
But fare-ye-weel, bonnie Lady Moon,
There's neither stop nor stay for me;
But when this joyfu' life is done,
I'll take a jaunt an' visit thee.
The Witch o' Fife
Hurray, hurray, the jade's away,
Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!
I'm up in the air on my bonnie gray mare,
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
I'll ring the skirts o' the gowden wain
Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit;
An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane—
An' I see her yet, I see her yet.
Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!
I'm up in the air on my bonnie gray mare,
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
I'll ring the skirts o' the gowden wain
Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit;
An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane—
An' I see her yet, I see her yet.
Away, away, o'er mountain an' main,
To sing at the morning's rosy yett;
An' water my mare at its fountain clear—
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
Away, thou bonnie witch o' Fife,
On foam of the air to heave an' flit,
An' little reck thou of a poet's life,
For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet!
To sing at the morning's rosy yett;
An' water my mare at its fountain clear—
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
Away, thou bonnie witch o' Fife,
On foam of the air to heave an' flit,
An' little reck thou of a poet's life,
For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet!
Row on, Row on.
Row on, row on, thou cauldrife wave!
Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumble—
Weel may you to the tempest rave
And down your briny mountains tumble;
For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,
Of firmest friend and fondest lover,
Who lie in thy dark bosom pall'd,
The garish green wave rolling over.
Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumble—
Weel may you to the tempest rave
And down your briny mountains tumble;
For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,
Of firmest friend and fondest lover,
Who lie in thy dark bosom pall'd,
The garish green wave rolling over.
Upon thy waste of waters wide,
Though ray'd in a' the dyes o' heaven,
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven;
For then on ane that loe'd me weel
My heart will evermair be turning;
An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel
That nought remains for me but mourning.
Though ray'd in a' the dyes o' heaven,
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven;
For then on ane that loe'd me weel
My heart will evermair be turning;
An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel
That nought remains for me but mourning.
For whether he's alive or dead;
In distant land for maiden sighing;
A captive into slavery led,
Or in thy beds of amber lying,
I cannot tell:—I only know
I loved him dearly, and forewarn'd him;
I gave him thee in pain and woe,
And thou hast never more return'd him.
In distant land for maiden sighing;
A captive into slavery led,
Or in thy beds of amber lying,
I cannot tell:—I only know
I loved him dearly, and forewarn'd him;
I gave him thee in pain and woe,
And thou hast never more return'd him.
Still thou rowest on with sullen roar—
A broken heart to thee is nothing;
Thou only lovest to lash the shore,
And jabber out thy thunder, frothing.
Thy still small voice send to this creek,
The wavy field of waters over;
Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak,
And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!
A broken heart to thee is nothing;
Thou only lovest to lash the shore,
And jabber out thy thunder, frothing.
Thy still small voice send to this creek,
The wavy field of waters over;
Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak,
And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!
I hae lost my Love.
I hae lost my love, an' I dinna ken how,
I hae lost my love, an' I carena;
For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,
And to sit down an' greet wad be bairnly.
But a screed o' ill-nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;
An' weel wad I like to gie women a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffits fu' yarely.
I hae lost my love, an' I carena;
For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,
And to sit down an' greet wad be bairnly.
But a screed o' ill-nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;
An' weel wad I like to gie women a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffits fu' yarely.
429
Oh! plague on the limmers, sae sly and demure,
As pawkie as deils wi' their smiling;
As fickle as winter, in sunshine and shower,
The hearts o' a' mankind beguiling;
As sour as December, as soothing as May:
To suit their ain ends, never doubt them;
Their ill faults I coudna tell ower in a day,
But their beauty's the warst thing about them.
As pawkie as deils wi' their smiling;
As fickle as winter, in sunshine and shower,
The hearts o' a' mankind beguiling;
As sour as December, as soothing as May:
To suit their ain ends, never doubt them;
Their ill faults I coudna tell ower in a day,
But their beauty's the warst thing about them.
Ay, that's what sets up the haill warld in a lowe;
Makes kingdoms to rise and expire;
Man's micht is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire.
'Twas women at first made creation to bend,
And of nature's prime lord made the fellow;
An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end,
An' that will be seen an' heard tell o'.
Makes kingdoms to rise and expire;
Man's micht is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire.
'Twas women at first made creation to bend,
And of nature's prime lord made the fellow;
An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end,
An' that will be seen an' heard tell o'.
Allan Dhu.
I like to see you, Allan Dhu,
I like wi' you to meet,
But dinna say to me you loe,
For that wad gar me greet.
I like to see you smile on me
Amang our maidens a',
But, oh! ae vow o' love frae you
I cou'dna stand ava.
I like wi' you to meet,
But dinna say to me you loe,
For that wad gar me greet.
I like to see you smile on me
Amang our maidens a',
But, oh! ae vow o' love frae you
I cou'dna stand ava.
Ay, ye may smile, but dinna speak;
I ken what ye've to say;
Sae, either haud your tongue sae sleek,
Or look another way;
For, should it be of love to me,
In manner soft and bland,
I wadna ye my face should see
For a' Bredalbin's land.
I ken what ye've to say;
Sae, either haud your tongue sae sleek,
Or look another way;
For, should it be of love to me,
In manner soft and bland,
I wadna ye my face should see
For a' Bredalbin's land.
O Allan Dhu, 'tis nought to you
Of love to gibe and jeer;
But little ken ye of the pang
A maiden's heart maun bear,
When a' on earth that she hauds dear,
The hope that makes her fain,
Comes plump at aince—Oh, me! the thought
'Maist turns my heart to stane.
Of love to gibe and jeer;
But little ken ye of the pang
A maiden's heart maun bear,
When a' on earth that she hauds dear,
The hope that makes her fain,
Comes plump at aince—Oh, me! the thought
'Maist turns my heart to stane.
No, Allan, no—I winna let
You speak a word the night:
Gang hame, an' write a lang letter,
For weel ye can indite.
And be it love, or be it slight,
I then can hae my will;
I'll steal away, far out o' sight,
An' greet, an' greet my fill.
You speak a word the night:
Gang hame, an' write a lang letter,
For weel ye can indite.
And be it love, or be it slight,
I then can hae my will;
I'll steal away, far out o' sight,
An' greet, an' greet my fill.
Love's Visit.
Love came to the door o' my heart ae night,
And he call'd wi' a whining din—
“Oh, open the door! for it is but thy part
To let an old crony come in.”
“Thou sly little elf! I hae open'd to thee
Far aftener than I dare say;
An' dear hae the openings been to me,
Before I could wile you away.”
And he call'd wi' a whining din—
“Oh, open the door! for it is but thy part
To let an old crony come in.”
“Thou sly little elf! I hae open'd to thee
Far aftener than I dare say;
An' dear hae the openings been to me,
Before I could wile you away.”
“Fear not,” quo' Love, “for my bow's in the rest,
And my arrows are ilk ane gane;
For you sent me to wound a lovely breast,
Which has proved o' the marble stane.
I am sair forspent, then let me come in
To the nook where I wont to lie,
For sae aft hae I been this door within,
That I downa think to gang by.”
And my arrows are ilk ane gane;
For you sent me to wound a lovely breast,
Which has proved o' the marble stane.
I am sair forspent, then let me come in
To the nook where I wont to lie,
For sae aft hae I been this door within,
That I downa think to gang by.”
I open'd the door, though I ween'd it a sin,
To the sweet little whimpering fay;
But he raised sic a buzz the cove within,
That he fill'd me with wild dismay;
For first I felt sic a thrilling smart,
And then sic an ardent glow,
That I fear'd the chords o' my sanguine heart
War a' gaun to flee in a lowe.
To the sweet little whimpering fay;
But he raised sic a buzz the cove within,
That he fill'd me with wild dismay;
For first I felt sic a thrilling smart,
And then sic an ardent glow,
That I fear'd the chords o' my sanguine heart
War a' gaun to flee in a lowe.
“Gae away, gae away, thou wicked wean!”
I cried, wi' the tear in my e'e;
“Ay! sae ye may say!” quo' he, “but I ken
Ye'll be laith now to part wi' me.”
And what do you think?—by day and by night,
For these ten lang years and twain,
I have cherish'd the urchin with fondest delight,
And we'll never mair part again.
I cried, wi' the tear in my e'e;
“Ay! sae ye may say!” quo' he, “but I ken
Ye'll be laith now to part wi' me.”
And what do you think?—by day and by night,
For these ten lang years and twain,
I have cherish'd the urchin with fondest delight,
And we'll never mair part again.
A Widow's Wail.
Oh thou art lovely yet, my boy,
Even in thy winding-sheet;
I canna leave thy comely clay,
An' features calm an' sweet!
I have no hope but for the day
That we shall meet again,
Since thou art gone, my bonnie boy
An' left me here alane.
Even in thy winding-sheet;
I canna leave thy comely clay,
An' features calm an' sweet!
I have no hope but for the day
That we shall meet again,
Since thou art gone, my bonnie boy
An' left me here alane.
I hoped thy sire's loved form to see,
To trace his looks in thine;
An' saw with joy thy sparkling e'e
With kindling vigour shine.
I thought, when auld an' frail, I might
Wi' you an' yours remain;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
To trace his looks in thine;
An' saw with joy thy sparkling e'e
With kindling vigour shine.
I thought, when auld an' frail, I might
Wi' you an' yours remain;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Now closed an' set thy sparkling eye,
Thy kind wee heart is still,
An' thy dear spirit far away
Beyond the reach of ill.
Ah! fain wad I that comely clay
Reanimate again;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Thy kind wee heart is still,
An' thy dear spirit far away
Beyond the reach of ill.
Ah! fain wad I that comely clay
Reanimate again;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
430
The flower now fading on the lea
Shall fresher rise to view—
The leaf just falling from the tree
The year will soon renew;
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave,
Ere thou reviv'st again;
For thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Shall fresher rise to view—
The leaf just falling from the tree
The year will soon renew;
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave,
Ere thou reviv'st again;
For thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
An' left me here alane.
Auld Joe Nicholson's Nanny.
The daisy is fair, the day-lily rare,
The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonnie;
But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonnie;
But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
Ae day she came out, wi' a rosy blush,
To milk her twa kie, sae couthy and canny;
I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush,
To watch the air o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny, &c.
To milk her twa kie, sae couthy and canny;
I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush,
To watch the air o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny, &c.
Her looks that stray'd o'er nature away,
Frae bonnie blue e'en sae mild an' mellow,
Saw naething sae sweet in nature's array,
Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow.
O, my Nanny, &c.
Frae bonnie blue e'en sae mild an' mellow,
Saw naething sae sweet in nature's array,
Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow.
O, my Nanny, &c.
My heart lay beating the flowery green
In quaking, quivering agitation,
An' the tears cam tricklin' down frae my een
Wi' perfect love an' wi' admiration.
O, my Nanny, &c.
In quaking, quivering agitation,
An' the tears cam tricklin' down frae my een
Wi' perfect love an' wi' admiration.
O, my Nanny, &c.
There's mony a joy in this warld below,
An' sweet the hopes that to sing were uncanny;
But of all the pleasures I ever can know,
There's nane like the love o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
An' sweet the hopes that to sing were uncanny;
But of all the pleasures I ever can know,
There's nane like the love o' my bonnie Nanny.
O, my Nanny!
My dear little Nanny!
My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nanny!
There ne'er was a flower,
In garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nanny.
The Broken Heart
[_]
Was written in detestation of the behaviour of a gentleman (can I call him so?) to a dearly-beloved young relative of my own, and whom, at the time I wrote this, I never expected to recover from the shock her kind and affectionate heart had received. It has, however, turned out a lucky disappointment for her.
Now lock my chamber door, father,
And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even a while reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!
And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even a while reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!
Oh, let me lie, and weep my fill
O'er wounds that heal can never;
And O kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;
For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?
Or how can heart of maiden bear
To know that heart forsaken?
O'er wounds that heal can never;
And O kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;
For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?
Or how can heart of maiden bear
To know that heart forsaken?
Oh, why should vows so fondly made,
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid
Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary.
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid
Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary.
Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them.
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them.
As a note to the above song, I may quote a stanza from another poem written at the same time:—
Woe to the guileful tongue that bred
This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain! on his head
A minstrel's malison remain!
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,
Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart
That ever bow'd to nature's sway!
This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain! on his head
A minstrel's malison remain!
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,
Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart
That ever bow'd to nature's sway!
Ohon-a-Righ!
[_]
A humble petition from the Ettrick Shepherd to his late loved sovereign, King George IV., to restore the titles of the last remnants of the brave defenders of the rights of their ancient dynasty.
Ohon-a-righ!
Ohon-a-righ!
There's nought but alteration
The men that strove
Our throne to move,
And overturn the nation,
Are a' come round,
Wi' wit profound,
To those they branded sairly;
An' show more might
For George's right
Than e'er they did for Charlie.
Ohon-a-righ!
There's nought but alteration
The men that strove
Our throne to move,
And overturn the nation,
431
Wi' wit profound,
To those they branded sairly;
An' show more might
For George's right
Than e'er they did for Charlie.
The day is past,
It was the last
Of suffering and of sorrow;
And o'er the men
Of northern glen
Arose a brighter morrow.
The pibroch rang
With bolder clang
Along the hills of heather;
An' fresh an' strong
The thistle sprung
That had begun to wither.
It was the last
Of suffering and of sorrow;
And o'er the men
Of northern glen
Arose a brighter morrow.
The pibroch rang
With bolder clang
Along the hills of heather;
An' fresh an' strong
The thistle sprung
That had begun to wither.
Our sovereign gone
Whom we think on
As sons on sire regarded,
Of the plaided north
Beheld the worth
And loyalty rewarded.
Return'd their own,
And to the throne
Bound all their spirits lordly;
Now who will stand,
With dirk or brand,
As Donald does for Geordie?
Whom we think on
As sons on sire regarded,
Of the plaided north
Beheld the worth
And loyalty rewarded.
Return'd their own,
And to the throne
Bound all their spirits lordly;
Now who will stand,
With dirk or brand,
As Donald does for Geordie?
Beannaich-a-righ!
Beannaich-a-righ!
Her nainsell now be praying;
Though standard praw,
And broadsword law,
She all aside be laying;
With Heelant might,
For Shorge's right,
Cot! put she'll braolich rarely,
Gin lords her nain
Pe lords ackain,
That fell for sake of Charlie!
Beannaich-a-righ!
Her nainsell now be praying;
Though standard praw,
And broadsword law,
She all aside be laying;
With Heelant might,
For Shorge's right,
Cot! put she'll braolich rarely,
Gin lords her nain
Pe lords ackain,
That fell for sake of Charlie!
The Laddie that I ken o'.
There's a bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o',
There's a bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o';
An' although he be but young,
He has a sweet wooing tongue,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
There's a bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o';
An' although he be but young,
He has a sweet wooing tongue,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
He has woo'd me for his own, an' I trow him, O,
For it's needless to deny that I lo'e him, O;
When I see his face come ben,
Then a' the lads I ken,
I think them sae far, far below him, O.
For it's needless to deny that I lo'e him, O;
When I see his face come ben,
Then a' the lads I ken,
I think them sae far, far below him, O.
There is Annie, the demure little fairy, O,
Our Nancy, an' Burns' bonnie Mary, O;
They may set their caps at him,
An' greet till they gae blin',
But his love for his Jean will never vary, O.
Our Nancy, an' Burns' bonnie Mary, O;
They may set their caps at him,
An' greet till they gae blin',
But his love for his Jean will never vary, O.
He'll come to me at e'en though he's weary, O,
An' the way be baith langsome an' eery, O,
An' he'll tirl at the pin,
An' cry, “Jeanie, let me in,
For my bosom it burns to be near ye, O!”
An' the way be baith langsome an' eery, O,
An' he'll tirl at the pin,
An' cry, “Jeanie, let me in,
For my bosom it burns to be near ye, O!”
He's a queer bonnie laddie that I ken o',
He's a dear bonnie laddie that I ken o';
For he'll tak' me on his knee,
An' he'll reave a kiss frae me,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
He's a dear bonnie laddie that I ken o';
For he'll tak' me on his knee,
An' he'll reave a kiss frae me,
The bonnie, bonnie laddie that I ken o'.
Angel's Morning Song to the Shepherd.
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken;
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow;
Lights her lamp below the billow;
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken;
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow;
Lights her lamp below the billow;
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the rail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover,
Bat has hid and heath-cock crow'd,
Courser neigh'd and cattle low'd,
Kid and lamb the lair forsaken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Pour a thousand hymns to love;
Harps the rail amid the clover,
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover,
Bat has hid and heath-cock crow'd,
Courser neigh'd and cattle low'd,
Kid and lamb the lair forsaken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
The Blue and the Yellow.
If e'er you would be a brave fellow, young man,
Beware of the Blue and the Yellow, young man;
If ye wad be strang,
And wish to write lang,
Come join wi' the lads that get mellow, young man.
Like the crack o' a squib that has fa'en on, young man,
Compared wi' the roar o' a cannon, young man,
So is the Whig's blow,
To the pith that's below
The beard o' auld Geordie Buchanan, young man.
Beware of the Blue and the Yellow, young man;
If ye wad be strang,
And wish to write lang,
Come join wi' the lads that get mellow, young man.
Like the crack o' a squib that has fa'en on, young man,
Compared wi' the roar o' a cannon, young man,
So is the Whig's blow,
To the pith that's below
The beard o' auld Geordie Buchanan, young man.
432
I heard a bit bird in the braken, young man,
It sang till the Whigs were a' quaking, young man,
And aye the sad lay
Was, Alack for the day!
For the Blue and the Yellow's forsaken, young man.
It sang till the Whigs were a' quaking, young man,
And aye the sad lay
Was, Alack for the day!
For the Blue and the Yellow's forsaken, young man.
The day is arriv'd that's nae joking, young man;
'Tis vain to be murmuring and mocking, young man;
A Whig may be leal,
But he'll never fight weel,
As lang as he dadds wi' a docken, young man.
'Tis vain to be murmuring and mocking, young man;
A Whig may be leal,
But he'll never fight weel,
As lang as he dadds wi' a docken, young man.
Oh wha wadna laugh at their capers, young man?
Like auld maidens fash'd wi' the vapours, young man,
We have turned them adrift
To their very last shift,
That's—puffing the Radical Papers, young man.
If ye wad hear tell o' their pingle, young man,
Gae list the wee bird in the dingle, young man;
Its note o' despair,
Is sae loud in the air,
That the windows of heaven play jingle, young man.
Like auld maidens fash'd wi' the vapours, young man,
We have turned them adrift
To their very last shift,
That's—puffing the Radical Papers, young man.
If ye wad hear tell o' their pingle, young man,
Gae list the wee bird in the dingle, young man;
Its note o' despair,
Is sae loud in the air,
That the windows of heaven play jingle, young man.
I'll give you a toast of the auldest, young man;
The loyal head ne'er was the cauldest, young man;
“Our king and his throne;
Be his glory our own,
And the last of his days aye the bauldest,” young man.—
But as for the loun that wad hector, young man,
And pit us at odds wi' a lecture, young man,
May he dance cutty-mun,
Wi' his neb to the sun,
And his doup to the General Director, young man.
The loyal head ne'er was the cauldest, young man;
“Our king and his throne;
Be his glory our own,
And the last of his days aye the bauldest,” young man.—
But as for the loun that wad hector, young man,
And pit us at odds wi' a lecture, young man,
May he dance cutty-mun,
Wi' his neb to the sun,
And his doup to the General Director, young man.
Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.
Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,
Cold and beggarly poor countrie!
If ever I cross thy border again,
The muckle deil must carry me.
There's but one tree in a' the land,
And that's the bonnie gallows tree:
The very nowte look to the south,
And wish that they had wings to flee.
Cold and beggarly poor countrie!
If ever I cross thy border again,
The muckle deil must carry me.
There's but one tree in a' the land,
And that's the bonnie gallows tree:
The very nowte look to the south,
And wish that they had wings to flee.
Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,
Brose and bannocks, crowdy and kale!
Welcome, welcome, jolly old England,
Laughing lasses and foaming ale!
'Twas when I came to merry Carlisle,
That out I laughed loud laughters three;
And if I cross the Sark again
The muckle deil maun carry me.
Brose and bannocks, crowdy and kale!
Welcome, welcome, jolly old England,
Laughing lasses and foaming ale!
'Twas when I came to merry Carlisle,
That out I laughed loud laughters three;
And if I cross the Sark again
The muckle deil maun carry me.
Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,
Kiltit kimmers, wi' carroty hair,
Pipers, who beg that your honours would buy
A bawbee's worth of their famished air!
I'd rather keep Cadwaller's goats,
And feast upon toasted cheese and leeks,
Than go back again to the beggarly North,
To herd 'mang loons with bottomless breeks.
Kiltit kimmers, wi' carroty hair,
Pipers, who beg that your honours would buy
A bawbee's worth of their famished air!
I'd rather keep Cadwaller's goats,
And feast upon toasted cheese and leeks,
Than go back again to the beggarly North,
To herd 'mang loons with bottomless breeks.
Reply to Sir Morgan O'Doherty's Farewell to Scotland.
Go, get thee gone, thou dastardly loon,
Go, get thee to thine own countrie;
If ever you cross the Border again,
The muckle deil accompany thee!
There's mony a tree in fair Scotland,
And there is ane, the gallows tree,
On which we hang the Irish rogues;
A fitting place it is for thee.
Go, get thee to thine own countrie;
If ever you cross the Border again,
The muckle deil accompany thee!
There's mony a tree in fair Scotland,
And there is ane, the gallows tree,
On which we hang the Irish rogues;
A fitting place it is for thee.
Go, get thee gone, thou dastardly loon!
Too good for thee is brose and kale:—
We've lads and ladies gay in the land,
Bonnie lasses, and nut-brown ale.
When thou goest to merry Carlisle,
Welcome take thy loud laughters three;
But know that the most of our beggarly clan
Come from the Holy Land, like thee.
Too good for thee is brose and kale:—
We've lads and ladies gay in the land,
Bonnie lasses, and nut-brown ale.
When thou goest to merry Carlisle,
Welcome take thy loud laughters three;
But know that the most of our beggarly clan
Come from the Holy Land, like thee.
Go, get thee gone, thou beggarly loon,
On thee our maidens refused to smile:—
Our pipers they scorn'd to beg from thee,
A half-starved knight of the Emerald Isle.
Go rather and herd thy father's pigs,
And feed on 'tatoes and butter-milk;
But return not to the princely North,
Land of the tartan, the bonnet, and kilt.
On thee our maidens refused to smile:—
Our pipers they scorn'd to beg from thee,
A half-starved knight of the Emerald Isle.
Go rather and herd thy father's pigs,
And feed on 'tatoes and butter-milk;
But return not to the princely North,
Land of the tartan, the bonnet, and kilt.
King Willie.
Oh, Willie was a wanton wag,
The blithest lad that e'er I saw;
He 'mang the lasses bure the brag,
An' carried aye the gree awa'.
An' was nae Willie weel worth goud?
When seas did rowe an' winds did blaw,
An' battle's deadly stoure was blent,
He fought the foremost o' them a'.
The blithest lad that e'er I saw;
He 'mang the lasses bure the brag,
An' carried aye the gree awa'.
An' was nae Willie weel worth goud?
When seas did rowe an' winds did blaw,
An' battle's deadly stoure was blent,
He fought the foremost o' them a'.
Wha has nae heard o' Willie's fame,
The rose o' Britain's topmast bough,
Wha never stain'd his gallant name,
Nor turn'd his back on friend or foe?
An' he could tak a rantin' glass,
An' he could chant a cheery strain;
An' he could kiss a bonnie lass,
An' aye be welcome back again.
The rose o' Britain's topmast bough,
Wha never stain'd his gallant name,
Nor turn'd his back on friend or foe?
An' he could tak a rantin' glass,
An' he could chant a cheery strain;
An' he could kiss a bonnie lass,
An' aye be welcome back again.
433
Though now he wears the British crown,
For whilk he never cared a flee—
Yet still the downright honest tar,
The same kind-hearted chield is he.
An' every night I fill my glass,
An' fill it reaming to the brim,
An' drink it in a glowing health
To Adie Laidlaw an' to him.
For whilk he never cared a flee—
Yet still the downright honest tar,
The same kind-hearted chield is he.
An' every night I fill my glass,
An' fill it reaming to the brim,
An' drink it in a glowing health
To Adie Laidlaw an' to him.
I've ae advice to gie my king,
An' that I'll gie wi' right good-will;
Stick by the auld friends o' the crown,
Wha bore it up through good an' ill;
For new-made friends, and new-made laws,
They suit nae honest hearts ava;
An' Royal Willie's worth I'll sing
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
An' that I'll gie wi' right good-will;
Stick by the auld friends o' the crown,
Wha bore it up through good an' ill;
For new-made friends, and new-made laws,
They suit nae honest hearts ava;
An' Royal Willie's worth I'll sing
As lang as I hae breath to draw.
The Flower of Annisley.
Oh, is she gone? Oh, is she gone
From love, from duty, and from me—
The fairest flower the sun shone on,
The lovely maid of Annisley?
Thou lonely mourner, tell to me
Whose was the name thou mentionedst now,
With tear-drops trickling to thy knee,
And scathe of sorrow on thy brow?
From love, from duty, and from me—
The fairest flower the sun shone on,
The lovely maid of Annisley?
Thou lonely mourner, tell to me
Whose was the name thou mentionedst now,
With tear-drops trickling to thy knee,
And scathe of sorrow on thy brow?
Is Ellen's fair and comely mould
The inmate of the darkling worm?
And does the gravel couch enfold
The mildest, comeliest, earthly form?
Yes—here she sleeps in loneliness!
She faded with her virgin fame;
And now her votaries, numberless,
Shun even the mention of her name.
The inmate of the darkling worm?
And does the gravel couch enfold
The mildest, comeliest, earthly form?
Yes—here she sleeps in loneliness!
She faded with her virgin fame;
And now her votaries, numberless,
Shun even the mention of her name.
She who gave brilliance to the hall,
And added lightness to the day—
The meteor of the waterfall,
The seraph of the sylvan lay—
Though pure as mortal thing could be,
The idol of the adoring throng,
Emblem of glory's fallacy,
Fell by the shafts of deadly wrong.
And added lightness to the day—
The meteor of the waterfall,
The seraph of the sylvan lay—
Though pure as mortal thing could be,
The idol of the adoring throng,
Emblem of glory's fallacy,
Fell by the shafts of deadly wrong.
'Twas envy poisoned first the dart,
And malice winged it from her bow,
And deeply was the weetless heart
Pierced by the sure and secret blow.
She trembled, wept, and looked to heaven;
The die was cast; relief was none!
Then shunned, unpitied, unforgiven,
Ellen was left to die alone.
And malice winged it from her bow,
And deeply was the weetless heart
Pierced by the sure and secret blow.
She trembled, wept, and looked to heaven;
The die was cast; relief was none!
Then shunned, unpitied, unforgiven,
Ellen was left to die alone.
As ever you saw the young rose tossed,
Or apple blossom from the tree,
By tempest or untimely frost,
So fell the flower of Annisley.
And never was green leaf on the path,
Or fallen blossom in the clay
Trode down the careless foot beneath,
As was the marvel of her day.
Or apple blossom from the tree,
By tempest or untimely frost,
So fell the flower of Annisley.
And never was green leaf on the path,
Or fallen blossom in the clay
Trode down the careless foot beneath,
As was the marvel of her day.
O virgin beauty, thou art sweet!
Sweet to the soul and to the eye!
Thy blush, that comes on fairy feet,
The mirror of the morning sky;
Thy smile of mildness and of love;
The aspirations of thy will
To mercy—well approved above
By one who owns thy nature still;—
Sweet to the soul and to the eye!
Thy blush, that comes on fairy feet,
The mirror of the morning sky;
Thy smile of mildness and of love;
The aspirations of thy will
To mercy—well approved above
By one who owns thy nature still;—
All, all bespeak thee Nature's flower,
But oh, what snares are laid for thee!
As is thy virtue's lordly power,
So is thy danger in degree;
And when, in bounding gaiety,
Thou walk'st the brink of fear and fever,
One step aside—and, woe is me!
Thou fall'st to rise no more, for ever.
But oh, what snares are laid for thee!
As is thy virtue's lordly power,
So is thy danger in degree;
And when, in bounding gaiety,
Thou walk'st the brink of fear and fever,
One step aside—and, woe is me!
Thou fall'st to rise no more, for ever.
When doors of mercy fold below,
Turn thou thy spirit's eyes away
To where unnumbered glories glow
In home beyond the solar ray.
But for the flower of Annisley,
While life warms this old breast of mine,
I'll yearly pour regretfully
The hymn of sorrow o'er her shrine.
Turn thou thy spirit's eyes away
To where unnumbered glories glow
In home beyond the solar ray.
But for the flower of Annisley,
While life warms this old breast of mine,
I'll yearly pour regretfully
The hymn of sorrow o'er her shrine.
Oh, Love's a bitter thing to bide.
Oh, love's a bitter thing to bide,
The lad that drees it's to be pitied;
It blinds to a' the world beside,
And maks a body dilde and ditted.
It lies sae sair at my breast bane,
My heart is melting saft an' safter;
To dee outright I wad be fain,
Wer't no for fear what may be after.
The lad that drees it's to be pitied;
It blinds to a' the world beside,
And maks a body dilde and ditted.
It lies sae sair at my breast bane,
My heart is melting saft an' safter;
To dee outright I wad be fain,
Wer't no for fear what may be after.
I dinna ken what course to steer,
I'm sae to dool an' daftness driven;
For ane sae lovely, sweet, an' dear,
Sure never breath'd the breeze o' heaven.
Oh there's a soul beams in her e'e;
Ae blink o't makes ane's spirit gladder;
And ay the mair she gecks at me,
It pits me aye in love the madder.
I'm sae to dool an' daftness driven;
For ane sae lovely, sweet, an' dear,
Sure never breath'd the breeze o' heaven.
Oh there's a soul beams in her e'e;
Ae blink o't makes ane's spirit gladder;
And ay the mair she gecks at me,
It pits me aye in love the madder.
Love winna heal, it winna thole,
You canna shun't e'en when you fear it;
An' oh, this sickness o' the soul,
'Tis past the power of man to bear it!
And yet to mak o' her a wife,
I couldna square it wi' my duty;
I'd like to see her a' her life
Remain a virgin in her beauty,
You canna shun't e'en when you fear it;
An' oh, this sickness o' the soul,
'Tis past the power of man to bear it!
And yet to mak o' her a wife,
I couldna square it wi' my duty;
I'd like to see her a' her life
Remain a virgin in her beauty,
434
As pure, as bonnie as she's now,
The walks of human life adorning;
As blithe as bird upon the bough,
As sweet as breeze of summer morning.
Love paints the earth, it paints the sky,
An' tints each lovely hue of Nature,
And makes to the enchanted eye
An angel of a mortal creature.
The walks of human life adorning;
As blithe as bird upon the bough,
As sweet as breeze of summer morning.
Love paints the earth, it paints the sky,
An' tints each lovely hue of Nature,
And makes to the enchanted eye
An angel of a mortal creature.
The Cutting o' my Hair.
Frae royal Wull that wears the crown,
To Yarrow's lowliest shepherd-clown,
Time wears unchancy mortals doun;
I've mark'd it late and air.
The souplest knee at length will crack,
The lythest arm, the sturdiest back—
And little siller Samson lack
For cuttin' o' his hair.
To Yarrow's lowliest shepherd-clown,
Time wears unchancy mortals doun;
I've mark'd it late and air.
The souplest knee at length will crack,
The lythest arm, the sturdiest back—
And little siller Samson lack
For cuttin' o' his hair.
Mysell for speed had not my marrow
Thro' Teviot, Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow;
Strang, straight, and swift like winged arrow
At market, tryst, or fair.
But now I'm turn'd a hirplin' carle,
My back it's ta'en the cobbler's swirl,
And deil a bodle I need birl
For cuttin' o' my hair.
Thro' Teviot, Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow;
Strang, straight, and swift like winged arrow
At market, tryst, or fair.
But now I'm turn'd a hirplin' carle,
My back it's ta'en the cobbler's swirl,
And deil a bodle I need birl
For cuttin' o' my hair.
On Boswell's green was nane like me;
My hough was firm, my foot was free;
The locks that cluster'd owre my bree
Cost many a hizzie sair.
The days are come I'm no sae crouse—
An ingle cheek—a cogie douce,
An' fash nae shears about the house
Wi' cuttin' o' my hair.
My hough was firm, my foot was free;
The locks that cluster'd owre my bree
Cost many a hizzie sair.
The days are come I'm no sae crouse—
An ingle cheek—a cogie douce,
An' fash nae shears about the house
Wi' cuttin' o' my hair.
It was an awfu' head I trow,
It waur'd baith young and auld to cow,
An' burnin' red as heather-lowe,
Gar'd neeboors start and stare.
The mair ye cut the mair it grew,
An' aye the fiercer flamed its hue—
I in my time hae paid enew
For cuttin' o' my hair.
It waur'd baith young and auld to cow,
An' burnin' red as heather-lowe,
Gar'd neeboors start and stare.
The mair ye cut the mair it grew,
An' aye the fiercer flamed its hue—
I in my time hae paid enew
For cuttin' o' my hair.
But now there's scarce eneuch to grip—
When last I brought it to the clip,
It gied the shaver's skill the slip
On haffets lank and bare.
Henceforth to this resolve I'll cling,
Whate'er its shape to let it hing,
And keep the cash for ither thing
Than cuttin' o' my hair.
When last I brought it to the clip,
It gied the shaver's skill the slip
On haffets lank and bare.
Henceforth to this resolve I'll cling,
Whate'er its shape to let it hing,
And keep the cash for ither thing
Than cuttin' o' my hair.
A genuine Love-Letter.
My Mary, maiden of my meed,
Thy beauties soon will be my dead;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn;
The arch above thine e'e sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew:
O Mary, thou art all to me—
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee!
Thy beauties soon will be my dead;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn;
The arch above thine e'e sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew:
O Mary, thou art all to me—
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee!
Thy foot so light, thy step so fleet,
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell,
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell,
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.
Then, since I may not, dare not tell,
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said;
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed—
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said;
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed—
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.
Then meet me in our trysting dell,
And not one word I'll bid you tell;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray—
Ay, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love!
And not one word I'll bid you tell;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray—
Ay, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love!
A Highland Song of Triumph for King William's Birthday.
To the pine of Lochaber,
Due honours be given,
That bourgeons in earth,
And that blossoms to heaven.
Ho urim! sing urim,
With pipe and with tabor,
To the tree of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
Due honours be given,
That bourgeons in earth,
And that blossoms to heaven.
Ho urim! sing urim,
With pipe and with tabor,
To the tree of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
That tree now has flourish'd
From stock that is hoary,
Encircling the ocean
And globe in its glory;
O'ershadow'd the just,
And the wicked restrain'd too;
It has pierced the dark cloud,
And dishevell'd the rainbow.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
From stock that is hoary,
Encircling the ocean
And globe in its glory;
O'ershadow'd the just,
And the wicked restrain'd too;
It has pierced the dark cloud,
And dishevell'd the rainbow.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
Long flourish our stem,
And its honours rise prouder;
The stem of the Stuart,
And rose of the Tudor.
Ho urim! sing urim!
Let's hallow together
The day that gave birth
To our king and our father.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
And its honours rise prouder;
435
And rose of the Tudor.
Ho urim! sing urim!
Let's hallow together
The day that gave birth
To our king and our father.
Ho urim! sing urim, &c.
Ho urim! sing urim!
To the best and the latest,
And honour'd King William,
The last and the greatest.
Heaven's arm be around him
To guard and secure him,
The hearts of his people,
Ho urim! sing urim!
To the best and the latest,
And honour'd King William,
The last and the greatest.
Heaven's arm be around him
To guard and secure him,
The hearts of his people,
Ho urim! sing urim!
Ho urim! sing urim,
With pipe and with tabor,
To the son of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
With pipe and with tabor,
To the son of great Bancho,
The lord of Lochaber!
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now.
“Afore the moorcock begin to craw,
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now
The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
For I canna come every night to woo.”
“The gouden broom is bonnie to see,
An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,
The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea—
But the bud o' the rose is the bonniest of a'.”
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now
The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
For I canna come every night to woo.”
“The gouden broom is bonnie to see,
An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,
The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea—
But the bud o' the rose is the bonniest of a'.”
“Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat!
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
It's no the thing that I would be at,
An' I canna come every night to woo.”
“The lamb is bonnie upon the brae,
The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,
The bird is bonnie upon the tree—
But which is the dearest of a' to you?”
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
It's no the thing that I would be at,
An' I canna come every night to woo.”
“The lamb is bonnie upon the brae,
The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,
The bird is bonnie upon the tree—
But which is the dearest of a' to you?”
“The thing that I loe best of a',
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
The dearest thing that ever I saw,
Though I canna come every night to woo,
Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
Whenever a gentle hand I press,
And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess.”
Lass, an ye loe me, tell me now;
The dearest thing that ever I saw,
Though I canna come every night to woo,
Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
Whenever a gentle hand I press,
And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess.”
“Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see;
What I loe best I'll tell you now,
The compliment that ye sought frae me,
Though ye canna come every night to woo;
Yet I would rather hae frae you
A kindly look, an' a word witha',
Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
Than a' the lads that ever I saw.”
What I loe best I'll tell you now,
The compliment that ye sought frae me,
Though ye canna come every night to woo;
Yet I would rather hae frae you
A kindly look, an' a word witha',
Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
Than a' the lads that ever I saw.”
“Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine,
Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now;
Our hearts an' fortunes we'll entwine,
An' I'll aye come every night to woo.
For, oh, I canna descrive to thee
The feeling o' love's and nature's law;
How dear this world appears to me
Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!”
Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now;
Our hearts an' fortunes we'll entwine,
An' I'll aye come every night to woo.
For, oh, I canna descrive to thee
The feeling o' love's and nature's law;
How dear this world appears to me
Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!”
I'm a' gane wrang.
I'm a' gane wrang! I'm a' gane wrang!
I canna close my wakerife e'e;
What can it be has sent this pang
To my young heart unkend to me?
I'm fear'd, I'm fear'd that it may prove
An ailment which I daurna name;
What shall I do?—If it be love,
I'll dee outright wi' burnin' shame!
I canna close my wakerife e'e;
What can it be has sent this pang
To my young heart unkend to me?
I'm fear'd, I'm fear'd that it may prove
An ailment which I daurna name;
What shall I do?—If it be love,
I'll dee outright wi' burnin' shame!
I hae a dream baith night an' day,
Of ane that's aye afore my e'e;
An' aye he looks as he wad say
Something that's unco kind to me.
Yet love's a word my youthfu' tongue
Has ne'er durst utter to mysell;
I'm a' gane wrang, an' me sae young,
What shame for maiden's tongue to tell!
Of ane that's aye afore my e'e;
An' aye he looks as he wad say
Something that's unco kind to me.
Yet love's a word my youthfu' tongue
Has ne'er durst utter to mysell;
I'm a' gane wrang, an' me sae young,
What shame for maiden's tongue to tell!
I find an aching at my heart,
An' dizziness that ill portends;
A kind o' sweet an' thrilling smart
Gangs prinkling to my fingers' ends,
Then through me wi' a stoundin' pain;
But yet I like that pain to dree;
Then burnin' tears will drap like rain—
'Tis love, as sure as love can be!
An' dizziness that ill portends;
A kind o' sweet an' thrilling smart
Gangs prinkling to my fingers' ends,
Then through me wi' a stoundin' pain;
But yet I like that pain to dree;
Then burnin' tears will drap like rain—
'Tis love, as sure as love can be!
I dinna ken what I'm to do,
The end o' this I canna see;
I am sae young an' bonnie too,
'Tis a great pity I should dee.
Yet dee I maun—I canna prove
This tide o' pleasure an' o' pain;
There's nought sae sweet as virgin's love,
But, oh, to be beloved again!
The end o' this I canna see;
I am sae young an' bonnie too,
'Tis a great pity I should dee.
Yet dee I maun—I canna prove
This tide o' pleasure an' o' pain;
There's nought sae sweet as virgin's love,
But, oh, to be beloved again!
The Covenanter's Scaffold Song.
Sing with me! sing with me!
Weeping brethren, sing with me!
For now an open heaven I see,
And a crown of glory laid for me.
How my soul this earth despises!
How my heart and spirit rises!
Bounding from the flesh I sever:
World of sin, adieu for ever!
Weeping brethren, sing with me!
For now an open heaven I see,
And a crown of glory laid for me.
How my soul this earth despises!
How my heart and spirit rises!
Bounding from the flesh I sever:
World of sin, adieu for ever!
436
Sing with me! sing with me!
Friends in Jesus, sing with me!
All my sufferings, all my woe,
All my griefs I here forego.
Farewell terror, sighing, grieving,
Praying, hearing, and believing,
Earthly trust and all its wrongings,
Earthly love and all its longings.
Friends in Jesus, sing with me!
All my sufferings, all my woe,
All my griefs I here forego.
Farewell terror, sighing, grieving,
Praying, hearing, and believing,
Earthly trust and all its wrongings,
Earthly love and all its longings.
Sing with me! sing with me!
Blessed spirits, sing with me!
To the Lamb our song shall be,
Through a glad eternity.
Farewell earthly morn and even,
Sun and moon and stars of heaven;
Heavenly portals ope before me,
Welcome, Christ, in all thy glory!
Blessed spirits, sing with me!
To the Lamb our song shall be,
Through a glad eternity.
Farewell earthly morn and even,
Sun and moon and stars of heaven;
Heavenly portals ope before me,
Welcome, Christ, in all thy glory!
The Shepherd Boy's Song.
Play up, my love, my darling Sue!
That strain was rather mair than common;
The lambies darena chump nor chew,
For listening to my little woman.
An' see how Bawtie's brockit crown
Is gee'd up to the cope o' heaven!
He thinks the fairies are come down
Our wildered correi to enliven.
That strain was rather mair than common;
The lambies darena chump nor chew,
For listening to my little woman.
An' see how Bawtie's brockit crown
Is gee'd up to the cope o' heaven!
He thinks the fairies are come down
Our wildered correi to enliven.
Play up, my love! That pipe, I vow,
Is mellower than I e'er could trow it;
It never play'd sae sweet till now,
Wi' the sweet breath that passes through it.
Strike A and B, then half the C,
And then a minim soft an' evenly;
But, oh! 'tis a' the same to me—
If there's a tone, the music's heavenly.
Is mellower than I e'er could trow it;
It never play'd sae sweet till now,
Wi' the sweet breath that passes through it.
Strike A and B, then half the C,
And then a minim soft an' evenly;
But, oh! 'tis a' the same to me—
If there's a tone, the music's heavenly.
Music has power to still the waves—
To break the cloud an' bend the willow—
To wake the dead out o' their graves,
An' bang frae 'neath the stormy billow;
To make the fays o' glen and grove
Skip wildly o'er their velvet flooring;
But when it pours from lips we love,
Oh! 'tis sae sweet, 'tis past enduring!
To break the cloud an' bend the willow—
To wake the dead out o' their graves,
An' bang frae 'neath the stormy billow;
To make the fays o' glen and grove
Skip wildly o'er their velvet flooring;
But when it pours from lips we love,
Oh! 'tis sae sweet, 'tis past enduring!
Maggy o' Buccleuch.
Oh, cam' ye through the forests green,
By Yarrow's mountains wild an' blue?
Oh, saw ye beauty's rural queen,
The bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch?
For Maggy is the bonniest flower
On Yarrow braes that ever grew,
That ever graced a vernal bower,
Or frae the gowan brushed the dew.
By Yarrow's mountains wild an' blue?
Oh, saw ye beauty's rural queen,
The bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch?
For Maggy is the bonniest flower
On Yarrow braes that ever grew,
That ever graced a vernal bower,
Or frae the gowan brushed the dew.
But oh! it's no her comely face,
Nor blink o' joy that's in her e'e,
Nor her enchanting form o' grace,
That maks the lassie dear to me!
Na, na, it's no the cherry lip,
The rosy cheek an' lily chin,
Which the wild bee wad like to sip—
'Tis the sweet soul that dwells within.
Nor blink o' joy that's in her e'e,
Nor her enchanting form o' grace,
That maks the lassie dear to me!
Na, na, it's no the cherry lip,
The rosy cheek an' lily chin,
Which the wild bee wad like to sip—
'Tis the sweet soul that dwells within.
I hae been up the cauldrife north,
'Mang hills an' dells o' frozen brine,
As far as reels the rowin earth,
An' far ayont the burning line;
But a' the lasses e'er I saw,
For modest mien an' lovely hue,
There was na ane amang them a'
Like bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch.
'Mang hills an' dells o' frozen brine,
As far as reels the rowin earth,
An' far ayont the burning line;
But a' the lasses e'er I saw,
For modest mien an' lovely hue,
There was na ane amang them a'
Like bonnie Maggy o' Buccleuch.
A Boy's Song.
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Pull away, Jolly Boys.
Here we go upon the tide,
Pull away, jolly boys;
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away!
Here's a weather-beaten tar,
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunder's far;
Pull away, jolly boys,
To yon gallant men-of-war,
Pull away.
Pull away, jolly boys;
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away!
437
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunder's far;
Pull away, jolly boys,
To yon gallant men-of-war,
Pull away.
We've with Nelson plough'd the main,
Pull away, jolly boys;
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away.
Brave hearts then let us go,
To drub the haughty foe!
Who once again shall know,
Pull away, gallant boys,
That our backs we never show,
Pull away.
Pull away, jolly boys;
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away.
Brave hearts then let us go,
To drub the haughty foe!
Who once again shall know,
Pull away, gallant boys,
That our backs we never show,
Pull away.
We have fought and we have sped,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away.
We've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak;
We've been bent, but never broke,
Pull away, gallant boys;
We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
Pull away.
Pull away, gallant boys,
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away.
We've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak;
We've been bent, but never broke,
Pull away, gallant boys;
We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
Pull away.
Here we go upon the deep,
Pull away, gallant boys;
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away.
Round the earth our glory rings;
At the thought my bosom springs,
That where'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away.
Pull away, gallant boys;
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away.
Round the earth our glory rings;
At the thought my bosom springs,
That where'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys,
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away.
Stanzas.
[My sweet little cherub, how calm thou'rt reposing!]
My sweet little cherub, how calm thou'rt reposing!
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven—
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying—
A spark of the other, thou'rt mounting and flying.
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven—
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying—
A spark of the other, thou'rt mounting and flying.
Farewell, my sweet baby, too early we sever;
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never:
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never:
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.
March of Intellect.
Then fye let us a' to subscribing,
Since siller is no worth a plack,
And the pence in the kist that lay mouling,
Will be turned into pounds in a crack!
With our scheming, and steaming, and dreaming,
Can no cash-burdened Joint-stock be found
To fill the auld moon wi' whale blubber,
And light her up a' the year round?
Since siller is no worth a plack,
And the pence in the kist that lay mouling,
Will be turned into pounds in a crack!
With our scheming, and steaming, and dreaming,
Can no cash-burdened Joint-stock be found
To fill the auld moon wi' whale blubber,
And light her up a' the year round?
Now thieves will be nabb'd by the thousand,
And houses insured by the street;
And share-holders will scarcely know whether
They walk on their heads or their feet.
The Celtic will soon compass breeches;
The shoe-black will swagger in pumps;
And phrenologists club for old perukes,
To cover their assinine bumps.
And houses insured by the street;
And share-holders will scarcely know whether
They walk on their heads or their feet.
The Celtic will soon compass breeches;
The shoe-black will swagger in pumps;
And phrenologists club for old perukes,
To cover their assinine bumps.
Alack for our grandfathers musty!
Of such on-goings ne'er did they dream;
Soon our Jockies will bizz out, at gloaming,
To court their kind Jennies by steam;
And the world shall be turned topsy-turvy;
And the patients their doctors will bleed;
And the dandy, by true gravitation,
Shall go waltz on the crown of his head.
Of such on-goings ne'er did they dream;
Soon our Jockies will bizz out, at gloaming,
To court their kind Jennies by steam;
And the world shall be turned topsy-turvy;
And the patients their doctors will bleed;
And the dandy, by true gravitation,
Shall go waltz on the crown of his head.
Then fye let us a' to subscribing,
And build up a tower to the moon;
An' get fu' on the tap, and, in daffing,
Dad out the wee stars wi' our shoon;—
Then, hey, fal de ray, fal de rady,
Let's see a' how proud we can be,
And build ower a brig to Kirkcaldy,
And drown a' the French in the sea!
And build up a tower to the moon;
An' get fu' on the tap, and, in daffing,
Dad out the wee stars wi' our shoon;—
Then, hey, fal de ray, fal de rady,
Let's see a' how proud we can be,
And build ower a brig to Kirkcaldy,
And drown a' the French in the sea!
I dinna blame thy bonnie Face.
I dinna blame thy bonnie face,
Thy pawky smile an' wit refined,
Nor thy fair form's bewitching grace,
As lightsome as the mountain wind;
For these how many a lover brooks,
Since lovelier, man can never see!
But sair I blame thy kindly looks,
And kindly words thou said'st to me.
Thy pawky smile an' wit refined,
Nor thy fair form's bewitching grace,
As lightsome as the mountain wind;
For these how many a lover brooks,
Since lovelier, man can never see!
But sair I blame thy kindly looks,
And kindly words thou said'st to me.
I could have gazed both morn and even
On that entrancing face of thine,
As I would gaze upon the heaven,
Yet never think of it as mine;
I could have joy'd to see thee blest,
A comely bride, a happy wife,
But what thy tongue to me profess'd
Has ruin'd a' my peace for life.
On that entrancing face of thine,
As I would gaze upon the heaven,
Yet never think of it as mine;
I could have joy'd to see thee blest,
A comely bride, a happy wife,
But what thy tongue to me profess'd
Has ruin'd a' my peace for life.
438
I never valued aught sae dear
As Mary's hand an' Mary's smile;
But, ah! I never had a fear
That baith were grantit to beguile:
Yet I can never cease to love,
And when to Heaven I bow the knee
To ask a blessing from above,
My heart shall ask the same for thee!
As Mary's hand an' Mary's smile;
But, ah! I never had a fear
That baith were grantit to beguile:
Yet I can never cease to love,
And when to Heaven I bow the knee
To ask a blessing from above,
My heart shall ask the same for thee!
Oh, saw ye this sweet bonnie Lassie o' mine?
Oh, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me!
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me!
It's no that she dances sae light on the green;
It's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
But oh, it's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
That makes me as happy as happy can be.
It's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
But oh, it's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
That makes me as happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth here there's naething is equal to this.
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth here there's naething is equal to this.
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd;
When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd;
But oh, there's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth sure there's naething is equal to this!
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss—
On earth sure there's naething is equal to this!
Auld John Nicol.
I'll sing of an auld forbear o' my ain,
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
A man that for fun was never outdone,
And his name it was Auld John Nicol o' Whun.
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
A man that for fun was never outdone,
And his name it was Auld John Nicol o' Whun.
Auld John Nicol he lo'ed his glass,
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
An' weel he likit the toasts to pass,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
An' weel he likit the toasts to pass,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
Auld John Nicol gaed out to fight, &c.
But a' gaed wrang that should hae gane right; &c.
Then auld John Nicol kneel'd down to pray,
But never a word John Nicol could say.
But a' gaed wrang that should hae gane right; &c.
Then auld John Nicol kneel'd down to pray,
But never a word John Nicol could say.
Auld John Nicol he lo'ed a lass,
But I darena tell you what came to pass;
For the beadle came up in an unco haste,
An' summon'd him down to speak wi' the priest.
But I darena tell you what came to pass;
For the beadle came up in an unco haste,
An' summon'd him down to speak wi' the priest.
Then auld John Nicol he changed his hue,
For his face it grew red, an' his face it grew blue;
John Nicol gaed out, John Nicol gaed in,
An' he wish'd he had been in the well to the chin.
For his face it grew red, an' his face it grew blue;
John Nicol gaed out, John Nicol gaed in,
An' he wish'd he had been in the well to the chin.
“Shame fa' it!” quo' John, “I often hae thought
Wha wins at woman will lose at nought;
But I hae heart to do ill to nane,
Sae I will e'en mak the lassie my ain.”
Wha wins at woman will lose at nought;
But I hae heart to do ill to nane,
Sae I will e'en mak the lassie my ain.”
Then auld John Nicol he got a wife,
And he never got siccan fun in his life;—
Now John Nicol he sings frae morn till e'en,
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
The happiest man that ever was seen,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
And he never got siccan fun in his life;—
Now John Nicol he sings frae morn till e'en,
Tweeddlum, twaddlum, twenty-one,
The happiest man that ever was seen,
An' it's hey for brave John Nicol o' Whun!
What Tongue can speak the glowing Heart?
What tongue can speak the glowing heart,
What pencil paint the glistening eye,
When your command came to depart
From scenes of triumph, hope, and joy?
What pencil paint the glistening eye,
When your command came to depart
From scenes of triumph, hope, and joy?
Cross'd in life—by villains plunder'd,
More than yet you've given belief;
Fortune's bolts have o'er me thunder'd,
Till my very heart is deaf.
More than yet you've given belief;
Fortune's bolts have o'er me thunder'd,
Till my very heart is deaf.
Hard lives the willow by the strand,
To every pelting surge a prey;
Nor will it leave its native land,
Till every root is torn away:
To every pelting surge a prey;
Nor will it leave its native land,
Till every root is torn away:
So I, like the poor passive willow,
Cling unto my native shore,
Till the next returning billow
Cast me down for evermore.
Cling unto my native shore,
Till the next returning billow
Cast me down for evermore.
Ah! who hath seen the desolation
Of the earthquake's dismal reign,
E'er can hope the renovation
Of his peaceful home again?
Of the earthquake's dismal reign,
E'er can hope the renovation
Of his peaceful home again?
So I, distracted and forlorn,
Look back upon my youthful prime;
And forward to the happy morn
That frees me from the hand of time.
Look back upon my youthful prime;
And forward to the happy morn
That frees me from the hand of time.
I'll bid my Heart be still.
I'll bid my heart be still,
And check each struggling sigh;
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherished woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.
And check each struggling sigh;
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherished woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.
439
They bid me cease to weep,
For glory gilds his name;
But the deeper I mourn,
Since he cannot return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame.
For glory gilds his name;
But the deeper I mourn,
Since he cannot return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame.
While minstrels wake the lay
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death dirge alone.
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death dirge alone.
My cheek has lost its hue,
My eye grows faint and dim,
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him.
My eye grows faint and dim,
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him.
To Mary at Parting.
Alas, alas! the time draws nigh,
When low that beauteous form shall lie;
That eye that beams with love and duty,
Must quickly lose its beaming beauty;
That heart, that beats so brisk and gaily,
Must turn a clod in yonder valley.
No more the sun shall dawn on thee,
But long thy starless night shall be;
Chill, chill, and damp thy lonely room,
And hemlock o'er thy bosom bloom.
Oh then, be wise—the time draws nigh
When low that beauteous form shall lie!
When low that beauteous form shall lie;
That eye that beams with love and duty,
Must quickly lose its beaming beauty;
That heart, that beats so brisk and gaily,
Must turn a clod in yonder valley.
No more the sun shall dawn on thee,
But long thy starless night shall be;
Chill, chill, and damp thy lonely room,
And hemlock o'er thy bosom bloom.
Oh then, be wise—the time draws nigh
When low that beauteous form shall lie!
But oh, within that lovely frame,
There dwells a spark of heavenly flame—
A spark that shall for ever burn,
Smile over nature's closing urn,
And mix its beams in cloudless day,
When sun and stars have passed away!—
To nurse that spark—that ray divine,
The task, the pleasing task be thine;
Then thy delights shall never die,
Though low that beauteous form shall lie.
There dwells a spark of heavenly flame—
A spark that shall for ever burn,
Smile over nature's closing urn,
And mix its beams in cloudless day,
When sun and stars have passed away!—
To nurse that spark—that ray divine,
The task, the pleasing task be thine;
Then thy delights shall never die,
Though low that beauteous form shall lie.
Good Night, and Joy.
[_]
This song was written for, and published as the concluding song of, Smith's “Scottish Minstrel;” a work the music of which is singular for its sweetness and true Scottish simplicity. The song, with a little variation, forms an appropriate conclusion to these simple lyrical effusions.
The year is wearing to the wane,
An' day is fading west awa';
Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,
And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;
But let the tempest tout an' blaw
Upon his loudest winter horn,
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a';
We'll maybe meet again the morn!
An' day is fading west awa';
Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,
And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;
But let the tempest tout an' blaw
Upon his loudest winter horn,
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a';
We'll maybe meet again the morn!
Oh, we hae wander'd far an' wide
O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd,
An' trimm'd them wi' the heather bell!
We've ranged the dingle an' the dell,
The hamlet an' the baron's ha';
Now let us take a kind farewell,—
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd,
An' trimm'd them wi' the heather bell!
We've ranged the dingle an' the dell,
The hamlet an' the baron's ha';
Now let us take a kind farewell,—
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Though I was wayward, you were kind,
And sorrow'd when I went astray;
For oh, my strains were often wild
As winds upon a winter day.
If e'er I led you from the way,
Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,—
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
And sorrow'd when I went astray;
For oh, my strains were often wild
As winds upon a winter day.
If e'er I led you from the way,
Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,—
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |