 | Tales, in verse and miscellaneous poems |  |
Ballads and Songs.
188
SONGS.
THE TAILOR TRIUMPHANT.
I'm Tailor Tom, from London come,
With all my cuts and capers;
I've fashions new, of every cue,
Cut out on shreds of papers.
'Tis mighty strange how things will change!
For sure I never dream'd on't,
To stitch or mope in country shop,
Or ever chalk a seam in't.
With all my cuts and capers;
I've fashions new, of every cue,
Cut out on shreds of papers.
'Tis mighty strange how things will change!
For sure I never dream'd on't,
To stitch or mope in country shop,
Or ever chalk a seam in't.
[Spoken.—Well, isn't it a great mark of condescension in a gentleman of my dress, figure, and appearance, to deny myself the pleasure of Stitch Street and Broker Lane, and to be slump't up with a set of clodhoppers (civilly speaking)? But I can assure you, it was merely for the discharge
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What would ye think, these hands of mine,
Made drawers for a duchess;
Stitch'd ribbon-stars for dukes so fine,
And brac'd a maid in breeches!
I've set a button on a suit,
To grace a birth-day levee;
And cut for col'nels in the ranks,
And captains in the navy.
Made drawers for a duchess;
Stitch'd ribbon-stars for dukes so fine,
And brac'd a maid in breeches!
I've set a button on a suit,
To grace a birth-day levee;
And cut for col'nels in the ranks,
And captains in the navy.
[Spoken.—Gentlemen and Ladies, you may believe me, London's the place for honour and preferment. —Every man there is measured by his clothing. I've there known a drill-serjeant pass for a captain, a laird for a lord, a curate for a bishop, a French farrier for a graduate;—even I, myself, often for a man-milliner—but we never seem'd to know them in our shop; that is to say, if they pull'd freely, it made them contented, and us to sing,—Tal the dall, lal, &c.
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O! London fine, for ladies kind,
Of every rank and station—
For belles and beaux, sure more it shows,
Than any town i' the nation.
'Twas on a night, when drest so tight,
A doxy did salute me;
So kind and free she blink'd on me,
And threw her arms about me.
Of every rank and station—
For belles and beaux, sure more it shows,
Than any town i' the nation.
'Twas on a night, when drest so tight,
A doxy did salute me;
So kind and free she blink'd on me,
And threw her arms about me.
[Spoken.—Faith, and after all, I believe she made more free than welcome, for instead of hugging and squeezing me out of pure kindness, as I imagined, she hugged me out of a whole week's wages, my thimble, shears, and all the rest of my appendages,—leaving me idle, only with a bodkin wanting the point, to sing,—Tal the dall, lal, &c.
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JENNY OF THE CREE.
Young Jenny blooms the bonniest lass
On a' the crystal banks o' Cree;
On Gall'way braes wha can surpass
Her dimpl'd cheek or downcast e'e?
There's Susy fair wou'd me ensnare,
And blythesome buxom Mennie, O;
But nane I see sae dear to me,
Or wins ilk wish like Jenny, O.
There's Susy fair, &c.
On a' the crystal banks o' Cree;
On Gall'way braes wha can surpass
Her dimpl'd cheek or downcast e'e?
There's Susy fair wou'd me ensnare,
And blythesome buxom Mennie, O;
But nane I see sae dear to me,
Or wins ilk wish like Jenny, O.
There's Susy fair, &c.
Let wavin' woods spread bank an' brae,
An' heather bells bloom on the hill;
Let lowly flow'rs their blooms display,
She, bonny bud, blooms sweeter still.
The lav'rock sweet his mate may greet,
Wi' wild-notes blythe an' bonny, O;
But whan she sings he draps his wings,
An', list'ning, learns frae Jenny, O.
But whan, &c.
An' heather bells bloom on the hill;
Let lowly flow'rs their blooms display,
She, bonny bud, blooms sweeter still.
The lav'rock sweet his mate may greet,
Wi' wild-notes blythe an' bonny, O;
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An', list'ning, learns frae Jenny, O.
But whan, &c.
What Fortune's gi'en I'll freely share
Wi' my sweet lass o' lowly state;
E'en for her sake I'll wish it mair,
To mak' her joys the mair complete.
The sordid wretch may grip and scratch,
And hoard his soul, the penny, O;
While in my bower I tent the flower,
The sweet—the lovely Jenny, O.
The sordid wretch, &c.
Wi' my sweet lass o' lowly state;
E'en for her sake I'll wish it mair,
To mak' her joys the mair complete.
The sordid wretch may grip and scratch,
And hoard his soul, the penny, O;
While in my bower I tent the flower,
The sweet—the lovely Jenny, O.
The sordid wretch, &c.
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A LOVE SONG.
What makes thee thus my hand to press,
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.
Why does that wanton hand of thine,
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
The silent language of thy sighs,
Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,
And say “it's all but love.”—
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
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Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,
And say “it's all but love.”—
Whene'er you lay your cheek to mine
It makes my pulse to beat;
If lip to lip we e'er entwine,
You clasp me still more strait,
Till in one breath we seem to live,
And in one sphere to move;
Such pleasing pain it seems to give,
It surely must be love.
It makes my pulse to beat;
If lip to lip we e'er entwine,
You clasp me still more strait,
Till in one breath we seem to live,
And in one sphere to move;
Such pleasing pain it seems to give,
It surely must be love.
While thus I lie within your arms—
O tell an artless maid—
Hast thou on me no base designs,
Nor sly entrapments laid?
O, no! that heart is full of truth,
And constant as the dove;
Then I'll resign me to thy arms,
And trust its all but love.
O tell an artless maid—
Hast thou on me no base designs,
Nor sly entrapments laid?
O, no! that heart is full of truth,
And constant as the dove;
Then I'll resign me to thy arms,
And trust its all but love.
232
VERSES, ADDED TO BURNS'S “OVER THE FORTH.”
His face like the morn, or the rose newly blown,
His hair like the blackbird that skims o'er the lee;
His person is fine, an' his heart it is kin',
An' sweet is the blink o' his dark rollin' e'e.
His hair like the blackbird that skims o'er the lee;
His person is fine, an' his heart it is kin',
An' sweet is the blink o' his dark rollin' e'e.
But where shall I find ought to figure his mind,
Or equal his valour or true love to me;
But his fortune was hard, an' his frien's broke their word,
That has forc'd him to lea'e his dear baby an' me.
Or equal his valour or true love to me;
But his fortune was hard, an' his frien's broke their word,
That has forc'd him to lea'e his dear baby an' me.
What thoughts did I feel when he bade me fareweel,
While the grief partin' tear it did start in our e'e;
How my heart it did beat when I view'd the sad fate,
That tore him for ay frae his ain country.
While the grief partin' tear it did start in our e'e;
How my heart it did beat when I view'd the sad fate,
That tore him for ay frae his ain country.
Now day gi'es nae joy but to gaze on my boy,
An' night brings nae comfort but tears to my e'e;
In sorrow I'll mourn, for he ne'er can return;
Far far does he roam frae his baby an' me.
An' night brings nae comfort but tears to my e'e;
In sorrow I'll mourn, for he ne'er can return;
Far far does he roam frae his baby an' me.
233
SONG.
[Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggy]
Whan first I forgather'd wi' Peggy
My Peggy an' I were young;
Sae blythe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggy an' I ha'e sung.
My Peggy an' I ha'e sung,
Till the stars did blink sae hie;
Come weel or come woe to the biggin',
My Peggy was dear to me.
My Peggy an' I were young;
Sae blythe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggy an' I ha'e sung.
My Peggy an' I ha'e sung,
Till the stars did blink sae hie;
Come weel or come woe to the biggin',
My Peggy was dear to me.
The stately aik stood on the mountain,
An' tower'd o'er the green birken shaw;
Ilk glentin' wee flow'er on the meadow,
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw.
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,
When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee;
'Twas there that I courted my Peggy,
Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.
An' tower'd o'er the green birken shaw;
Ilk glentin' wee flow'er on the meadow,
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw.
Seem'd proud o' bein' buskit sae braw,
When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee;
'Twas there that I courted my Peggy,
Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.
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Tho' love it has little to look for
Frae the heart that's wedded to gear;
A wife without house or a haddin'
Gars ane look right blate like an' queer.
Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three;
Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten,
But Peggy's ay dear to me.
Frae the heart that's wedded to gear;
A wife without house or a haddin'
Gars ane look right blate like an' queer.
Gars ane baith look blate like an' queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three;
Our frien's they ha'e foughten an' flyten,
But Peggy's ay dear to me.
It vex'd me her sighin' an' sabbin',
Now nought anist marriage wou'd do;
An' tho' that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to?
What cou'd I but e'en buckle to,
An' dight the sa't tear frae her e'e?
The warl's a wearifu' wister;
But Peggy's ay dear to me.
Now nought anist marriage wou'd do;
An' tho' that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to?
What cou'd I but e'en buckle to,
An' dight the sa't tear frae her e'e?
The warl's a wearifu' wister;
But Peggy's ay dear to me.
235
MARY'S LAMENT.
Low, low he lies, without a grave,
My only hope, my Harry, O,
Entomb'd within yon briny wave,
Far distant frae his Mary, O!
Trafalgar's shores, where, sadly gay,
Triumphant Victory, in dismay,
Wept o'er her Nelson, cold as clay,
And my last hopes o' Harry, O!
My only hope, my Harry, O,
Entomb'd within yon briny wave,
Far distant frae his Mary, O!
Trafalgar's shores, where, sadly gay,
Triumphant Victory, in dismay,
Wept o'er her Nelson, cold as clay,
And my last hopes o' Harry, O!
Oft have I o'er the sea-beach stray'd,
With anxious thoughts, and weary, O;
His dangers made me oft afraid,
Till soothing Hope would cheer me, O.
While whirling sea-birds round would cry,
With uncouth notes, alang the sky,
Waken my smiling, sleeping boy,
My only pledge o' Harry, O.
With anxious thoughts, and weary, O;
His dangers made me oft afraid,
Till soothing Hope would cheer me, O.
While whirling sea-birds round would cry,
With uncouth notes, alang the sky,
Waken my smiling, sleeping boy,
My only pledge o' Harry, O.
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Full soon the busy news arriv'd,
Of victory an' of Harry, O;
Of pleasing comfort it depriv'd
His luckless, lonely Mary, O!
His gentle spirit's now at rest;
But mine, alas! is sore deprest;
No balm shall soothe this troubled breast,
Till join'd again to Harry, O!
Of victory an' of Harry, O;
Of pleasing comfort it depriv'd
His luckless, lonely Mary, O!
His gentle spirit's now at rest;
But mine, alas! is sore deprest;
No balm shall soothe this troubled breast,
Till join'd again to Harry, O!
244
SONG.
[Where are the joys that I felt in life's morning?]
Where are the joys that I felt in life's morning?
Where are the moments once pleasing to me?
With fortune's gay graces that flutter'd around me,
Gay as the sun-beam that blinks on the lee:
Where are the moments once pleasing to me?
With fortune's gay graces that flutter'd around me,
Gay as the sun-beam that blinks on the lee:
Why heaves my heart with this high throbbing sorrow?
Why soothing hope from my bosom thus flown;
Why is this visage so pale and dejected,
With eyes overflowin' an' fix'd on the groun?
Why soothing hope from my bosom thus flown;
Why is this visage so pale and dejected,
With eyes overflowin' an' fix'd on the groun?
Is it for Nature, that's naked an' ravag'd,
By rough wintry blasts as they scowl o'er the plain?
The sun will return, with his beams more endearing,
Soon will bring Nature her simmer again.
By rough wintry blasts as they scowl o'er the plain?
The sun will return, with his beams more endearing,
Soon will bring Nature her simmer again.
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But what though the fields in their verdure shall flourish,
With birds sweetly chanting their notes frae the tree,
They ne'er can revive the lone bosom from mourning,
Or bring my dear Willie again back to me!
With birds sweetly chanting their notes frae the tree,
They ne'er can revive the lone bosom from mourning,
Or bring my dear Willie again back to me!
Aft through these groves wi' my Willie I've wander'd;
Simmer was cheerfu', an' Nature was gay:
Now as I wander the night it is eerie;
Dull is the mornin', an' cheerless the day.
Simmer was cheerfu', an' Nature was gay:
Now as I wander the night it is eerie;
Dull is the mornin', an' cheerless the day.
Dear is the hawthorn where lastly we parted;
An' dear is the burnie that sings thro' the glen;
But dearer to me is the youth of my bosom,
That's found a far grave o'er the watery main.
An' dear is the burnie that sings thro' the glen;
But dearer to me is the youth of my bosom,
That's found a far grave o'er the watery main.
Restless I roam, while the tempest is gathering,
On dark floating clouds as they usher the gloom;
Fortune, I fear not thy smiles nor thy frowning,
Nought now can move me on this side the tomb!
On dark floating clouds as they usher the gloom;
Fortune, I fear not thy smiles nor thy frowning,
Nought now can move me on this side the tomb!
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THE LOVER'S REVERIE.
The mind that's unclouded from sorrow and care,
May relish young Spring with the buds of the year,
And Summer yield comfort to those that are free,
Yet they're cheerless and lonely, and lost unto me:
For mine is the empire of sorrow and care,
To be cross'd in affection, corroded with fear;
Since my heart's soothing blossom will yield no relief,
But mocks at my cares and despises my grief.
May relish young Spring with the buds of the year,
And Summer yield comfort to those that are free,
Yet they're cheerless and lonely, and lost unto me:
For mine is the empire of sorrow and care,
To be cross'd in affection, corroded with fear;
Since my heart's soothing blossom will yield no relief,
But mocks at my cares and despises my grief.
O! Phœbe, thou'rt fairer than love can unfold,
Thou gayest and dearest, e'er nature did mould;
What beams with thy glances to me can compare?
What mien so engaging, or face half so fair?
Does the chains of reflection e'er trace o'er thy mind,
Or point to the moments when once you were kind;
Or can that soft bosom where graces repair
Like the snows in December, be cold and yet fair
Thou gayest and dearest, e'er nature did mould;
What beams with thy glances to me can compare?
What mien so engaging, or face half so fair?
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Or point to the moments when once you were kind;
Or can that soft bosom where graces repair
Like the snows in December, be cold and yet fair
But the titles of honour and dignified birth,
Exalts thee above me, and lessens my worth;
As yon rock which bears diamonds and hangs o'er the sea,
Is gazed at and longed for, so thou art to me.
But why need I warble my woes thus alane,
Since Phœbe the fairest deserted the plain?—
Yes I'll sigh with the wild blast, and mourn with the dove,
And I'll soothe me with sorrow for the loss of my love?
Exalts thee above me, and lessens my worth;
As yon rock which bears diamonds and hangs o'er the sea,
Is gazed at and longed for, so thou art to me.
But why need I warble my woes thus alane,
Since Phœbe the fairest deserted the plain?—
Yes I'll sigh with the wild blast, and mourn with the dove,
And I'll soothe me with sorrow for the loss of my love?
248
SONG.
[O! come my dear lassie wi' me to the green]
By T. C.
O! come my dear lassie wi' me to the green,
The clover does bud and the daisy is seen—
Remember the promise that ye made yestreen,
To tak' a walk out i' the mornin':
The sun's gouden beams saftly gildeth the morn;
The birds sweetly chantin' their notes frae the thorn:
The dew draps are hingin' sae clear on the corn,
An' sweet smells the flow'rs i' the mornin'.
The clover does bud and the daisy is seen—
Remember the promise that ye made yestreen,
To tak' a walk out i' the mornin':
The sun's gouden beams saftly gildeth the morn;
The birds sweetly chantin' their notes frae the thorn:
The dew draps are hingin' sae clear on the corn,
An' sweet smells the flow'rs i' the mornin'.
Yet still there is something that's dearer to me:
The rose o' thy cheek, and the blink o' thy e'e,
Through ilk cross an' care they aye comfort wou'd gi'e,
An' cheer me baith e'enin' an' mornin':
The king wi' his crown, or the duke wi' his star,
May elbow for honour or counsel for war:
Sic cares bring but crosses—I'm happier far
When walkin' wi' you i' the mornin'.
The rose o' thy cheek, and the blink o' thy e'e,
Through ilk cross an' care they aye comfort wou'd gi'e,
An' cheer me baith e'enin' an' mornin':
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May elbow for honour or counsel for war:
Sic cares bring but crosses—I'm happier far
When walkin' wi' you i' the mornin'.
The beauties o' Simmer can please while 'tis May,
Yet, how frail is their form, and how short is their stay?
So youth wi' its blossoms will shortly decay—
E'en thy charms will but last like the mornin':
But wat ye what pleasures the bosom can yield,
When love's saft impression true friendship has seal'd,
Frae the cauld blasts o' fortune 'twou'd ay be a bield,
An' cheer us baith e'enin' an' mornin'?
Yet, how frail is their form, and how short is their stay?
So youth wi' its blossoms will shortly decay—
E'en thy charms will but last like the mornin':
But wat ye what pleasures the bosom can yield,
When love's saft impression true friendship has seal'd,
Frae the cauld blasts o' fortune 'twou'd ay be a bield,
An' cheer us baith e'enin' an' mornin'?
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THE END.
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