The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
 |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | IV.
O THE EWE-BUGHTING'S BONNY. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
IV. O THE EWE-BUGHTING'S BONNY.
O the ewe-bughting's bonny, both e'ening and morn,
When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear;
But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn:
On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free—
But alas! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear;
But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn:
On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free—
But alas! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
O the sheep-herding's lightsome amang the green braes
Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes,
Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale
And the cushat croods leesomely down in the dale.
There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn,
And blithe lilts the laverok aboon the green corn,
And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime—
But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime!
Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes,
Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale
And the cushat croods leesomely down in the dale.
There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn,
And blithe lilts the laverok aboon the green corn,
And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime—
But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime!
171
O the hay-making's pleasant, in bright sunny June—
The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune—
But while others are joking and laughing sae free,
There's a pang at my heart and a tear i' my ee.
At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn,
Fu' dowie and wae, aft I daunder and mourn;
Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane,
And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane.
The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune—
But while others are joking and laughing sae free,
There's a pang at my heart and a tear i' my ee.
At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn,
Fu' dowie and wae, aft I daunder and mourn;
Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane,
And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane.
O the days o' our youthheid were heartsome and gay,
When we herded thegither by sweet Gaitshaw brae,
When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells
By the Cayle's ferny howms and on Hounam's green fells.
But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird,
To win honour and gowd—(gif his life it be spared!)
Ah! little care I for walth, favour, or fame,
Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame!
When we herded thegither by sweet Gaitshaw brae,
When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells
By the Cayle's ferny howms and on Hounam's green fells.
But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird,
To win honour and gowd—(gif his life it be spared!)
Ah! little care I for walth, favour, or fame,
Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame!
Then, round our wee cot though gruff winter sould roar,
And poortith glowr in like a wolf at the door;
Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink,
And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink;
Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel,
Through the howe o' the year we wad fend unco weel;
Till the lintwhite, and laverok, and lambs bleating fain,
Brought back the blithe time o' ewe-bughting again.
And poortith glowr in like a wolf at the door;
Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink,
And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink;
Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel,
Through the howe o' the year we wad fend unco weel;
Till the lintwhite, and laverok, and lambs bleating fain,
Brought back the blithe time o' ewe-bughting again.
The first verse of this song is old. It was transcribed by the editor, from a fragment in the handwriting of the celebrated Lady Grisel Baillie, inclosed in a letter written from Scotland to her brother Patrick, who was at that time an exile in Holland along with her father (afterwards Earl of Marchmont) and her future husband, Baillie of Jerviswood. The style is not unlike that of her own sweet song —“O were na my heart light I wad dee.” The other four verses are an attempt to complete the simple ditty in the same pastoral strain.—T. P.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |