Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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THE WEDDED WATERS. |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
THE WEDDED WATERS.
Gadie wi' its waters fleet,
Ury wi' its murmur sweet,
They hae trysted aye to meet
Among the woods o' Logie.
Ury wi' its murmur sweet,
They hae trysted aye to meet
Among the woods o' Logie.
Like bride an' bridegroom happy they,
Wooing smiles frae bank an' brae,
Their wedded waters wind an' play
Round leafy bowers at Logie.
Wooing smiles frae bank an' brae,
Their wedded waters wind an' play
Round leafy bowers at Logie.
O'er brashy linn, o'er meadow fine,
They never sinder, never tyne,
An' oh! I thought sic meetings mine,
Yon happy hours at Logie!
They never sinder, never tyne,
An' oh! I thought sic meetings mine,
Yon happy hours at Logie!
But Fortune's cauld an' changefu' e'e,
Gloomed bitterly on mine an' me,
I looket syne, but cou'dna see
My sworn love at Logie.
Gloomed bitterly on mine an' me,
I looket syne, but cou'dna see
My sworn love at Logie.
70
Now lowly, lanely, I may rue
The guilefu' look, the guilefu' vow,
That fled as flees the feckless dew
Frae withered leaves at Logie.
The guilefu' look, the guilefu' vow,
That fled as flees the feckless dew
Frae withered leaves at Logie.
But Gadie wi' its torrents keen
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An' Ury wi' its braes sae green,
They a' can tell how true I've been
To my lost love in Logie.
An' Ury wi' its braes sae green,
They a' can tell how true I've been
To my lost love in Logie.
It is on this stream, which, rising in the parish of Clatt, after a course of some miles, runs into the Ury, the following beautiful song was long ago written, and is well known to all the country:—
“I wish I were whar Gadie rins,
'Mang fragrant heath and yellow whins,
Or brawlin' doun the boskie lins,
At the back o' Bein-na-chie!
Ance mair to hear the wild birds' saing;
To wander birks and braes amang,
Wi' frien's an' fav'rites left so lang
At the back o'Bein-na-chie.
'Mang fragrant heath and yellow whins,
Or brawlin' doun the boskie lins,
At the back o' Bein-na-chie!
Ance mair to hear the wild birds' saing;
To wander birks and braes amang,
Wi' frien's an' fav'rites left so lang
At the back o'Bein-na-chie.
How mony a day in blythe spring time,
How mony a day in simmer's prime,
I've saunterin' whiled awa' the time,
On the heights o' Bein-na-chie!
Ah! fortune's flowers wi' thorns grow rife,
And walth is won wi' toil and strife;
Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life
At the back o' Bein-na-chie.
How mony a day in simmer's prime,
I've saunterin' whiled awa' the time,
On the heights o' Bein-na-chie!
Ah! fortune's flowers wi' thorns grow rife,
And walth is won wi' toil and strife;
Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life
At the back o' Bein-na-chie.
Ah! Mary, there on ilka night,
When baith our hearts were young an' light,
We've wander'd by the clear moonlight,
Wi' speech baith fond and free.
Oh! ance, ance mair, whar Gadie rins,
Whar Gadie rins! whar Gadie rins,
Oh! might I die whar Gadie rins,
At the back o' Bein-na-chie!”
When baith our hearts were young an' light,
We've wander'd by the clear moonlight,
Wi' speech baith fond and free.
Oh! ance, ance mair, whar Gadie rins,
Whar Gadie rins! whar Gadie rins,
Oh! might I die whar Gadie rins,
At the back o' Bein-na-chie!”
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |