The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill :: :: University of Virginia Library

Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the brume bushes by Stanely green shaw;
The wild flowers o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they ha'e march'd my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' Nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery,
Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw;
Now naething is heard but the win' whistlin' dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide-spreadin' snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie;
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie:
'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar, on the wintry win' swellin',
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tear to my e'e,
For, oh, gin I saw my bonnie Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were simmer to me.

THOU BONNIE WOOD O' CRAIGIELEE.

Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielee,
Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielee,
Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
And won my Mary's heart in thee.

The brume, the brier, the birken bush,
Bloom bonnie o'er thy flowery lee,
An' a' the sweets that ane can wish
Frae Nature's hand, are strewed on thee.

Thou bonnie wood, etc.

Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,
The cushat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, doon thy buchted glade,
Gars echo ring frae ev'ry tree.

Thou bonnie wood, etc.

Awa', ye thochtless, murd'rin' gang,
Wha tear the nestlin's ere they flee!
They 'll sing you yet a cantie sang,
Then, oh! in pity let them be!

Thou bonnie wood, etc.

When winter blaws in sleety showers,
Frae aff the Norlan' hills sae hie,
He lichtly skiffs thy bonnie bowers,
As laith to harm a flower in thee.

Thou bonnie wood, etc.

Though fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea,
The happy hours I 'll ever mind
That I, in youth, ha'e spent in thee.

Thou bonnie wood, etc.

NOW WINTER IS GANE.

[Now winter is gane, and the clouds flee away,
Yon bonnie blue sky how delightful to see,
Now linties and blackbirds sing on ilka spray
That flourishes round Woodhouselee.
The hawthorn is blooming,
The soft breeze perfuming,
O come, my dear lassie, the season is gay,
And naething mair lovely can be;
The primrose and lily
We 'll pu' in the valley,
And lean, when we like, on some gowany brae
That rises beside Woodhouselee.]

Ye mind when the snaw lay sae deep on the hill,
When cauld icy cranreuch hung white on the tree,
When bushes were leafless, and mournfully still
Were the wee birds o' sweet Woodhouselee:
When snaw show'rs were fa'ing,
And wintry winds blawing,
Loud whistling o'er mountain and meadow sae chill,
We mark'd it wi' sorrowing e'e;
But now since the flowers
Again busk the bowers,
O come, my dear lassie, wi' smiling goodwill,
And wander around Woodhouselee.

The first verse of this song was written by John Hamilton, Edinburgh, for an ancient Irish melody, “The fair-haired child,” but after several futile attempts to proceed further, Tannahill was requested to compose a second verse.

THE FAREWEEL.

Accuse me not, inconstant fair,
Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so,
Hadst thou been true to me.
But when I knew thy plighted lips
Once to a rival's prest,
Love-smothered independence rose,
And spurned thee from my breast.

The fairest flower in Nature's field
Conceals the rankling thorn;
So thou, sweet flower! as false as fair,
This once kind heart hath torn.
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
That slighted love can feel;
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
Which bids this long fareweel.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

Gloomy Winter's now awa',
Saft the westlan' breezes blaw;
'Mang the birks o' Stanely shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O.

Sweet the crawflower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',
My young, my artless dearie, O.

Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day
'Midst joys that never weary, O

Tow'ring o'er the Newton Woods,
Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds,
Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,
Adorn the banks sae briery, O.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
And ilka thing is cheerie, O.

Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O.

THE GREY PINIONED LARK.

While the grey pinioned lark early mounts to the skies,
And cheerily hails the sweet dawn,
And the sun, newly risen, sheds the mists from his eyes,
And smiles over mountain and lawn,

Delighted I stray by the Fairy Woodside,
Where the dewdrops the crowflowers adorn,
And Nature, array'd in her midsummer's pride,
Sweetly smiles to the smile of the morn.

Ye dark waving plantings, ye green shady bowers,
Your charms ever varying I view;
My soul's dearest transports, my happiest hours,
Have owed half their pleasures to you.

Sweet Ferguslie, hail! thou 'rt the dear sacred grove
Where first my young Muse spread her wing;
Here Nature first waked me to rapture and love,
And taught me her beauties to sing.

OUR BONNIE SCOTS LADS.

Our bonnie Scots lads in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw,
Ranked up on the green were fair to be seen,
But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a'.
His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw;
His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell,
And the een o' the lasses were fixed on him a'.

My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day,
When, torn frae my bosom, they marched him awa';
He bade me farewell; he cried, “Oh, be leal!”
And his red cheeks were wet wi' the tears that did fa'.
Ah! Harry, my love, though thou ne'er shouldst return,
Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn;
And mem'ry shall fade like a leaf on the tree,
Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.

NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
Is far ayont yon mountains,
And spring beholds her azure sky
Reflected in the fountains.
Now, on the budding slaethorn bank,
She spreads her early blossom,
And woos the mirly-breasted birds
To nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,
Sae darksome, dull, and dreary,
Now laverocks sing to hail the spring,
And Nature all is cheery.

Then let us leave the town, my love,
And seek our country dwelling,
Where waving woods and spreading flow'rs
On every side are smiling.
We 'll tread again the daisied green,
Where first your beauty moved me;
We 'll trace again the woodland scene,
Where first ye owned ye loved me.
We soon will view the roses blaw
In a' the charms o' fancy;
For doubly dear these pleasures a',
When shared with you, my Nancy.

LASSIE, WILL YE TAK' A MAN?

O lassie, will ye tak' a man,
Rich in housin', gear, and lan'?
De'il tak' the cash! that I should ban,—
Nae mair I 'll be the slave o't.

I 'll buy you claes to busk you braw,
A riding pony, pad, and a';
On fashion's tap we 'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, and a' the lave o't.

Oh, poortith is a wintry day,
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, and blae;
But basking under Fortune's ray,
There 's joy whate'er ye 'd have o't.

Then gie 's your han', ye 'll be my wife,
I 'll mak' you happy a' your life;
We 'll row in love and siller rife,
Till death wind up the lave o't.

THOU CAULD GLOOMY FEBERWAR.

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
Oh gin thou wert awa';
I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,
I 'm wae to see thy snaw:
For my bonnie brave young Highlander,
The lad I lo'e so dear,
Has vowed to come and see me
In the spring o' the year.

[Thou cauld, gloomy Feberwar,
Hast ne'er a sunny smile?
For pity chase the storms afar,
And nurse the flowers awhile,
For my bonnie brave young Highlander
Will keep his word sae dear,
When buds begin to open
In the spring o' the year.

—R. B. M.]

YE ECHOES THAT RING.

Ye echoes that ring round the woods of Bowgreen,
Say, did ye e'er listen sae melting a strain,
When lovely young Jessie gaed wand'ring unseen,
And sung of her laddie, the pride of the plain?
Aye she sang, “Willie, my bonnie young Willie!
There 's no a sweet flower on the mountain or valley,
Mild blue-spreckled crawflower, nor wild woodland lily,
But tines a' its sweets in my bonnie young swain.
Thou goddess of love, keep him constant to me,
Else, with'ring in sorrow, poor Jessie shall dee!”

Her laddie had strayed through the dark leafy wood,
His thoughts were a' fixed on his dear lassie's charms,

He heard her sweet voice, all transported he stood,
'Twas the soul of his wishes—he flew to her arms.
“No, my dear Jessie! my lovely young Jessie!
Through simmer, through winter, I 'll daut and caress thee;
Thou 'rt dearer than life! thou 'rt my ae only lassie!
Then, banish thy bosom these needless alarms:
Yon red seeting sun sooner changeful shall be,
Ere, wav'ring in falsehood, I wander frae thee.”

THE DUSKY GLEN.

We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cozy den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,
Yet, there we may be seen,
But we 'll meet, we 'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I 'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side;
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side;
There the busy prying eye
Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;
There fancy smooths her theme,
By the sweetly murmuring stream,
And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the planting taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side,
And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side;
Far frae the noisy scene,
I 'll through the fields alane,
There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn side.

MY DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O.

Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my faither, O,
Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O,
Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O,
And vowed to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O.

But ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O,
The laird 's wysed awa' my braw Highland laddie, O;
Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O,
That aye seemed sae blithe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O.

The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O,
Muddy are the streams that gushed down sae clearly, O,
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O,
The wild melting strains of my dear Highland laddie, O,

He pu'd me the cranberry, ripe frae the boggy fen,
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen,
He pu'd me the rowan frae the wild steep sae giddy, O,
Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O.

Farewell, my ewes! and farewell, my doggie, O,
Farewell, ye knowes! now sae cheerless and scroggie, O;
Farewell, Glenfeoch! my mammie and my daddie, O,
I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloaming,
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter, and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

She 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie,
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested o' feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'enin',
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes o' Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
Tho' mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ALL HAIL! YE DEAR ROMANTIC SCENES.

[All hail! ye dear romantic scenes,
Where oft, as eve stole o'er the sky,
Ye 've found me by the mountain streams,
Where blooming wild-flowers charm the eye.

The sun 's now setting in the west—
Mild are his beams on hill and plain;
No sound is heard save Killoch burn,
Deep murm'ring down its woody glen.

Green be thy banks, thou silver stream,
That winds the flowery braes among,
Where oft I 've woo'd the Scottish muse,
And raptur'd wove the rustic song.]

Semple inclines to the opinion that this song owes its authorship to James Scadlock, a rhyming friend of Tannahill's, and that it has been inadvertently included among Tannahill's songs.

O LADDIE, CAN YE LEAVE ME?

O laddie, can ye leave me?
Alas! 'twill break this constant heart!
There 's nought on earth can grieve me
Like this, that we must part.

Think on the tender vow you made
Beneath the secret birken shade,
And can you now deceive me!
Is a' your love but art?

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

The midges dance aboon the burn,
The dews begin to fa',
The pairtricks down the rushy holm
Set up their evening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
The mavis mends her lay,
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains
To charm the lingering day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance through the dell.

Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND BURN.

Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On Nature's mossy pillow:
A' round my seat the flowers were strew'd,
That frae the wild-wood I had pu'd
To weave mysel' a summer snood
To pleasure my dear fellow.

I twin'd the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow,
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow;
The craw-flower blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link,
But little, little did I think
I should have wove the willow.

My bonnie lad was forced afar,
Tost on the raging billow;
Perhaps he 's fa'en in bloody war,
Or wreck'd on rocky shallow:
Yet aye I hope for his return,
As round our wonted haunts I mourn,
And often by the woodland burn
I pu' the weeping willow.

FROM THE RUDE BUSTLING CAMP.

From the rude bustling camp to the calm rural plain,
I 'm come, my dear Jeanie, to bless thee again;
Still burning for honour our warriors may roam,
But the laurel I wished for, I 've won it at home.
All the glories of conquest no joy could impart,
When far from the kind little girl of my heart;
Now, safely returned, I will leave thee no more,
But love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour.

The sweets of retirement, how pleasing to me;
Possessing all worth, my dear Jeanie, in thee!
Our flocks' early bleating will wake us to joy,
And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky!
In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide,
Till Time, looking back, will admire at his speed;
Still blooming in virtue, though youth then be o'er,
I 'll love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour.

YE DEAR ROMANTIC SHADES.

Far from the giddy court of mirth,
Where sickening follies reign,
By Levern banks I wander forth
To hail each sylvan scene.
All hail, ye dear romantic shades!
Ye banks, ye woods, and sunny glades!
Here oft the musing poet treads
In Nature's riches great:
Contrasts the country with the town,
Makes Nature's beauties all his own,
And, borne on Fancy's wings, looks down
On empty pride and state.

By dewy morn, or sultry noon,
Or sober evening gray,
I often quit the dinsome town,
By Levern banks to stray;
Or from the upland's mossy brow
Enjoy the fancy-pleasing view
Of streamlets, woods, and fields below,
And sweetly varied scene.
Give riches to the miser's care,
Let folly shine in fashion's glare;
Give me the wealth of peace and health,
With all their happy train.

BRAVE LEWIE ROY.

Brave Lewie Roy was the flower of our Highlandmen,
Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlich,
Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of Fillan glen,
Dearer than life to his lovely nighean choidheach.
Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding,
When forced to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie;
Though manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless,
Away from the lady he aye loved so dearly.

[But woe on the bloodthirsty mandates of Cumberland,
Woe on the bloodthirsty gang that fulfilled them;
Poor Caledonia! bleeding and plunder'd land,
Where shall thy children now shelter and shield them?
Keen prowl the cravens like merciless ravens,
Their prey the devoted adherents of Charlie;
Brave Lewie is taken, cowardly hacked and slain,
Ah! his nighean choidheach will mourn for him sairly.

—A. R.

Pronounced neen voiuch—beautiful maid.

THE FLOWER O' LEVERN SIDE.

Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde,
Wi' simmer flowers sae braw,
There 's ae sweet flower on Levern side
That 's fairer than them a':
Yet aye it droops its head in wae,
Regardless o' the sunny ray,
And wastes its sweets frae day to day,
Beside the lonely shaw.
Wi' leaves a' steeped in sorrow's dew,
False, cruel man it seems to rue,
Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu',
Then rend its heart in twa.

Thou bonnie flower on Levern side,
Oh, gin thoul't be but mine,
I 'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride,
Wi' love that ne'er shall tine.
I 'll take thee to my sheltering bower,
And shield thee frae the beating shower;
Unharmed by aught, thou l't bloom secure
Frae a' the blasts that blaw.
Thy charms surpass the crimson dye
That streaks the glowing western sky;
But, here, unshaded, soon thou l't die,
And lone will be thy fa'.

CROOKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.

Through Crookston Castle's lanely wa's
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary.

Ah! Mary, though the winds should rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I 'd brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure,
But I will ford the whirling deep
That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie,
But when the lonesome way is past,
I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary.
Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave,
Wi' a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I 'd brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

UNREQUITED LOVE.

Lone in yon dark sequester'd grove,
Poor hapless Lubin strays;
A prey to ill-requited love,
He spends his joyless days.
Ah! cruel Jessie, couldst thou know
What worthy heart was thine,
Thou ne'er hadst wronged poor Lubin so,
Nor left that heart to pine.

YOUNG DONALD AND HIS LAWLAN BRIDE.

Lawlan lassie, wilt thou go
Where the hills are clad wi' snow;
Where, beneath the icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
Ill, nor wae, shall thee betide,
When row'd within my Hielan' plaid.

Soon the voice o' cheery spring
Will gar a' our plantin's ring;
Soon our bonnie heather braes
Will put on their simmer claes;
On the mountain's sunny side
We 'll lean us on my Hielan' plaid.

When the simmer spreads her flow'rs,
Busks the glen in leafy bow'rs,
Then we 'll seek the caller shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed;
While the burning hours preside,
I 'll screen thee wi' my Hielan' plaid.

Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat,
I will launch the bonnie boat,
Skim the loch in cantie glee,
Rest the oars to pleasure thee;
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I 'll hap thee wi' my Hielan' plaid.

Lawlan lads may dress mair fine,
Woo in words mair saft than mine;
Lawlan lads ha'e mair o' airt;
A' my boast 's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride:
To row thee in my Hielan' plaid!

“Bonnie lad, ye 've been sae leel,
My heart would break at our fareweel;
Lang your love has made me fain:
Tak' me,—tak' me for your ain!”
'Cross the Firth awa' they glide,
Young Donald and his Lawlan bride.

THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.

Far lane amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander:
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are naught to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
Just opening fresh and bonnie,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And 's scarcely seen by ony:
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie—
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean;
There avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.
Let fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurelled favours many;
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass o' Arranteenie.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Let us go, lassie, go,
To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blaeberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang simmer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower
By the clear crystal fountain,
And I 'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my deary.

When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn
On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we 'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
'Till the dear shieling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the simmer is in prime,
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

THE DEFEAT OF THE FRENCH.

From hill to hill the bugles sound
The soul-arousing strain,
The war-bred coursers paw the ground,
And, foaming, champ the rein.
Their steel-clad riders bound on high—
A bold defensive host;
With valour fired, away they fly,
Like lightning, to the coast.

And now they view the wide-spread lines
Of the invading foe;
Now skill with British bravery joins
To strike one final blow.
Now on they rush with giant stroke,
Ten thousand victims bleed:
They trample on the iron yoke
Which France for us decreed.

Now view the trembling vanquish'd crew
Kneel o'er their prostrate arms,
Implore respite of vengeance, due
For all these dire alarms.
Now, while Humanity's warm glow
Half weeps the guilty slain,
Let conquest gladden every brow,
And godlike mercy reign.

Thus fancy paints that awful day,
Yes, dreadful, should it come;
But Britain's sons, in stern array,
Shall brave its darkest gloom.
Who fights, his native rights to save,
His worth shall have its claim;
The Bard will consecrate his grave,
And give his name to fame.

Written at the time of a threatened invasion.

LOUDON'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.

Loudon's bonnie woods and braes,
I maun lea' them a', lassie;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes
Would gi'e Britons law, lassie?
Wha would shun the field of danger?
Wha frae Fame would live a stranger?
Now, when Freedom bids avenge her,
Wha would shun her ca', lassie?
Loudon's bonnie woods and braes
Ha'e seen our happy bridal days,
And gentle hope shall soothe thy waes
When I am far awa', lassie.

Hark! the swelling bugle sings,
Yielding joy to thee, laddie;
But the dolefu' bugle brings
Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie.
Lanely I may climb the mountain,
Lanely stray beside the fountain,
Still the weary moments countin',
Far frae love and thee, laddie.
O'er the gory fields of war,
When Vengeance drives his crimson car,
Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar,
And nane to close thy e'e, laddie.

O resume thy wonted smile!
O suppress thy fears, lassie!
Glorious honour crowns the toil
That the soldier shares, lassie.
Heav'n will shield thy faithful lover
Till the vengeful strife is over,
Then we 'll meet, nae mair to sever
Till the day we dee, lassie;

'Midst our bonnie woods and braes
We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays
On Loudon's flowery lea, lassie.

THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU.

The weary sun 's gane doun the west,
The birds sit nodding on the tree,
All Nature now inclines for rest,
But rest allow'd there 's nane for me.
The trumpet calls to War's alarms,
The rattling drum forbids my stay;
Ah! Nancy, bless thy soldier's arms,
Ere morn I will be far away.

I grieve to leave my comrades dear,
I mourn to leave my native shore,
To leave my aged parents here,
And the bonnie lass whom I adore.
But tender thoughts must now be hushed,
When duty calls, I must obey;
Fate wills it so that part we must,
The morn I will be far away.

Adieu! dear Scotland's sea-beat coast!
Ye misty vales and mountains blue!
When on the heaving ocean tost,
I 'll cast a wishful look to you.
And now, dear Nancy, fare-thee-weel!
May Providence thy guardian be!
And in the camp, or in the fiel',
My constant thoughts shall turn to thee.

WEEP NOT, MY LOVE.

O weep not, my love, though I go to the war,
For soon I 'll return rich with honours to thee;
The soul-rousing pibroch is sounding afar,
And the clans are assembling in Morar-craiglee:
Our flocks are all plunder'd, our herdsmen are murder'd,
And, fir'd with oppression, aveng'd we shall be;
To-morrow we 'll vanquish these ravaging English,
And then I 'll return to thy baby and thee.

Slow rose the morn on Dunscarron's dark brow,
Firm rose our youths in their fighting array,
Powerful as Morven they rush'd on the foe,
And the din of the battlefield deafened the day;
The conflict was glorious, our clans were victorious,
Yet sad was the Bard the dark herald to be,—
Ah! poor weeping Flora, thy dear promised Morar
Will never return to thy baby and thee.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

Now let the procession move solemn and slow,
While the soft mournful music accords with our woe,
While friendship's warm tears round his ashes are shed,
And soul-melting memory weeps for the dead.
Kind, good-hearted fellow as ever was known!
So kind and so good, every heart was his own;
Now, alas! low in death, are his virtues all o'er?
How painful the thought, we will see him no more!

In camp or in quarters he still was the same,
Each countenance brighten'd wherever he came;
When the wars of his country compell'd him to roam,
He cheerful would say, all the world was his home.

And when the fierce conflict of armies began,
He fought like a lion, yet felt as a man;
For when British brav'ry had vanquish'd the foe,
He 'd weep o'er the dead by his valour laid low.

Ye time-fretted mansions! ye mould'ring piles!
Loud echo his praise through your long-vaulted aisles;
If haply his shade nightly glide through your gloom,
O tell him our hearts lie with him in the tomb!
And say, though he 's gone, long his worth shall remain,
Remember'd, belov'd, by the whole of the men.—
Whoe'er acts like him, with a warm feeling heart,
Friendship's tears drop applause at the close of his part.

THE LAMENT OF WALLACE AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.

Thou dark-winding Carron, once pleasing to see,
To me thou canst never give pleasure again;
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea,
And thy streams are deep-tinged with the blood of the slain.

Ah! base-hearted treachery has doomed our undoing,—
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?
Even valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin,
And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.

Farewell, ye dear partners of peril! farewell!
Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell,
And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave.

But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander,
Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die!
On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I ponder—
Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!

THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.

The cold wind blows
O'er the drifted snows,
Loud howls the rain-lash'd naked wood;
Weary I stray,
On my lonesome way,
And my heart is faint for want of food:
Pity a wretch left all forlorn,
On life's wide wintry waste to mourn;
The gloom of night fast veils the sky,
And pleads for your humanity.

On valour's bed
My Henry died,
In the cheerless desert is his tomb:
Now lost to joy,
With my little boy
In woe and want I wander home.
O never, never will you miss
The boon bestow'd on deep distress;
For dear to Heaven is the glist'ning eye
That beams benign humanity.

RAB RORYSON'S BONNET.

Ye 'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
Ye 'll a ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet;
'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it,
Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet.

This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head,
Was his shelter in winter, in simmer his shade;
And at kirk, or at market, or bridals, I ween,
A braw gawcier bonnet there never was seen.

Wi' a round rosy tap, like a meikle blackboyd,
It was slouched just a kenning on either hand side;
Some maintained it was black, some maintained it was blue,
It had something o' baith, as a body may trow.

But, in sooth, I assure you, for ought that I saw,
Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava';
Though the whole parish talked o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
'Twas a' for the marvellous head that was in it.

That head, let it rest—it is now in the mools,—
Though in life a' the warld beside it were fools;
Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possessed,
Nane e'er kenned but himsel', sae there 's nane that will miss't.

There are some still in life wha eternally blame,
Wha on buts and on ifs rear their fabric o' fame;
Unto such I inscribe this most elegant sonnet,
Sae let them be crooned wi' Rab Roryson's bonnet!

MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY.

When gloaming treads the heels of day,
And birds sit cowering on the spray,
Alang the flowery hedge I stray,
To meet mine ain dear somebody.

The scented brier, the fragrant bean,
The clover bloom, the dewy green,
A' charm me as I rove at e'en,
To meet mine ain dear somebody.

Let warriors prize the hero's name,
Let mad ambition tower for fame,
I 'm happier in my lowly hame,
Obscurely blest wi' somebody.

DISABLED SEAMAN.

'Mongst life's many cares there is none so provoking,
As when a brave seaman, disabled and old,
Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking
Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold.
Poor Tom, once so high on the list of deserving,
By captain and crew none so dearly was prized,
At home now laid up, worn with many years' serving,
Poor Tom takes his sup, and poor Tom is despised.

Yet, Care thrown a-lee, see old Tom in his glory,
Placed snug with a shipmate, whose life once he saved,
Recounting the feats of some bold naval story,
The battles they fought and the storms they had braved.
In his country's defence he has dared every danger,
His valorous, deeds he might boast undisguised;
Yet home-hearted landsman hold Tom as a stranger,
Poor Tom loves his sup, and poor Tom is despised.

Myself, too, am old, rather rusty for duty,
Yet still I 'll prefer the wide ocean to roam;
I 'd join some bold corsair, and live upon booty,
Before I 'd be gibed by these sucklings at home.
Poor Tom, fare-thee-well! for by heaven, 'tis provoking,
When thus a brave seaman, disabled and old,
Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking
Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold.

THE WORN SOLDIER.

The Queensferry boatie rows light,
And light is the heart that it bears,
For it brings the poor soldier safe back to his home,
From many long toilsome years.

How sweet are his green native hills,
As they smile to the beams of the west;
But sweeter by far is the sunshine of hope
That gladdens the soldier's breast!

I can well mark the tears of his joy,
As the wave-beaten pier he ascends,
For already, in fancy, he enters his home,
'Midst the greetings of tender friends.

But fled are his visions of bliss,
All his transports but rose to deceive;
He found the dear cottage a tenantless waste,
And his kindred all sunk in the grave.

Lend a sigh to the soldier's grief,
For now he is helpless and poor,
And, forced to solicit a slender relief,
He wanders from door to door.

To him let your answers be mild,
And, oh! to the suff'rer be kind!
For the look of indiff'rence, the frown of disdain,
Bears hard on a generous mind.

RETURN O' GALLANT SONS.

Now, Marion, dry your tearfu' e'e,
Gae break your rock in twa,
For sune your gallant sons ye 'll see,
Returned in safety a'.
O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain!
An' shall I see my bairns again,
A' seated roun' our ain hearth-stane,
Nae mair to gang awa'?

BAROCHAN JEAN.

'Tis ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
And ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een.

The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzens,
The tane killed wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,—
A' wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean.

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing, or hoping for Barochan Jean.

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They got naething for crowdy but runts boiled to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barochan Jean.

The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barochan Jean.

The burns on roadsides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, “Sweet Barochan Jean!”

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barochan Jean.

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glenbrodie,
The grass owre their graves is now bonnie and green:
He stole the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoiled a' the charms o' her twa pawky een.

THE BARD OF GLENULLIN.

Though my eyes are grown dim, and my locks are turn'd gray,
I feel not the storms of life's bleak wintry day,
For my cot is well thatch'd, and my barns are full stor'd,
And cheerful Content still presides at my board:
Warm-hearted Benevolence stands at my door,
Dispensing her gifts to the wandering poor;
The glow of the heart does my bounty repay,
And lightens the cares of life's bleak wintry day.

From the summit of years I look down on the vale,
Where age pines in sorrow, neglected and pale;
There the sunshine of fortune scarce deigns to bestow
One heart-cheering smile to the wand'rers below.
From the sad dreary prospect this lesson I drew,
That those who are helpless are friended by few;
So, with vigorous industry, I smoothed the rough way
That leads through the vale of life's bleak wintry day.

Then, my son, let the Bard of Glenullin advise
(For years can give counsel, experience makes wise):
'Midst thy wanderings, let honour for aye be thy guide,
O'er thy actions let honesty ever preside.
Then, though hardships assail thee, in virtue thou'lt smile,
For light is the heart that 's untainted with guile;
But, if Fortune attend thee, my counsels obey,
Prepare for the storms of life's bleak wintry day.

THE WANDERING BARD.

Chill the wintry winds were blowing,
Foul the murky night was snowing,
Through the storm the minstrel, bowing,
Sought the inn on yonder moor.
All within was warm and cheery,
All without was cold and dreary,
There the wanderer, old and weary,
Thought to pass the night secure.

Softly rose his mournful ditty,
Suiting to his tale of pity;
But the master, scoffing, witty,
Check'd his strain with scornful jeer:
“Hoary vagrant, frequent comer,
Canst thou guide thy gains of summer?
No, thou old intruding thrummer,
Thou canst have no lodging here.”

Slow the bard departed, sighing;
Wounded worth forbade replying;
One last feeble effort trying,
Faint, he sunk no more to rise.
Through his harp the breeze sharp ringing,
Wild his dying dirge was singing,
While his soul, from insult springing,
Sought its mansion in the skies.

Now, though wintry winds be blowing,
Night be foul, with raining, snowing,
Still the traveller, that way going,
Shuns the inn upon the moor.
Though within 'tis warm and cheery,
Though without 'tis cold and dreary,
Still he minds the minstrel weary,
Spurn'd from that unfriendly door.

THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDING.

Auld Wattie of Kebbuckston brae,
With lear and reading of books auld-farren,—
What think ye! the body came owre the day
And tauld us he 's gaun to be married to Mirren.
We a' got a bidding
To gang to the wedding,
Baith Johnnie and Sandie, and Nellie and Nannie;
And Tam o' the Knowes,
He swears and he vows,
At the dancing he 'll face the bride with his granny.

A' the lads ha'e trystet their joes:
Slee Willie came up and ca'd on Nellie;
Although she was hecht to Geordie Bowse,
She 's gi'en him the gunk and she 's gaun wi' Willie.
Wee collier Johnnie
Has yoket his pony,
And's aff to the town for a lading of nappy,
Wi' fouth of good meat
To serve us to eat;
Sae with fuddling and feasting we 'll a' be fu' happy.

Wee Patie Brydie's to say the grace—
The body's aye ready at dredgies and weddings;
And Flunkie M'Fee, of the Skiverton place,
Is chosen to scuttle the pies and the puddings:
For there'll be plenty
Of ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail and haggis, and ev'ry thing fitting;
With luggies of beer,
Our wizzens to clear;
Sae the de'il fill his kyte wha gaes clung frae the meeting.

Lowrie has caft Gibbie Cameron's gun,
That his auld gutcher bore when he follow'd Prince Charlie;
The barrel was rusted and black as the grun,
But he 's ta'en't to the smiddy and's fettled it rarely.
With wallets of pouther,
His musket he 'll shouther,
And ride at our head, to the bride's a-parading;
At ilka farm town
He 'll fire them three roun',
Till the haill kintra ring with the Kebbuckston Wedding.

Jamie and Johnnie maun ride the broose,
For few like them can sit in the saddle;
And Willie Ga'breath, the best o' bows,
Is trysted to jig in the barn with his fiddle.
With whisking and flisking,
And reeling and wheeling,
The young anes are like to loup out of the body;
And Neilie M'Nairn,
Though sair forfairn,
He vows that he 'll wallop twa sets with the howdie.

Sannie M'Nab, wi' his tartan trews,
Has hecht to come down in the midst of the caper,
And gi'e us three wallops of merry shantrews,
With the true Highland fling of Macrimmon the piper.
Sic hipping and skipping,
And springing and flinging,
I 'se wad that there 's name in the Lawlands can waff it!
Faith! Willie maun fiddle,
And jirgum and diddle,
And screed till the sweat fa's in beads frae his haffet.

Then gi'e me your hand, my trusty good frien',
And gi'e me your word, my worthy auld kimmer,
Ye 'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen,
And join us in ranting and tooming the timmer.
With fouth of good liquor,
We 'll haud at the bicker,
And lang may the mailing of Kebbuckston flourish;
For Wattie's sae free,
Between you and me,
I 'se warrant he 's bidden the half of the parish.

A GEM OF PEARLY DEW

I marked a gem of pearly dew,
While wandering near yon misty mountain,
Which bore the tender blade so low,
It dropped it off into the fountain.
So thou hast wrung this gentle heart,
Which in its core was proud to wear thee,
Till, drooping sick beneath thy art,
It, sighing, found it could not bear thee.

Adieu, thou faithless fair! unkind!
Thy falsehood dooms that we must sever;
Thy vows were as the passing wind,
That fans the flower, then dies for ever.
And think not that this gentle heart,
Though in its core 'twas proud to wear thee,
Shall longer droop beneath thy art;
No, cruel fair! it cannot bear thee.

THE HARPER OF MULL.

When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I!
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I played my harp cheery, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang.
But now I 'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me:
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.

I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane.
Though Rosie is faithless, she 's no the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.

As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast.
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er!
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull,
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.

FAITHFUL ELLEN MORE.

The sun had kissed green Erin's waves,
The dark blue mountains towered between,
Mild evening's dews refreshed the leaves,
The moon unclouded rose serene,

When Ellen wandered forth unseen,
All lone her sorrows to deplore;
False was her lover, false her friend,
And false was hope to Ellen More.

Young Henry was fair Ellen's love,
Young Emma to her heart was dear;
Nor weal nor woe did Ellen prove,
But Emma ever seemed to share.
Yet envious still, she spread the wile
That sullied Ellen's virtues o'er;
Her faithless Henry spurned the while,
His fair, his faithful Ellen More.

She wandered down Loch-Mary side,
Where oft at evening hour she stole,
To meet her love with secret pride;
Now deepest anguish wrung her soul.
O'ercome with grief, she sought the steep
Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar;
Oh, Pity! veil thine eyes and weep!
A bleeding corpse lies Ellen More.

The sun may shine on Yarrow braes,
And woo the mountain flowers to bloom,
But never can his golden rays
Awake the flower in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn,
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower;
There oft, from eve till breezy morn,
He weeps his faithful Ellen More.

THE SNOWSTORM.

“Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa':
I 'll tak you to my faither's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye 'll sink to rise nae mair.”

“Ah! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart
Now waits me on the western shore;
Wi' morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”

“Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your deid!
The dreary waste lies far and wide;
Abide till morn, and then ye 'll ha'e
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady,—na! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”

Ah! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart?
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see;

Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee.

WI' WAEFU' HEART.

Wi' waefu' heart and sorrowing e'e
I saw my Jamie sail awa';
Oh! 'twas a fatal day for me,
That day he passed the Berwick Law.
How joyless now seemed all behind!
I, lingering, strayed along the shore;
Dark boding fears hung on my mind
That I might never see him more.

That night came on with heavy rain,
Loud, fierce, and wild the tempest blew;
In mountains rolled the awful main:
Ah, hapless maid! my fears how true!
The landsmen heard their drowning cries,
The wreck was seen with dawning day;
My love was found, and now he lies
Low in the isle of gloomy May.

O boatman, kindly waft me o'er!
The caverned rock shall be my home;
'Twill ease my burdened heart to pour
Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb;
With sweetest flowers I 'll deck his grave,
And tend them through the langsome year;
I 'll water them, ilk morn and eve,
With deepest sorrow's warmest tear.

LONE SILENT GRAVE.

Responsive, ye woods, wing your echoes along,
Till nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song,
Till flocks cease their bleating, and herds cease to low,
And the clear winding rivulet scarce seems to flow.
For fair was the flower that once gladden'd our plains,
Sweet rosebud of virtue, adored by our swains;
But Fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave,
Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave.

Her warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow,
In innocence pure as the new mountain snow;
Her face was more fair than the mild apple-bloom;
Her voice sweet as Hope, whisp'ring pleasures to come.
Oh, Mary, my love! wilt thou never return?
'Tis thy William who calls—burst the bands of thine urn!
Together we 'll wander—poor wretch, how I rave!
My Mary lies low in the lone silent grave.

Yon tall leafy planes throw a deep solemn shade
O'er the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid,
Lest the light wanton sunbeams obtrude on the gloom
That lorn love and friendship have wove round her tomb.
Still there let the mild tears of nature remain,
Till calm dewy evening weep o'er her again;
There oft I will wander—no boon now I crave,
But to weep life away o'er her dark silent grave.

MY MARY.

My Mary is a bonnie lass,
Sweet as the dewy morn,
When Fancy turns her rural reed
Beside the upland thorn.

She lives ahint yon sunny knowe,
Where flowers in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.

'Tis not the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bowers,
That gars me wait in solitude
Among the wild-sprung flow'rs;
But aft I cast a langing e'e,
Down frae the bank, out-owre the lea,
There, haply, I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours.

Yestreen I met my bonnie lass
Coming frae the town,
We raptur'd sank in ither's arms,
And prest the breckans down.
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The ryecraik rispt his clam'rous throat,
While there the heav'nly vow I got
That arl't her my own.

SING ON, THOU SWEET WARBLER.

Sing on, thou sweet warbler, thy glad evening song,
And charm the lone echoes the green woods among;
As dear unto thee is the sun's setting beam,
So dear unto me is the soul's melting dream.
The dark winter frowning, all pleasure disowning,
Shall strip thy green woods and be deaf to thy moaning;
But dark stormy winter is yet far away,
Then let us be glad, when all Nature is gay.

OCH, HEY! JOHNNIE, LAD.

Och, hey! Johnnie, lad,
Ye 're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been;
Och, hey! Johnnie, lad,
Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen.
I waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae and weary, a' my lane;
Och, hey! Johnnie, lad,
Ye 're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.

I looked by the whinnie knowe,
I looked by the firs sae green,
I looked owre the spunkie-howe,
And aye I thought ye would ha'e been.
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my een;
Och, hey! Johnnie, lad,
Ye 're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been.

Gin ye were waiting by the wood,
Then I was waiting by the thorn;
I thought it was the place we set,
And waited maist till dawning morn.
Sae be na vex'd, my bonnie lassie,
Let my waiting stand for thine;
We 'll awa' to Craigton-shaw,
And seek the joys we tint yestreen.

O ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE?

“O are ye sleepin', Maggie?
O are ye sleepin' Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.”

Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry,
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.

O are ye sleepin', Maggie? etc.

Fearful soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,
Loud the iron yett does clank,
And cry of howlets makes me eerie.

O are ye sleepin', Maggie? etc.

Aboon my breath I daurna speak,
For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie;
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek,
O rise, rise, my bonnie lady!

O are ye sleepin', Maggie? etc.

She ope'd the door, she let him in,
He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie:
“Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye.”

Now since your waukin', Maggie,
Now since your waukin', Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry,
For boortree bank, or warlock craigie.

BONNIE FAIRED-HAIRED NANNIE.

Full eighteen summers up life's brae
I speeded on fu' canny, O,
Till sleeky Love threw in my way
Young bonnie fair-haired Nanny, O.
I wooed her soon, I won her syne,
Our vows o' love were many, O;
And, oh! what happy days were mine
Wi' bonnie faired-haired Nannie, O.

BONNIE WINSOME MARY.

Fortune, frowning most severe,
Forced me from my native dwelling,
Parting with my friends so dear
Cost me many a bitter tear;
But, like the clouds of early day,
Soon my sorrows fled away,
When, blooming sweet and smiling gay,
I met my winsome Mary.

Wha can sit with gloomy brow,
Blest with sic a charming lassie?
Native scenes, I think on you,
Yet the change I canna rue.
Wand'ring many a weary mile,
Fortune seemed to lower the while,
But now she 's gi'en me, for the toil,
My bonnie winsome Mary.

Though our riches are but few,
Faithful love is aye a treasure;
Ever cheery, kind, and true,
Nane but her I e'er can lo'e.
Hear me, a' ye powers above,
Powers of sacred truth and love!
While I live I 'll constant prove
To my dear winsome Mary.

YE WOOER LADS WHA GREET AND GRANE.

Ye wooer lads wha greet and grane,
Wha preach and fleech, and mak' a mane,
An' pine yoursel's to skin and bane,
Come a' to Callum Brogach.

I 'll learn you here the only art
To win a bonnie lassie's heart—
Just tip wi' gowd Love's siller dart,
Like dainty Callum Brogach.

I ca'd her aye my sonsie doo,
The fairest flower that e'er I knew;
Yet, like a souple spankie grew,
She fled frae Callum Brogach.
But soon's she heard the guinea ring,
She turn'd as I had been a king,
Wi'—“Tak' my hand or ony thing,
Dear, dainty Callum Brogach!”

It 's gowd can mak' the blind to see,
Can bring respect where nane wad be,
And Cupid ne'er shall want his fee
Frae dainty Callum Brogach.
Nae mair wi' greetin' blin' your een,
Nae mair wi' sighin' warm the win',
But hire the gettlin for your frien',
Like dainty Callum Brogach.

MY DAYS HA'E FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED.

My days ha'e flown wi' gleesome speed,
Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind,
Sae happy wi' my rural reed,
I lilted every care behind.
I 've been vext and sair perplext
When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy;
But, like good John o' Badenyon,
I croon'd my lilt and car'd na by.

I 'll HIE ME TO THE SHIELING HILL.

I 'll hie me to the shieling hill,
And bide amang the braes, Callum,
Ere I gang to Crochan mill,
I 'll live on hips and slaes, Callum.
Wealthy pride but ill can hide
Your runkl'd measled shins, Callum;
Lyart pow, as white's the tow,
And beard as rough's the whins, Callum.

Wily woman aft deceives,
Sae ye 'll think, I ween, Callum;
Trees may keep their wither'd leaves
Till ance they get the green, Callum.
Blithe young Donald's won my heart,
Has my willing vow, Callum;
Now, for a' your couthy art,
I winna marry you, Callum.

WHEN JOHN AND I WERE MARRIED.

When John and I were married,
Our hauding was but sma',
For my minnie, cankered carline,
Would gi'e us nocht ava.
I wair't my fee wi' canny care,
As far as it would gae,
But weel I wat our bridal bed
Was clean pea-strae.

Wi' working late and early,
We 're come to what you see,
For fortune thrave aneath our hands,
Sae eident aye were we.

The lowe of love made labour light,
I 'm sure ye 'll find it sae,
When kind ye cuddle down, at e'en,
'Mang clean pea-strae.

The rose blooms gay on cairny brae,
As weel's in birken shaw,
And love will lowe in cottage low,
As weel's in lofty ha':
Sae, lassie, tak' the lad ye like,
Whate'er your minnie say,
Tho' ye should mak' your bridal bed
Of clean pea-strae.

THOUGH HUMBLE MY LOT.

Where primroses spring on the green-tufted brae,
And the rivulet runs murmuring below,
Oh, fortune! at morning, or noon, let me stray,
And thy wealth on thy votaries bestow:
For, oh! how enraptured my bosom does glow
As calmly I wander alone,
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene.

Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state,
Let me still be contented, though poor;
What destiny brings, be resigned to my fate,
Though misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blithely I roam, in the heyday of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields.

AND WERE YE AT DUNTOCHER BURN?

And were ye at Duntocher burn?
And did ye see them a', man?
And how's my wifie and the bairns?
I ha'e been lang awa', man.
This hedger wark's a weary trade,
It doesna suit ava, man;
Wi' lanely house and lanely bed
My comforts are but sma', man.

And how's wee Sandy, Pate, and Tam?
Sit down and tak' your blaw, man;
Fey, lassie, rin, fetch in a dram,
To treat my friend, John Lamon.
For ilka plack ye 've gi'en to mine,
Your callans shall get twa, man;
O were my heels as light's my heart,
I soon wad see them a', man.

My blessing on her kindly heart,
She likes to see me braw, man;
She 's darned my hose, and bleached my sarks
As white's the driven snaw, man.
And ere the winds o' Martinmas
Sough through the scroggie shaw, man,
I 'll lift my weel-hain'd penny fee,
And gang and see them a', man.

MY HEART IS SAIR WI' HEAVY CARE.

My heart is sair wi' heavy care,
To think on friendship's fickle smile;
It blinks a wee, wi' kindly e'e,
When world's thrift runs weel the while.

But let misfortune's tempests lower,
It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour;
It looks sae high and scornfully,
It winna ken a poor man's door.

I ance had siller in my purse,
I dealt it out right frank and free,
And hoped, should fortune change her course,
That they would do the same for me:
But, weak in wit, I little thought
That friendship's smiles were sold and bought,
'Till ance I saw, like April snaw,
They waned awa' when I had nought.

It 's no to see my threadbare coat,
It 's no to see my coggie toom,
It 's no to ware my hindmost groat,
That gars me fret, and gars me gloom:
But 'tis to see the scornful pride
That honest poortith aft maun bide
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with fortune on their side.

But let it gang; what de'il care I!
With eident thrift I 'll toil for mair;
I 'll halve my mite with misery,
But fient a ane of them shall share:
With soul unbent I 'll stand the stour,
And while they 're fluttering past my door,
I 'll sing with glee, and let them see
An honest heart can ne'er be poor.

COMPANION OF MY YOUTHFUL SPORTS.

Companion of my youthful sports,
From love and friendship torn,
A victim to the pride of courts,
Thy early death I mourn.
Unshrouded on a foreign shore,
Thou 'rt mould'ring in the clay,
While here thy weeping friends deplore
Corunna's fatal day.

How glows the youthful warrior's mind
With thoughts of laurels won!
But ruthless ruin lurks behind,
“And marks him for her own.”
How soon the meteor ray is shed,
“That lures him to his doom,”
And dark oblivion veils his head
In everlasting gloom!

DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATIE.

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie,
Davie's bonnie blithesome Katie,
Tam the laird cam' down yestreen,
He sought her love, but gat her pity.

Wi' trembling grip he squeezed her hand,
While his auld heart gaed pitty-patty;
Aye he thought his gear and land
Wad win the love o' bonnie Katie.

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie,
Davie's bonnie blithesome Katie,
Aye she smiled as Tammie wiled:
Her smile was scorn, yet mixed wi' pity.

DESPAIRING MARY.

“Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?
See a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;
Blithe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,
Blithe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw!”
“How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure?
Simmer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane;
Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,
Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane.

“This kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token;
Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken;
Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break.
Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening,
Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;
Spent are my days a' in secret repining,
Peace to this bosom can never return.

“Oft have we wandered in sweetest retirement,
Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam;
Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment,
But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream.
Cruel remembrance, ah! why wilt thou wreck me?
Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown;
Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me,
Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown!”

O HOW CAN YOU GANG, LASSIE!

O how can you gang, lassie, how can you gang,
O how can you gang sae to grieve me!
Wi' your beauty, and your art, ye ha'e broken my heart,
For I never, never dreamt ye would leave me.

O SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH.

O sair I rue the witless wish,
That gar'd me gang wi' you at e'en,
And sair I rue the birken bush,
That screen'd us wi' its leaves sae green.
And though ye vow'd ye wad be mine,
The tear o' grief aye dims my e'e;
For O! I 'm fear'd that I may tine
The love that ye ha'e promised me!

While ithers seek their e'ening sports,
I wander, dowie, a' my lane,
For when I join their glad resorts,
Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain.
Alas! it wasna sae shortsyne,
When a' my nights were spent wi' glee;
But, O! I 'm fear'd that I may tine
The love that ye ha'e promised me.

Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon,
For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee,
I 've coft a bonnie silken gown,
To be a bridal gift for thee.
And sooner shall the hills fa' down,
And mountain-high shall stand the sea,
Ere I 'd accept a gowden crown,
To change that love I bear for thee.

THE NEGRO GIRL.

Yon poor Negro girl, an exotic plant,
Was torn from her dear native soil,
Reluctantly borne o'er the raging Atlant,
Then brought to Britannia's isle.

Tho' Fatima's mistress be loving and kind,
Poor Fatima still must deplore;
She thinks on her parents, left weeping behind,
And sighs for her dear native shore.

She thinks on her Zadi, the youth of her heart,
Who from childhood was loving and true;
How he cried on the beach, when the ship did depart!
'Twas a sad everlasting adieu.
The shell-woven gift which he bound round her arm
The rude seaman unfeelingly tore,
Nor left one sad relic her sorrows to charm,
When far from her dear native shore.

And now, all dejected, she wanders apart,
No friend, save retirement, she seeks;
The sigh of despondency bursts from her heart,
And tears dew her thin sable cheeks.
Poor hard-fated girl, long, long she may mourn!
Life's pleasures to her are all o'er;
Far fled ev'ry hope that she e'er shall return
To revisit her dear native shore.

THE LASSIE O' MERRY EIGHTEEN.

My father would ha'e me to marry the miller,
My mither would ha'e me to marry the laird,
But brawly I ken it 's the love o' the siller
That brightens their fancy to ony regard.
The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit,
The laird, though he 's wealthy, he 's lyart and lean;
He 's auld, and he 's cauld, an' he 's blin' an' he 's bald,
An' he 's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen.

MARJORIE MILLER.

Louder than the trump of fame
Is the voice of Marjorie Miller;
Time, the wildest beast can tame,
She 's eternally the same:
Loud the mill's incessant clack,
Loud the clank of Vulcan's hammer,
Loud the deep-mouth'd cataract,
But louder far her dinsome clamour!
Nought on earth can equal be
To the noise of Marjorie.

Calm succeeds the tempest's roar,
Peace does follow war's confusion;
Dogs do bark and soon give o'er,
But she barks for evermore.
Loud's the sounding bleachfield horn,
But her voice is ten times louder!
Red's the sun on winter morn,
But her face is ten times redder!
She delights in endless strife:
Lord! preserve's from such a wife!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

KISS'D YESTREEN.

The lasses a' laughed, an' the carlin flate,
But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie an' blate;
The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen,
Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen:
She blether'd it round to her fae an' her frien',
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen.

[She loosed the white napkin frae 'bout her dun neck,
And cried—“The big sorrow tak' lang Geordie Fleck!
D'ye see what a scart I gat frae a preen,
By his touslin' and kissin' at me yestreen,
At me yestreen, at me yestreen,
By his touslin' and kissin' at me yestreen:
I canna conceive what the fallow could mean
By kissin' sae meikle at me yestreen.”

Then she pu'd up her sleeve, and showed a blae mark,
Quoth she—“I gat that frae young Davie, our clerk;
But the creature had surely forgat himsel' clean,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen,
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen:
I wonder what keepit my nails frae his een,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen.”

Then she held up her cheek, and cried—“Foul fa' the laird,
Just look what I gat wi' his black birsie beard!
The vile filthy body! was e'er the like seen?
Tae rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen,
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen:
I 'm sure that nae woman o' judgment need grien
To be rubbed, like me, for a kiss yestreen.”

Syne she told what grand offers she aften had had,
But, wad she tak' a man? na, she wasna sae mad!
For the whole o' the sex she cared no a preen,
And she hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen,
She was kiss'd yestreen, she was kiss'd yestreen,
And she hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen:
'Twas a mercy that naething mair serious had been,
For it 's dangerous, whiles, to be kiss'd at e'en.]

It is doubtful if Tannahill was the author of more than the first verse of this song.

HEY, DONALD! HOW, DONALD!

Though simmer smiles on bank and brae,
And nature bids the heart be gay,
Yet a' the joys o' flowery May
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me.

Hey, Donald! how, Donald!
Think upon your vow, Donald!
Mind the heathery knowe, Donald!
Where ye vowed to lo'e me.

[The budding rose and scented brier,
The siller fountain skinkling clear,
The merry lav'rock whistling near,
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me.

Hey, Donald! etc.

I downa look on bank and brae,
I downa greet where a' are gay,
But O! my heart will break wi' wae,
Gin Donald cease to lo'e me.

Hey, Donald! etc.]

Additional verses by Motherwell.

I 'll LAY ME ON THE WINTRY LEA.

I 'll lay me on the wintry lea,
And sleep amidst the wind and weet,
And ere another's bride I be,
O bring to me my winding sheet!

What can a hapless lassie do,
When ilka friend wad prove her foe,
Wad gar her break her dearest vow,
To wed wi' ane she canna lo'e?

THE MANIAC'S SONG.

Hark! 'tis the poor maniac's song:
She sits on yon wild craggy steep,
And while the winds mournfully whistle along,
She wistfully looks o'er the deep:
And aye she sings, “Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!”
To hush the rude billows asleep.

She looks to yon rock far at sea,
And thinks it her lover's white sail,
The warm tear of joy glads her wild glist'ning eye,
As she beckons his vessel to hail:
And aye she sings, “Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!”
And frets at the boisterous gale.

Poor Susan was gentle and fair,
Till the seas robbed her heart of its joy;
Then her reason was lost in the gloom of despair,
And her charms then did wither and die:
And now her sad “Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!”
Oft wakes the lone passenger's sigh.

AWAY, GLOOMY CARE.

Away, gloomy care, there 's no place for thee here,
Where so many good fellows are met;
Thou wouldst dun the poor bard every day in the year,
Yet I 'm sure I am none in thy debt.
Go, soak thy old skin in the miser's small beer,
And keep watch in his cell all the night;
And if in the morning thou dar'st to appear,
By Jove, I shall drown thee outright.

MEG O' THE GLEN.

Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair,
Wi' ruffles an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare;
Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht,
For a' the lang way, for a wooer she sicht.
She spak' to the lads, but the lads slippet by;
She spak' to the lasses, the lasses were shy;
She thocht she might do, but she didna weel ken,
For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o' the Glen.

THE FIVE FRIENDS.

Weel, wha's in the bouroch, and what is your cheer?
The best that ye 'll find in a thousand year.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There 's our ain Jamie Clark, frae the hall of Argyle,
Wi' his leal Scottish heart, and his kind open smile.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There is Will, the gude fallow, wha kills a' our care
Wi' his sang an' his joke—and a mutchkin mair.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There is blithe Jamie Barr, frae St. Barchan's toun,
When wit gets a kingdom, he 's sure o' the croun.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There is Rab, frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute,
I could list to his strains till the starns fa' out.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

Apollo, for our comfort, has furnished the bowl,
And here is my bardship as blind as an owl.
For we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

FILL, FILL THE MERRY BOWL.

Fill, fill the merry bowl,
Drown corrosive care and sorrow,
Why, why clog the soul
By caring for to-morrow?
Fill your glasses, toast your lasses,
Blithe Anacreon bids you live;
Love with friendship far surpasses
All the pleasures life can give.
Ring, ring th' enlivening bell,
The merry dirge of care and sorrow,
Why leave them life to tell
Their heavy tales to-morrow?

Come, join the social glee,
Give the reins to festive pleasure;
While fancy, light and free,
Dances to the measure.
Love and wit, with all the graces,
Revel round in fairy ring;
Smiling joy adorns our faces,
While with jocund hearts we sing.
Now, since our cares are drowned,
Spite of what the sages tell us,
Hoary Time, in all his round,
Ne'er saw such happy fellows.

WHY UNITE TO BANISH CARE?

Why unite to banish care?
Let him come our joys to share;
Doubly blest our cup shall flow
When it soothes a brother's woe;
'Twas for this the powers divine
Crowned our board with generous wine.

Far be hence the sordid elf
Who'd claim enjoyment for himself;
Come, the hardy seaman, lame,
The gallant soldier, robbed of fame;
Welcome all who bear the woes
Of various kind that merit knows.

Patriot heroes, doomed to sigh,
Idle 'neath corruption's eye;
Honest tradesmen, credit-worn,
Pining under fortune's scorn;
Wanting wealth, or lacking fame,
Welcome all that worth can claim.

Come, the hoary-headed sage,
Suffering more from want than age;
Come, the proud, though needy bard,
Starving midst a world's regard:
Welcome, welcome, one and all
That feel on this unfeeling ball.

COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME.

Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle neuk:
Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae;
Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk,
Wi' smoking, her teeth 's like the jet o' the slae.

And aye she sings “Weel 's me!” aye she sings “Weel 's me!
Coggie, thou heals me! coggie, thou heals me!
Aye my best friend when there 's onything ails me:
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I dee.”

Dorothy ance was a weel-tocher'd lass,
Had charms like her neighbours, and lovers enou',
But she spited them sae, wi' her pride and her sauce,
They left her for thirty lang simmers to rue.
Then aye she sang “Wae's me!” aye she sang “Wae's me!
O I 'll turn crazy! O I 'll turn crazy!
Naething in a' the wide world can ease me;
De'il take the wooers—O what shall I do?”

Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane,
Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her e'e;
She thought on the braw merry days that were gane,
And caft a wee coggie for company.
Now aye she sings “Weel's me!” aye she sings “Weel's me!
Coggie, thou heals me! coggie, thou heals me!
Aye my best friend when there 's onything ails me:
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I dee.”

THE BANKS OF SPEY.

Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you,
Winged with rude storm, though the winter assails you;
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet have charms to cheer me,
For here, amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me.
'Tis sad to see the wither'd lea, the drumly flooded fountain,
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moor and mountain;
But from the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I 'll defend her,
And from the bonnie banks o' Spey I never more shall wander.

COME HAME TO YOUR LINGELS.

“Come hame to your lingels, you ne'er-do-weel loon,
You're the king of the dyvours, the talk of the town;
Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in,
Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin.”
“Gudewife, ye 're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell,
To the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell;
But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill,
The souter shall aye ha'e his Munonday's yill.”

[“Come hame to your lapstane, come hame to your last,
It 's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast,
While you and your crew here a-drinking maun sit,
Ye dazed, drunken, guid-for-nocht heir o' the pit:
Just look, how I 'm gaun without stocking or shoe,
Your bairns a' in tatters, and faitherless too,
And yet, quite content, like a sot, ye 'll sit still,
Till your kyte 's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill.”

“I tell you, guidwife, gin ye haudna your clack,
I 'll lend you a reistle wi' this owre your back;
Maun we be abused and affronted by you
Wi' siccan foul names as loon, dyvour, and crew?”
“Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame,
Or I 'll redden your face, gin ye 've yet ony shame;
For I 'll bring a' the bairns, and we 'll just ha'e our fill,
As weel as yoursel', o' your Munonday's yill.”

“Gin that be the gait o't, sirs, come let us stir,
What need we sit here to be pestered by her?
For she 'll plague and affront us as far as she can:
Did ever a woman sae bother a man?

Frae yill-house to yill-house she 'll after us rin,
And raise the hail toun wi' her yelpin' and din;
Come! ca' the guidwife, bid her bring in the bill:
I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's yill.”

—A. R.]

The bracketed portion by Alexander Rodger.

THE HIGHLANDER'S INVITATION.

Will you come to the board I 've prepared for you?
Your drink shall be good, of the true Highland blue.
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come to the board?
There each shall be great as her own native lord.

There'll be plenty of pipe, and a glorious supply
Of the good sneesh-te-bacht, and the fine cut-and-dry.
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come then at e'en?
There be some for the stranger, but more for the frien'.

There we 'll drink foggy care to his gloomy abodes,
And we 'll smoke till we sit in the clouds like the gods.
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, won't you do so?
'Tis the way that our forefathers did long ago.

And we 'll drink to the Cameron, we 'll drink to Lochiel,
And, for Charlie, we 'll drink all the French to the de'il.
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, drink there until
There be heads lie like peats, if hersel' had her will!

There be groats on the land, there be fish in the sea,
And there 's fouth in the coggie for friendship and me.
Come then, Donald, come then, Callum, come then to-night,
Sure the Highlander be first in the fuddle and the fight.

THE COGGIE.

When poortith cauld, and sour disdain,
Hang owre life's vale sae foggie,
The sun that brightens up the scene
Is friendship's kindly coggie!
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs!
The friendly, social coggie!
It gars the wheels of life rin light,
Though e'er sae doilt and cloggie.

Let pride in fortune's chariot fly,
Sae empty, vain, and vogie;
The source of wit, the spring of joy,
Lies in the social coggie!
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs!
The independent coggie!
And never snool beneath the frown
Of ony selfish roguie.

Poor modest worth, with cheerless e'e,
Sits hurkling in the boggie,
Till she asserts her dignity
By virtue of the coggie!
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs!
The poor man's patron coggie!
It warsels care, it fights life's faughts,
And lifts him frae the boggie.

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo,
Gi'e France her weel spic'd froggie,
Gi'e brother John his luncheon too,
But gi'e to us our coggie!
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs!
Our soul-warm kindred coggie!
Hearts doubly knit in social tie,
When just a wee thought groggie.

In days of yore our sturdy sires,
Upon their hills sae scroggie,
Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,
And fought to save their coggie!
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs!
Our brave forefathers' coggie!
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er which we 'll lang be vogie.

Then, here's—may Scotland ne'er fa' doun,
A cringing coward doggie,
But bauldly stand, and bang the loon
Wha'd reave her of her coggie!
Then, O protect the coggie, sirs!
Our gude auld mither's coggie!
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign roguie.

FLY WE TO SOME DESERT ISLE.

Fly we to some desert isle,
There we 'll pass our days together,
Shun the world's derisive smile,
Wand'ring tenants of the heather;
Sheltered in some lonely glen,
Far removed from mortal ken,
Forget the selfish ways o' men,
Nor feel a wish beyond each other.

Though my friends deride me still,
Jamie, I 'll disown thee never;
Let them scorn me as they will,
I 'll be thine—and thine for ever!
What are a' my kin to me,
A' their pride o' pedigree?
What were life, if wanting thee,
And what were death, if we maun sever!

AMANG THE LOMOND BRAES.

“Oh! lassie, wilt thou gang
To the Lomond wi' me,
The wild thyme 's in bloom,
And the flower 's on the lea?
Wilt thou gang, my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove;
I 'll range each hill and grove
On the Lomond wi' thee.”

“Oh! young men are fickle,
Nor trusted to be,
And many a native gem
Shines fair on the lea:
Thou may see some lovely flower
Of a more attractive power,
And may take her to thy bower
On the Lomond wi' thee.”

“The hind shall forsake,
On the mountain, the doe;
The stream of the fountain
Shall cease for to flow:
Ben Lomond shall bend
His high brow to the sea
Ere I take to my bower
Any flower, love, but thee.”

She 's taken her mantle;
He 's taken his plaid;
He 's caft her a ring,
And he 's made her his bride:
They 're far o'er the hills
To spend their happy days,
And range the woody glens
Amang the Lomond braes.

BONNIE HIELAN' LADDIE.

Will ye gang to Inverness,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie?
There ye 'll see the Hielan' dress,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

Philabeg and bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
For the lad that wears the trew,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

Geordie sits in Charlie's chair,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie;
Had I my will he 'd no' sit there,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

Ne'er reflect on sorrows past,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
Charlie will be king at last,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

An' tho' now our sky may lower,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
It 's only like an April shower,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

Time an' tide come roun' to a',
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
An' upstart pride will get a fa',
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

Keep up your heart for Charlie's fight,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie;
An' come what may, ye 've done what 's right,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie.

WILL YE GANG TO SHERRAMUIR?

Will ye gang to Sherramuir,
Baul' John o' Innisture,
There to see the noble Mar
An' his Hielan' laddies?
A' the true men o' the north,
Angus, Huntly, and Seaforth,
Scouring on to cross the Forth,
Wi' their white cockadies!

Will ye gang to Sherramuir,
Baul' John o' Innisture
There to see the noble Mar
An' his Hielan' laddies?

There, you 'll see the banners flare;
There, you 'll hear the bagpipes rair,
An' the trumpet's deadly blare,
Wi' the cannon's rattle!
There, you 'll see the baul' M'Craws,
Cameron's and Clanronald's raws;
An' a' the clans, wi' loud huzzas,
Rushing to the battle.

Will ye gang, etc.

[There, you 'll see the noble Whigs,
A' the heroes o' the brigs,
Raw hides and withered wigs,
Riding in array, man.
Riven hose and raggit hools,
Sour milk and girnin' gools,
Psalm-beuks and cutty stools,
We 'll see never mair, man.

Will ye gang, etc.

Will ye gang to Sherramuir,
Baul' John o' Innisture?
Sic a day, and sic an hour,
Ne 'er was in the north, man.
Siccan sights will ne 'er be seen!
An' gin some be nae mista'en,
Fragrant gales will come bedeen
Frae the water o' Forth, man.

Will ye gang, etc.]

It is doubtful if Tannahill was the author of the last two verses.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O.

When I the dreary mountains passed,
My ain kind dearie, O,
I thought on thee, my bonnie lass,
Although I wasna near thee, O.
My heart within me was richt sad,
When ithers they were cheerie, O;
They little kent I thought on thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.

But now an' I ha'e won till Ayr,
Although I 'm gae an' weary, O,
I 'll take a glass into my hand,
An' drink to you, my dearie, O.
Cheer up your heart, my bonnie lass,
An' see you dinna weary, O;
In twice three weeks, gin I be spared,
I 'se come again an' see thee, O,

An' row thee up, an' row thee down,
An' row till I weary, O,
An' row thee o'er the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!

CALLER HERRIN'.

“Ah, feechanie! they 're no' for me!
Guidwife, your herrin 's stinkin';
O sic a smell! just fin' yoursel',
I weel could ken them winkin'.”
“The deevil dance your lady gab!
Gae doun the close, ye dirty drab!
They 're caller fish, as ane can wish;
She needna miss a dainty dish,—
But, barmy jade! she 's winkin'.”

“How daur you trow that I am fou,
Ye flounder-gabbit gipsy!
Set doun your creel, I 'll gar you feel
I 'm neither fou nor tipsy.”
“Gude trouth! if I my creel set doun,
I 'll wad my life to hauf-a-croun
I 'll gar ye yelp, like ony whelp,
And cry for help, wi' skelp on skelp,—
I 'll gi'e her hipsey-dixey!”

[“Ye 'd talk to me like that, ye drab,
And glare wi' sic an e'e;]
To fyle my han's wi' sic as ye,—
Gude feth! I 'll ne'er bemean me.”
“Weel, honest folks, a' this ye hear?
It 's mair than flesh an' blood can bear.
I 'll tell you what, ye birsie cat!
Tak' that, an' that, for a' your chat;
Now, tell what I ha'e gi'en ye!”

WE 'LL O'ER THE BRAES O' YARROW.

The sun, just glancing through the trees,
Gave light and joy to ilka grove,
And pleasure in each southern breeze
Awakened hope and slumbering love,

When Jenny sung wi' hearty glee,
To charm her winsome marrow,—
“My bonnie laddie, gang wi' me,
We 'll o'er the braes o' Yarrow.”

Young Sandy was the blithest swain
That ever piped on broomy brae,
Nae lass could ken him free frae pain,
Sae gracefu', kind, sae fair and gay;

When Jenny sung wi' hearty glee, etc.

He kiss'd and lov'd the bonnie maid,
Her sparkling een had won his heart;
Nae lass the youth had e'er betrayed,
Nae fear had she, the lad nae art.

And Jenny sung wi' hearty glee, etc.

AWAKE, MY HARP, THE CHEERFUL STRAIN.

Awake, my harp, the cheerful strain!
Shall I, the first of Erin's warrior band,
In wasting sorrow still complain?
The first to dare stern danger's bloody field,
Shall I to silly, changeful woman yield?
No,—raise, my harp, the cheerful strain,
What is a rosy cheek, or lily hand!
Since thus she scorns, I 'll scorn again.

Tannahill wrote several pieces to Irish airs, of which this and the succeeding songs are an example.

AH! SHEELAH, THOU 'RT MY DARLING.

Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
The golden image of my heart;
How cheerless seems this morning,
It brings the hour when we must part.
Though doomed to cross the ocean,
And face the proud insulting foe,
Thou hast my soul's devotion,
My heart is thine where'er I go!
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
My heart is thine where'er I go!

When tossed upon the billow,
And angry tempests round me blow,
Let not the gloomy willow
O'ershade thy lovely lily brow;
But mind the seaman's story,
Sweet William and his charming Sue;
I 'll soon return with glory,
And, like sweet William, wed thee too.
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
My heart is thine where 'er I go!

Think on our days of pleasure,
While wand'ring by the Shannon side,
When summer days gave leisure
To stray amidst their flow'ry pride;
And while thy faithful lover
Is far upon the stormy main,
Think, when the wars are over,
These golden days shall come again.
Ah! Sheelah thou 'rt my darling,
These golden days shall come again!

Farewell, ye lofty mountains,
Your flow'ry wilds we wont to rove;
Ye woody glens and fountains,
The dear retreats of mutual love.
Alas! we now must sever:
O Sheelah, to thy vows be true!
My heart is thine for ever;
One fond embrace, and then adieu!
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
One fond embrace, and then adieu!

MOLLY, MY DEAR.

The harvest is o'er, and the lads are so funny,
Their hearts lined with love, and their pockets with money;
From morning till night 'tis, “My jewel, my honey,
Och, go to the north with me, Molly, my dear!”

Young Dermot holds on with his sweet botheration,
And swears there is only one flower in the nation;
“Thou rose of the Shannon, thou pink of creation,
Och, go to the north with me, Molly, my dear!”

“The sun courts thy smiles as he sinks in the ocean,
The moon to thy charms veils her face in devotion;
And I, my poor self, och! so rich is my notion,
Would pay down the world for sweet Molly, my dear!”

Though Thady can match all the lads with his blarney,
And sings me love-songs of the lakes of Killarney,
In worth from my Dermot he 's twenty miles journey:
My heart bids me tell him I 'll ne'er be his dear.

IRISH TEACHING.

Dear Judy, I 've taken a-thinking,
The children their letters must learn,
And we 'll send for old Father O'Jenkin
To teach them three months in the barn;
For learning 's the way to promotion,
'Tis culture brings food from the sod,
And books give a fellow a notion
How matters are doing abroad.

Though father neglected my reading,
Kind soul! sure his spirit 's in rest!
For the very first part of his breeding
Was still to relieve the distrest:
And late, when the trav'ller benighted
Besought hospitality's claim,
He lodged him till morning, delighted,
Because 'twas a lesson to them.

The man that won't feel for another
Is just like a colt on the moor,
He lives without knowing a brother,
To frighten bad luck from his door.
But he that 's kind-hearted and steady,
Though wintry misfortune should come,
He 'll still find some friend who is ready
To scare the old witch from his home.

Success to Ould Ireland for ever!
'Tis just the dear land to my mind;
Her lads are warm-hearted and clever,
Her girls are all handsome and kind;

And he that her name would bespatter,
By wishing the French safely o'er,
May the de'il blow him over the water,
And make him cook frogs for the core!

KITTY TYRELL.

The breeze of the night fans the dark mountain's breast,
And the light bounding deer have all sunk to their rest;
The big sullen waves lash the lough's rocky shore,
And the lone drowsy fisherman nods o'er his oar.
Though pathless the moor, and though starless the skies,
The star of my heart is my Kitty's bright eyes;
And joyful I hie over glen, brake, and fell,
In secret to meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell.

Ah! long have we loved in her father's despite,
And oft we have met at the dead hour of night,
When hard-hearted Vigilance, sunk in repose,
Gave Love one sweet hour its fond tale to disclose.
These moments of transport, to me, oh how dear!
And the fate that would part us, alas, how severe!
Although the rude storm rise with merciless swell,
This night I shall meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell.

“Ah! turn, hapless youth! see the dark cloud of death
Comes rolling in gloom o'er the wild haunted heath;
Deep groans the scathed oak on the glen's cliffy brow,
And the sound of the torrent seems heavy with woe.”
Away, foolish seer, with thy fancies so wild,
Go, tell thy weak dreams to some credulous child;
Love guides my light steps through the lone dreary dell,
And I fly to the arms of sweet Kitty Tyrell.

THE DIRGE OF CAROLAN.

“Ye maids of green Erin, why sigh ye so sad?
The summer is smiling, all nature is glad.”
The summer may smile, and the shamrock may bloom,
But the pride of green Erin lies cold in the tomb;
And his merits demand all the tears that we shed,
Though they ne'er can awaken the slumbering dead:
Yet still they shall flow—for dear Carolan we mourn,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.

Ye bards of our isle, join our grief with your songs,
For the deepest regret to our memory belongs;
In our cabins and fields, on our mountains and plains,
How oft have we sung to his heart-melting strains.
Ah! these strains shall survive, long as time they shall last,
Yet they now but remind us of joys that are past:
And our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.

Yes, thou pride of green Erin, thy honours thou'lt have,
Seven days, seven nights, we shall weep round thy grave;
And thy harp, that so oft to our ditties has rung,
To the lorn-sighing breeze o'er thy grave shall be hung;
And the song shall ascend, thy bright worth to proclaim,
That the shade may rejoice in the voice of thy fame:
But our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in thine urn.

PEGGY O'RAFFERTY.

O could I fly like the green-coated fairy,
I 'd skip o'er the ocean to dear Tipperary,
Where all the young fellows are blithesome and merry,
While here I lament my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.

How could I bear in my bosom to leave her,
In absence I think her more lovely than ever;
With thoughts of her beauty I 'm all in a fever,
Since others may woo my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.

Scotland, thy lasses are modest and bonny,
But here every Jenny has got her own Johnny,
And though I might call them my jewel and honey,
My heart is at home with sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.
Wistful I think on my dear native mountains,
Their green shady glens, and their crystalline fountains,
And ceaseless I heave the deep sigh of repentance,
That ever I left my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.

Fortune, 'twas thine all the light foolish notion
That led me to rove o'er the wild-rolling ocean;
But what now to me all my hopes of promotion,
Since I am so far from sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.
Grant me as many thirteens as will carry me
Down through the country, and over the ferry,
I 'll hie me straight home into dear Tipperary,
And never more leave my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.

THE POOR MAN'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HIS COW.

How gay rose this morning, how cheerful was I,
No care on my mind, and no cloud on the sky;
I dreamt not ere night that my sorrows should flow,
Bewailing the fate of my poor drimindo.

Drimindu—a name for a cow.

Were all the flow'ry pastures mine
That deck fair Limerick county,
That wealth, dear Kathleen, should be thine,
And all should share our bounty.
But fortune's gifts I value not,
Nor grandeur's highest station;
I would not change my happy lot
For all the Irish nation.
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
How my heart approves me!
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
Kathleen owns she loves me!

GREEN INISMORE.

How light is my heart as I journey along,
Now my perilous service is o'er!
I think on sweet home, and I carol a song
In remembrance of her I adore.

How sad was the hour when I bade her adieu!
Her tears spoke her grief, though her words were but few;
She hung on my bosom, and sighed, O be true,
When you're far from the green Inismore.

Ah! Eveleen, my love! hadst thou seen this fond breast,
How, at parting, it bled to its core,
Thou hadst there seen thine image so deeply imprest,
That thou ne'er couldst have doubted me more.
For my king and my country undaunted I fought,
And braved all the hardships of war as I ought,
But the day never rose saw thee strange to my thought,
Since I left thee in green Inismore.

Ye dear native mountains that tower on my view,
What joys to my mind ye restore!
The past happy scenes of my life ye renew,
And ye ne'er seemed so charming before.
In the rapture of fancy already I spy
My kindred and friends crowding round me with joy;
But my Eveleen, sweet girl, there 's a far dearer tie
Binds this heart to the green Inismore.

KITTY O'CARROL.

Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud, to be sure,
As if there was never such beauty before;
But ere I got wedded to old Thady More,
I had dozens of wooers each night at my door,
With their “Och dear! O will you marry me,
Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul!”

THE IRISH FARMER.

Dear Judy, when first we got married,
Our fortune indeed was but small,
For save the light hearts that we carried,
Our riches were nothing at all.
I sung while I reared up the cabin,
Ye powers, give me vigour and health!
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing,
For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth.

Through summer and winter so dreary,
I cheerily toiled on the farm,
Nor ever once dreamed growing weary,
For love gave my labour its charm.
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunty,
Yet here let us gratefully own,
We live amidst pleasure and plenty,
As happy 's the king on the throne.

We 've Murdoch, and Patrick, and Connor,
As fine little lads as you 'll see;
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon my honour,
She 's just the dear picture of thee.
Though some folks may still underrate us,
Ah! why should we mind them a fig?
We 've a large swinging field of potatoes,
A good drimindu and a pig.

A cow.

SWEET KITTY MORE.

One night in my youth as I rov'd with my merry pipe,
List'ning the echoes that rang to the tune,
I met Kitty More, with her two lips so cherry-ripe,
“Phelim,” says she, “give us ‘Elleen Aroon!’”

Dear Kitty, says I, thou 'rt so charmingly free!
Now, if you wilt deign thy sweet voice to the measure,
'Twill make all the echoes run giddy with pleasure,
For none in fair Erin can sing it like thee.

My chanter I plied, with my heart beating gaily,
I pip'd up the strain, while so sweetly she sang;
The soft melting melody filled all the valley,
The green woods around us in harmony rang.
Methought that she verily charmed up the moon!
And now, as I wander in village or city,
When good people call for some favourite ditty,
I give them sweet Kitty, and “Elleen Aroon.”

ADIEU, SWEET ERIN.

Adieu! ye cheerful native plains,
Dungeon glooms receive me,
Nought, alas! for me remains,
Of all the joys ye gave me—
All are flown!
Banished from thy shores, sweet Erin,
I through life must toil, despairing,
Lost and unknown.

Howl, ye winds! around my cell,
Nothing now can wound me;
Mingling with your dreary swell,
Prison groans surround me:
Bodings wild!
Treachery, thy ruthless doing,
Long I 'll mourn in hopeless ruin,
Lost and exiled!

University of Virginia Library

TANNAHILL'S SONGS.

THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.

THOU BONNIE WOOD O' CRAIGIELEE.

NOW WINTER IS GANE.

THE FAREWEEL.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

THE GREY PINIONED LARK.

OUR BONNIE SCOTS LADS.

NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

LASSIE, WILL YE TAK' A MAN?

THOU CAULD GLOOMY FEBERWAR.

YE ECHOES THAT RING.

THE DUSKY GLEN.

MY DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ALL HAIL! YE DEAR ROMANTIC SCENES.

O LADDIE, CAN YE LEAVE ME?

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND BURN.

FROM THE RUDE BUSTLING CAMP.

YE DEAR ROMANTIC SHADES.

BRAVE LEWIE ROY.

THE FLOWER O' LEVERN SIDE.

CROOKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.

UNREQUITED LOVE.

YOUNG DONALD AND HIS LAWLAN BRIDE.

THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

THE DEFEAT OF THE FRENCH.

LOUDON'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.

THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU.

WEEP NOT, MY LOVE.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

THE LAMENT OF WALLACE AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.

THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.

RAB RORYSON'S BONNET.

MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY.

DISABLED SEAMAN.

THE WORN SOLDIER.

RETURN O' GALLANT SONS.

BAROCHAN JEAN.

THE BARD OF GLENULLIN.

THE WANDERING BARD.

THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDING.

A GEM OF PEARLY DEW

THE HARPER OF MULL.

FAITHFUL ELLEN MORE.

THE SNOWSTORM.

WI' WAEFU' HEART.

LONE SILENT GRAVE.

MY MARY.

SING ON, THOU SWEET WARBLER.

OCH, HEY! JOHNNIE, LAD.

O ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE?

BONNIE FAIRED-HAIRED NANNIE.

BONNIE WINSOME MARY.

YE WOOER LADS WHA GREET AND GRANE.

MY DAYS HA'E FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED.

I 'll HIE ME TO THE SHIELING HILL.

WHEN JOHN AND I WERE MARRIED.

THOUGH HUMBLE MY LOT.

AND WERE YE AT DUNTOCHER BURN?

MY HEART IS SAIR WI' HEAVY CARE.

COMPANION OF MY YOUTHFUL SPORTS.

DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATIE.

DESPAIRING MARY.

O HOW CAN YOU GANG, LASSIE!

O SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH.

THE NEGRO GIRL.

THE LASSIE O' MERRY EIGHTEEN.

MARJORIE MILLER.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. KISS'D YESTREEN.

HEY, DONALD! HOW, DONALD!

I 'll LAY ME ON THE WINTRY LEA.

THE MANIAC'S SONG.

AWAY, GLOOMY CARE.

MEG O' THE GLEN.

THE FIVE FRIENDS.

FILL, FILL THE MERRY BOWL.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ALL HAIL! YE DEAR ROMANTIC SCENES.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

KISS'D YESTREEN.