Legal & Other Lyrics By George Outram: Containing a number of new pieces & fifteen illustrations by Edward J. Sullivan |
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 | ADDITIONAL PIECES
HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED |
 | Legal & Other Lyrics |  |
149
ADDITIONAL PIECES HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED
151
D. O. HILL
Hark! what means that catter-wauling,
Wild, harsh, and shrill?
'Tis the voice of Paxton calling,
D. O. Hill,
Bring back, bring back, the public to me,
It must be you that stole them from me,
Is't thus you pay the love you owe me,
D. O. Hill!
Wild, harsh, and shrill?
'Tis the voice of Paxton calling,
D. O. Hill,
Bring back, bring back, the public to me,
It must be you that stole them from me,
Is't thus you pay the love you owe me,
D. O. Hill!
Where's M`Kenzie, Rhind, and Ellis,
D. O. Hill?
Say where Outram, say where Bell is,
D. O. Hill;
Wile them here with song and story,
Well you know how they adore you,
Give me back my former glory,
D. O. Hill.
D. O. Hill?
Say where Outram, say where Bell is,
D. O. Hill;
Wile them here with song and story,
Well you know how they adore you,
Give me back my former glory,
D. O. Hill.
Will you evermore forget me,
D. O. Hill?
I would love you would you let me,
D. O. Hill:
How oft I wish that I could be
A crane, a castle, or a tree,
That I might win one thought from thee,
D. O. Hill.
D. O. Hill?
I would love you would you let me,
D. O. Hill:
How oft I wish that I could be
A crane, a castle, or a tree,
That I might win one thought from thee,
D. O. Hill.
Paxton was landlord of the famous Beef-steak Club and Marrowbone Tavern in Fleshmarket Close, Edinburgh.
152
THE COLLECTOR
There is wailing and woe 'mong the high and the low,
From the peer to the ten-pound elector,
And the Board of Excise wipe the tears from their eyes
As they sympathise with the collector.
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He's fallen away past conjecture!
He's fast growing green, and the change may be seen
By the most superficial inspector.
From the peer to the ten-pound elector,
And the Board of Excise wipe the tears from their eyes
As they sympathise with the collector.
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He's fallen away past conjecture!
He's fast growing green, and the change may be seen
By the most superficial inspector.
He hates all mankind—to his own wants he's blind—
He's become a complete self-neglector:
But speak of a kettle—that rouses his mettle!
I red you beware the Collector!
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He swears he will be my dissector!
Or if the Fates' will is that I were Achilles,
He only would ask to be Hector!
He's become a complete self-neglector:
But speak of a kettle—that rouses his mettle!
I red you beware the Collector!
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He swears he will be my dissector!
Or if the Fates' will is that I were Achilles,
He only would ask to be Hector!
He believed it his own till his last card was thrown,
And then he grew pale as a spectre:
He abandon'd all hope, and gave up Johnnie Cope—
A wretched man was the Collector.
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He had been so long an expector,
His dreams every night were of kettles so bright,
Overflowing with oceans of nectar!
And then he grew pale as a spectre:
153
A wretched man was the Collector.
Oh! oh! the Collector!
He had been so long an expector,
His dreams every night were of kettles so bright,
Overflowing with oceans of nectar!
The blow was too great—he sank 'neath the weight—
I fear he'll soon need a protector:
For he's sadly declined both in body and mind—
You scarcely would know the Collector!
Oh! oh! the Collector!
When he sees his face in a reflector,
He is ready to swear 'tis the lion so rare
Of the Customhouse architecture!
I fear he'll soon need a protector:
For he's sadly declined both in body and mind—
You scarcely would know the Collector!
Oh! oh! the Collector!
When he sees his face in a reflector,
He is ready to swear 'tis the lion so rare
Of the Customhouse architecture!
154
WHEN WINDS WHISTLED SHRILL
When winds whistled shrill
Over mountain and hill,
And the sea-mew shriek'd in the skerry.
When the lightnings flash'd,
And the hoarse waves dash'd
And moan'd o'er the dreary ferry:
Though the thunder growl'd,
And the tempest howl'd,
And the rowan sobb'd in the rain.
Over mountain and hill,
And the sea-mew shriek'd in the skerry.
When the lightnings flash'd,
And the hoarse waves dash'd
And moan'd o'er the dreary ferry:
Though the thunder growl'd,
And the tempest howl'd,
And the rowan sobb'd in the rain.
“Oh! 'twas merry in the hall,
When the beards wagg'd all—
May we soon see the like again.”
When the beards wagg'd all—
May we soon see the like again.”
With the fire blazing high,
While the quick jest did fly,
And the punch-bowl smiled in its glory.
Who so happy then as we,
When we listen'd to the glee
Time about with the merry story!
Each, his arm round his lass,
And his hand on his glass,
Join'd the chorus with might and main—
While the quick jest did fly,
And the punch-bowl smiled in its glory.
Who so happy then as we,
When we listen'd to the glee
Time about with the merry story!
Each, his arm round his lass,
And his hand on his glass,
Join'd the chorus with might and main—
“Oh! 'twas merry in the hall,” &c.
155
Our cares and our sorrow
Laid past till to-morrow,
The evening was all before us:
Though the walls began to rock
To the tempest's shock,
We join'd in the ready chorus:
For each took a pull
At the jolly punch-bowl,
And who could his joy restrain?
Laid past till to-morrow,
The evening was all before us:
Though the walls began to rock
To the tempest's shock,
We join'd in the ready chorus:
For each took a pull
At the jolly punch-bowl,
And who could his joy restrain?
“Oh! 'twas merry in the hall,” &c.
156
WILL YE GANG WI' ME
Oh! will ye gang wi' me, lassie,
In the silent gloaming,
And the maukins see, lassie,
Through the heather roaming,
Amang the bells sae blooming?
In the silent gloaming,
And the maukins see, lassie,
Through the heather roaming,
Amang the bells sae blooming?
Chorus—
Oh! come awa wi' me, my love,For there is nought to fear ye:
I'll clasp ye i' my arms, my love,
Nae danger shall come near ye.
We'll see the moon sae bright, lassie,
Leaning on the rushes,
Streaming its pale light, lassie,
Through the dewy bushes,
That hide thy bonnie blushes.
Leaning on the rushes,
Streaming its pale light, lassie,
Through the dewy bushes,
That hide thy bonnie blushes.
Oh! come awa, &c.
We'll press the banks sae green, lassie,
By the burnie rowing,
Glancing wi' siller sheen, lassie,
Sweetly, kindly flowing
To quench my bosom's lowing.
By the burnie rowing,
Glancing wi' siller sheen, lassie,
Sweetly, kindly flowing
To quench my bosom's lowing.
Oh! come awa, &c.
157
I'll kiss thy bonnie mou', lassie,
Tho' ye sair should wyte me;
I'll grip an' squeeze ye, too, lassie;
Your anger winna fright me,
Although you sair should flyte me.
Tho' ye sair should wyte me;
I'll grip an' squeeze ye, too, lassie;
Your anger winna fright me,
Although you sair should flyte me.
Then come awa, &c.
158
THE RUINED FORT
Isat me down upon the stile,
For I had wandered many a mile,
And thought I'd like to gaze awhile
On all that I could see:
An ancient fort—a moorland wild—
A blasted tree.
For I had wandered many a mile,
And thought I'd like to gaze awhile
On all that I could see:
An ancient fort—a moorland wild—
A blasted tree.
Bleak relics of an age bygone,
Ye tell of battles lost and won—
Of tourney, fête, and ring-race won—
By men of ancestry.
Who built that fort—rode o'er that heath—
Sat by that tree?
Ye tell of battles lost and won—
Of tourney, fête, and ring-race won—
By men of ancestry.
Who built that fort—rode o'er that heath—
Sat by that tree?
How dead—how dumb—how desolate—
What late was deemed so rich and great;
Is there not something in my fate
That's like to all the three?
That ruined fort—that fruitless heath—
That blasted tree!
What late was deemed so rich and great;
Is there not something in my fate
That's like to all the three?
That ruined fort—that fruitless heath—
That blasted tree!
159
THE SONG OF MEMORY
When life's dark clouds obscure my way,
And pour their sorrows o'er my head—
When hope's last feeble scattered ray
Has yielded to the storm and fled,
I heave a sigh
To memory,
And ask a tale of times gone by;
Around the bed
Where sorrow's laid
Sad is the song of memory.
And pour their sorrows o'er my head—
When hope's last feeble scattered ray
Has yielded to the storm and fled,
I heave a sigh
To memory,
And ask a tale of times gone by;
Around the bed
Where sorrow's laid
Sad is the song of memory.
She tells me of life's morning dream,
Ah! never, never to prove true;
She tells me of the sparkling stream:
Where fancy's short-liv'd roses grew;
She sings of days
When pleasure's ways
Seemed open to my tearless eye;
Of grief's wide wave,
And friendship's grave—
Sad is the song of memory.
Ah! never, never to prove true;
She tells me of the sparkling stream:
Where fancy's short-liv'd roses grew;
She sings of days
When pleasure's ways
Seemed open to my tearless eye;
Of grief's wide wave,
And friendship's grave—
Sad is the song of memory.
She sings—but ah! from her wan lip
No soothing sounds are heard to flow,
While down the diapason deep
She ceaseless rolls the note of woe;
An awful tale
Of sorrows pale
Is chorus'd by her wailing cry.
Around the bed
Where sorrow's laid
Sad is the song of memory.
No soothing sounds are heard to flow,
160
She ceaseless rolls the note of woe;
An awful tale
Of sorrows pale
Is chorus'd by her wailing cry.
Around the bed
Where sorrow's laid
Sad is the song of memory.
161
BONNIE MARY
Her cheek is like the rose,
An' her lips like the cherry,
Her een are glancin' blue,
An' her name's bonnie Mary.
My father's unco' dour,
An' my mither is camstary;
I ken the lassie's puir,
But she's aye bonnie Mary.
An' her lips like the cherry,
Her een are glancin' blue,
An' her name's bonnie Mary.
My father's unco' dour,
An' my mither is camstary;
I ken the lassie's puir,
But she's aye bonnie Mary.
They say I'll ever rue
The day that I sought her;
They'll hae me gang an' woo
The rich miller's dochter.
But let them glower an' bann
At my ae only dearie,
Sae a' the ill ye can,
Yet she's aye bonnie Mary.
The day that I sought her;
They'll hae me gang an' woo
The rich miller's dochter.
But let them glower an' bann
At my ae only dearie,
Sae a' the ill ye can,
Yet she's aye bonnie Mary.
Oh! were she herdin' nowt
In an auld rotten plaidie,
It's I would find her out
An she'd ca' me her laddie.
On an empty barn floor
She dances like a fairy,
In a shielin' on a muir,
Oh! she's aye bonnie Mary.
In an auld rotten plaidie,
It's I would find her out
An she'd ca' me her laddie.
On an empty barn floor
She dances like a fairy,
In a shielin' on a muir,
Oh! she's aye bonnie Mary.
162
A LINNET WARBLED
Alinnet warbled in the shade
Upon a summer's morn;
Blythe rang her carol through the glade—
I laugh'd at her in scorn;
She thought she would be happy long,
And cheerfully chirp'd out her song.
Upon a summer's morn;
Blythe rang her carol through the glade—
I laugh'd at her in scorn;
She thought she would be happy long,
And cheerfully chirp'd out her song.
Upon that summer's eve,
The linnet sate—silent—alone;
The hour was past that heaven gave,
The day of bliss was done;
She sate upon a waving bough,
The miniature of human woe.
The linnet sate—silent—alone;
The hour was past that heaven gave,
The day of bliss was done;
She sate upon a waving bough,
The miniature of human woe.
Her mate was dead—murder'd, to prove
The skill that hits a mark so small;
The linnet look'd upon her love,
And saw him fall.
Her melody was o'er—
She whistled now no more.
The skill that hits a mark so small;
The linnet look'd upon her love,
And saw him fall.
Her melody was o'er—
She whistled now no more.
She felt she was alone,
Friendless among a thousand foes;
In the wide world there was not one
To sorrow for her woes;
Her little heart was swell'd with grief,
She knew that there was no relief.
Friendless among a thousand foes;
In the wide world there was not one
To sorrow for her woes;
Her little heart was swell'd with grief,
She knew that there was no relief.
163
Art thou, poor bird! forlorn as I?
Hast learn'd so soon all I have known—
That joy is but a summer fly,
Scarce seen e'er it has flown?
Thou'st learn'd the truth while young—
Thou wast not cheated long.
Hast learn'd so soon all I have known—
That joy is but a summer fly,
Scarce seen e'er it has flown?
Thou'st learn'd the truth while young—
Thou wast not cheated long.
But not without a hope
Thy wreck of life remains to thee;
The fowler's aim, the falcon's swoop,
Alike may set thee free—
May bid thy sorrows cease,
And let thee be at peace.
Thy wreck of life remains to thee;
The fowler's aim, the falcon's swoop,
Alike may set thee free—
May bid thy sorrows cease,
And let thee be at peace.
Nor at thy lot repine—
“The young, the beautiful, the brave,”
Have sunk 'neath sorrows such as thine,
And sought an early grave,
Where the broken heart is blest,
And the weary are at rest!
“The young, the beautiful, the brave,”
Have sunk 'neath sorrows such as thine,
And sought an early grave,
Where the broken heart is blest,
And the weary are at rest!
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