Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
74
SONGS.
ALL HAIL, CALEDONIA.
All hail, Caledonia, the birth place of bravery,
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.
When Rome pour'd her legions of mail-cover'd champions,
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.
But, ah! a dire tempest sweeps over the Highlands,
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.
75
THE GLORIOUS BARD OF KYLE.
Fair Scotia, frae her mountain throne,
Looks down, wi' smiling e'e,
To see her children every one
In harmony agree;
While countless thousands onward move,
In ecstacy divine,
To show'r their wreaths of warmest love
On Burns's hallow'd shrine.
Looks down, wi' smiling e'e,
To see her children every one
In harmony agree;
While countless thousands onward move,
In ecstacy divine,
To show'r their wreaths of warmest love
On Burns's hallow'd shrine.
CHORUS.
Then swell his praise, in lofty lays,Throughout our happy isle,
For Scotia's boast, frae coast to coast,
Is the glorious Bard of Kyle.
His was the independent soul,
The warm and manly heart,
To spurn the haughty tyrant's scowl,
Or brave misfortune's smart;
His magic lays transcendent blaze
'Mid the poetic throng;
Sic peerless fire flows from his lyre
As hails him king of song.
The warm and manly heart,
To spurn the haughty tyrant's scowl,
Or brave misfortune's smart;
His magic lays transcendent blaze
'Mid the poetic throng;
Sic peerless fire flows from his lyre
As hails him king of song.
He sang the peasant's happy cot,
The lover's joys and woes;
The patriot's flame, wi' loud acclaim,
He nobly did disclose;
Hypocrisy oft felt his lash,
Wi' downcast tearfu' e'e,
While round his brilliant wit did flash
Wi' comic mirth and glee.
The lover's joys and woes;
The patriot's flame, wi' loud acclaim,
He nobly did disclose;
Hypocrisy oft felt his lash,
Wi' downcast tearfu' e'e,
While round his brilliant wit did flash
Wi' comic mirth and glee.
Though mony shine wi' twinkling light,
Or flash wi' comet glare,
Then dimly blink through darksome night,
Or vanish evermair;
Yet Burns's name, and Burns's fame,
Beam like the blazing sun,
And down the tide of time will glide
Till her last sands are run.
Or flash wi' comet glare,
Then dimly blink through darksome night,
Or vanish evermair;
Yet Burns's name, and Burns's fame,
Beam like the blazing sun,
And down the tide of time will glide
Till her last sands are run.
Composed for the general Anniversary of Burns' Hundredth Birth-day, 25th January, 1859—three months before Mr. Watt's death.
76
THE WARRIOR'S WELCOME.
Bravest of the sons of war,
Rest thee from the toil of fighting,
Till the yellow morning star
From the east sky gleams delighting.
Glorious hath thy struggle been,
'Mid the thunder of the battle,
When the armour, glitt'ring sheen,
Fill'd the air with direful rattle.
Rest thee from the toil of fighting,
Till the yellow morning star
From the east sky gleams delighting.
Glorious hath thy struggle been,
'Mid the thunder of the battle,
When the armour, glitt'ring sheen,
Fill'd the air with direful rattle.
Dreary o'er the foughten field
Howls the wolf 'mong blood and slaughter,
Where conflicting weapons reel'd,
Pouring blood like streams of water.
Banish from thine eye the tear,
Certain sign of inward sorrow,
Welcome art thou to dwell here,
'Midst of safety, till the morrow.
Howls the wolf 'mong blood and slaughter,
Where conflicting weapons reel'd,
Pouring blood like streams of water.
Banish from thine eye the tear,
Certain sign of inward sorrow,
Welcome art thou to dwell here,
'Midst of safety, till the morrow.
Fear no coming of the foe,
Fear no traitor standing round thee,
Though thy pulse beats faintly low,
Gold could not induce to wound thee.
For thy fate no child need weep,
For thy fate no mother languish;
Strengthen'd by refreshing sleep,
Thou shalt wake aloof from anguish.
Fear no traitor standing round thee,
Though thy pulse beats faintly low,
Gold could not induce to wound thee.
For thy fate no child need weep,
For thy fate no mother languish;
Strengthen'd by refreshing sleep,
Thou shalt wake aloof from anguish.
Dreams of pleasure charm thy soul,
Sweet presiding o'er thy slumber;
While time's chariot wheels swift roll,
May no incubus thee cumber.
But the soothing scenes of peace,
Home, and friends, and festive gladness,
Thee from war's fatigues release,
Thee estrange from themes of sadness.
Sweet presiding o'er thy slumber;
While time's chariot wheels swift roll,
May no incubus thee cumber.
But the soothing scenes of peace,
Home, and friends, and festive gladness,
Thee from war's fatigues release,
Thee estrange from themes of sadness.
77
THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.
On famed Vittoria's gory height,
Ere shades proclaim'd th' approach of night,
The sulph'rous tube and sabre bright
Swept thousands to eternity.
Ere shades proclaim'd th' approach of night,
The sulph'rous tube and sabre bright
Swept thousands to eternity.
The marshall'd ranks, in bright array,
Stood glittering in the blaze of day;
While drums and trumpets loud did bray
Along the azure canopy.
Stood glittering in the blaze of day;
While drums and trumpets loud did bray
Along the azure canopy.
As from the lightning's ebon shrine
The thunder bursts with voice sublime,
So cannons roar and armours chime
In contest for the mastery.
The thunder bursts with voice sublime,
So cannons roar and armours chime
In contest for the mastery.
Now dire confusion clouds the field,
With stubborn brows their swords they wield,
Till Gallia's sons are forced to yield
To British strength and bravery.
With stubborn brows their swords they wield,
Till Gallia's sons are forced to yield
To British strength and bravery.
Here lies, defaced by blood and scars,
The hero old, and skill'd in wars,
(Who lived a votary to Mars,)
Lamenting his hard destiny.
The hero old, and skill'd in wars,
(Who lived a votary to Mars,)
Lamenting his hard destiny.
There wreathes on the ensanguined plain
The soldier young, in horrid pain,
In life's gay morn untimely ta'en
By fate's delusive treachery.
The soldier young, in horrid pain,
In life's gay morn untimely ta'en
By fate's delusive treachery.
Beneath the willow's blood-stain'd leaf
Lies, parch'd with thirst, the wounded chief,
And not a hand to lend relief,
Or soothe his grevious misery:
Lies, parch'd with thirst, the wounded chief,
And not a hand to lend relief,
Or soothe his grevious misery:
The horseman, 'neath his hapless steed,
In anguish fell doth groaning bleed;
Aloof from help, in time of need,
He dies at point of victory:
In anguish fell doth groaning bleed;
Aloof from help, in time of need,
He dies at point of victory:
When loud the brazen trump of fame
Resounds for Wellington and Graham,
Who've gain'd themselves a deathless name,
While lasts the page of history.
Resounds for Wellington and Graham,
Who've gain'd themselves a deathless name,
While lasts the page of history.
78
THE BELGIAN ACCOUNT OF THE BATTLE OF FLEURUS.
WRITTEN FROM A BRUSSELS GAZETTE.
Bright shone the sun with golden glow
To gild the Sambre's limpid flow,
When up arose the Gallic foe,
Indignant, to devour us.
Their columns deep, protracted far,
Attired in all the garb of war,
Presaged that they, in triumph's car,
Would course the plains of Fleurus.
To gild the Sambre's limpid flow,
When up arose the Gallic foe,
Indignant, to devour us.
Their columns deep, protracted far,
Attired in all the garb of war,
Presaged that they, in triumph's car,
Would course the plains of Fleurus.
But Blucher, with his daring band,
Prepared the rebels to withstand;
His steady mien and order grand
Of freedom did assure us.
The Prussian black flag floated high,
And valour beam'd from every eye;
Each vow'd he'd conquer, else he'd die
Upon the field of Fleurus.
Prepared the rebels to withstand;
His steady mien and order grand
Of freedom did assure us.
The Prussian black flag floated high,
And valour beam'd from every eye;
Each vow'd he'd conquer, else he'd die
Upon the field of Fleurus.
The drum's shrill beat, the bugle's twang,
The cannon's roar, the sabre's clang,
With fatal grape-shot, rudely rang:
My heart could scarce endure this.
From every side, across the vale,
Swept showers of shot like driving hail,
And swords struck fire from helm and mail,
That dreadful day, on Fleurus.
The cannon's roar, the sabre's clang,
With fatal grape-shot, rudely rang:
My heart could scarce endure this.
From every side, across the vale,
Swept showers of shot like driving hail,
And swords struck fire from helm and mail,
That dreadful day, on Fleurus.
The British lion's rampant roar
Loud swell'd along the Sambre's shore;
He thousands bathed in reeking gore,
From bondage to secure us.
It was the gallant Scotch brigade
Which there such deeds of fame display'd;
Whose foes did quick recoil, dismay'd,
Or slept in death on Fleurus.
Loud swell'd along the Sambre's shore;
He thousands bathed in reeking gore,
From bondage to secure us.
It was the gallant Scotch brigade
Which there such deeds of fame display'd;
Whose foes did quick recoil, dismay'd,
Or slept in death on Fleurus.
Loud rang the Highland pibroch's swell,
To kindle rage, and fear dispel,
And drown the wounded's dying yell,—
To them a wretched cure this.
The cause is lost, the rebels fly,
The swords and bay'nets, waving high,
Fast sweep them down, 'mong fields of rye,
Upon the field of Fleurus.
To kindle rage, and fear dispel,
And drown the wounded's dying yell,—
To them a wretched cure this.
79
The swords and bay'nets, waving high,
Fast sweep them down, 'mong fields of rye,
Upon the field of Fleurus.
“Revenge, revenge!” the Prussians roar,
“For injured rights in days of yore;
Let pity, though she keen implore,
From vengeance ne'er allure us.”
But darkness frown'd upon the plain,
When back the rebels fled amain,
And thousands, cold as ice, lay slain
Upon the field of Fleurus.
“For injured rights in days of yore;
Let pity, though she keen implore,
From vengeance ne'er allure us.”
But darkness frown'd upon the plain,
When back the rebels fled amain,
And thousands, cold as ice, lay slain
Upon the field of Fleurus.
SONG.
Flow softly, Calder, down thy glynns,
Where sighing lovers fondly meet,
While waving birks o'erhang thy linns,
Whence blackbirds trill their lays so sweet!
Where sighing lovers fondly meet,
While waving birks o'erhang thy linns,
Whence blackbirds trill their lays so sweet!
Thy verdant groves, thy cool alcoves,
Have shaded oft the sultry ray,
As, 'midst the vert, with love-charm'd heart,
With Anna I beguiled the day.
Have shaded oft the sultry ray,
As, 'midst the vert, with love-charm'd heart,
With Anna I beguiled the day.
Hers was the look that snared the soul,
The voice that charm'd the tuneful ear;
From every swain the heart she stole,
That stray'd the banks of Calder near.
The voice that charm'd the tuneful ear;
From every swain the heart she stole,
That stray'd the banks of Calder near.
But, like the rose, that brightly blows
Full soon to wither wanly pale,
My Anna bloom'd to be entomb'd,
Ere prime of life, in yonder vale.
Full soon to wither wanly pale,
My Anna bloom'd to be entomb'd,
Ere prime of life, in yonder vale.
Oh say, ye swains, by Calder's side,
If ye have felt the burning throe?
Tell me if grief must still abide,
And still the tear of anguish flow?
If ye have felt the burning throe?
Tell me if grief must still abide,
And still the tear of anguish flow?
No smiling ray of hope's fair day
Glides through the ever-deep'ning gloom;
The tearful eye and heaving sigh
Are mine, since Anna fills the tomb.
Glides through the ever-deep'ning gloom;
The tearful eye and heaving sigh
Are mine, since Anna fills the tomb.
80
BAB AT THE BOWSTER.
Lassie, whare were ye yestreen,
Wi' touslet hair and drowsy een?
I trow ye've at the weddin' been,
And danced at “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wi' touslet hair and drowsy een?
I trow ye've at the weddin' been,
And danced at “Bab at the Bowster.”
'Deed I was there, amang them a',
And sic a sicht I never saw
O' lads an lasses, dress'd sae braw,
A' dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
And sic a sicht I never saw
O' lads an lasses, dress'd sae braw,
A' dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
A' kinds o' dances, jigs, or reels,
Fandangoes, waltzes, or quadrilles,
There's nane can fire our lichtsome heels
Like Scotland's “Bab at the Bowster.”
Fandangoes, waltzes, or quadrilles,
There's nane can fire our lichtsome heels
Like Scotland's “Bab at the Bowster.”
The drowsy waltz but lulls to sleep
As owre the floor we slowly creep,
But joy comes wi' the fiddle's cheep
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
As owre the floor we slowly creep,
But joy comes wi' the fiddle's cheep
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
'Tis aye the dance that bears the gree
At ony canty social spree;
Baith auld and young aye join wi' glee
To dance blithe “Bab at the Bowster.”
At ony canty social spree;
Baith auld and young aye join wi' glee
To dance blithe “Bab at the Bowster.”
Had ye but seen the miller Hodge,
Wha came to kneel wi' the howdie Madge;
She strak in fun, but seem'd in rage,
To dance at “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wha came to kneel wi' the howdie Madge;
She strak in fun, but seem'd in rage,
To dance at “Bab at the Bowster.”
The carl held, the carlin drew,
Wi' loof upon her wrinkled mou';
Nane witness'd sic a hallabulloo
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wi' loof upon her wrinkled mou';
Nane witness'd sic a hallabulloo
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
The miller tint his wig i' the fray,
The howdie's braw mutch bord gaed 'stray,
And the rosy sun brought in the day,
Ere we ended “Bab at the Bowster.”
The howdie's braw mutch bord gaed 'stray,
And the rosy sun brought in the day,
Ere we ended “Bab at the Bowster.”
Sae ferlie nane whare I ha'e been,
Wi' touslet hair, and drowsy een,
Nae sleep I've got, nor bed ha'e seen,
Since I danced “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wi' touslet hair, and drowsy een,
Nae sleep I've got, nor bed ha'e seen,
Since I danced “Bab at the Bowster.”
81
The fiddle yet rings in my brain,
And want o' sleep's a weary pain,
But I wad thole a' owre again
To get dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
And want o' sleep's a weary pain,
But I wad thole a' owre again
To get dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
MERRILY DANCED THE QUAKER'S WIFE.
Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
She bought a gown, when at the town,
That gart a' the Friends forsake her;
For it was silk, o' sweet pea green,
Wi' velvet tartan bonnet,
And o'er her lovely brow serene
An Ostrich plume waved on it.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
She bought a gown, when at the town,
That gart a' the Friends forsake her;
For it was silk, o' sweet pea green,
Wi' velvet tartan bonnet,
And o'er her lovely brow serene
An Ostrich plume waved on it.
Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
The fiddler's e'e gart him tyne his key
When he look'd on the wife o' the Quaker.
The Quaker coost his snuff-brown coat
And braid-rimm'd hat i' the side room,
And sprang an flang at the Highland Fling,
Wi' his bonny wife and the bridegroom.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
The fiddler's e'e gart him tyne his key
When he look'd on the wife o' the Quaker.
The Quaker coost his snuff-brown coat
And braid-rimm'd hat i' the side room,
And sprang an flang at the Highland Fling,
Wi' his bonny wife and the bridegroom.
Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
He sat as close by the toddy bowl
As either the butcher or baker.
He quaff'd and danced till the cock did craw
Beside the miller and brewster,
And frae the bridal wad ne'er withdraw
Till ance he danced Bab at the Bowster.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
He sat as close by the toddy bowl
As either the butcher or baker.
He quaff'd and danced till the cock did craw
Beside the miller and brewster,
And frae the bridal wad ne'er withdraw
Till ance he danced Bab at the Bowster.
Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
Till the morning sun was glancin';
“My dear,” quo she, “put on your coat,
'Tis time now to end the dancin'.”
“My back and head nae mair I'll cleed,”
Quo' he, “in Quaker's garb now,
But I'll be dress'd as gay's the rest,
And never will thee nor thou you”
Till the morning sun was glancin';
“My dear,” quo she, “put on your coat,
'Tis time now to end the dancin'.”
“My back and head nae mair I'll cleed,”
Quo' he, “in Quaker's garb now,
But I'll be dress'd as gay's the rest,
And never will thee nor thou you”
82
THE PEDLAR.
The pedlar ca'd in by the house o' Glenneuk,
When the fam'ly were by wi' the breakfast and beuk;
The lasses were caiming an' curling their hair,
To gang to the bridal o' Maggie M'Nair.
“Guid morn,” quo' the pedlar, fu' frank an' fu' free,
“Let's see wha this day will be hansel to me!
An' if an ill bargain she happen to mak',
I'll gie her mysel' an' the hale o' my pack.”
When the fam'ly were by wi' the breakfast and beuk;
The lasses were caiming an' curling their hair,
To gang to the bridal o' Maggie M'Nair.
“Guid morn,” quo' the pedlar, fu' frank an' fu' free,
“Let's see wha this day will be hansel to me!
An' if an ill bargain she happen to mak',
I'll gie her mysel' an' the hale o' my pack.”
“Aha!” the guidwife cried, “gif I've ony skill,
I fear that would be makin' waur out o' ill;
My dochters wad, certes, o' wark be richt slack,
To trudge through the kintra and carry a pack.”
“Guidwife,” quo' the pedlar, “'tis only a joke,”
As he flang down his wallets to shaw them his stock;
When she saw his rich cargo, she ru'ed e'er she spak
Sae lightly o' either the pedlar or pack.
I fear that would be makin' waur out o' ill;
My dochters wad, certes, o' wark be richt slack,
To trudge through the kintra and carry a pack.”
“Guidwife,” quo' the pedlar, “'tis only a joke,”
As he flang down his wallets to shaw them his stock;
When she saw his rich cargo, she ru'ed e'er she spak
Sae lightly o' either the pedlar or pack.
The lasses drew roun', wi' their gleg glancin' een,
To glow'r on his ware that might fitted a queen;
They wal'd an' they boucht satins, ribbons, and lace,
Till they raised mony lirks on the laird's niggard face.
His brooches and bracelets, wi' di'monds enrich'd,
They greent for, till baith hearts and een were bewitch'd;
But bonnie blate Nelly stood aye a bit back,
Stealin' looks at the pedlar—but ne'er min't the pack.
To glow'r on his ware that might fitted a queen;
They wal'd an' they boucht satins, ribbons, and lace,
Till they raised mony lirks on the laird's niggard face.
His brooches and bracelets, wi' di'monds enrich'd,
They greent for, till baith hearts and een were bewitch'd;
But bonnie blate Nelly stood aye a bit back,
Stealin' looks at the pedlar—but ne'er min't the pack.
This lovely young lassie his fancy did move;
He saw that her blinks were the glances o' love:
A necklace he gied her, wi' pearlins beset,
Saying, “Wha kens but we twa will married be yet?”
The blush flush'd her cheek, and the tear fill'd her e'e;
She gaed out to the yaird, and sat down 'neath a tree,
When something within her aye silently spak—
“I could gang wi' this pedlar, and carry his pack.”
He saw that her blinks were the glances o' love:
A necklace he gied her, wi' pearlins beset,
Saying, “Wha kens but we twa will married be yet?”
The blush flush'd her cheek, and the tear fill'd her e'e;
She gaed out to the yaird, and sat down 'neath a tree,
When something within her aye silently spak—
“I could gang wi' this pedlar, and carry his pack.”
Her heart lap wi' joy ilka time he cam' roun',
Till he tauld her he'd taen a braw shop in the toun;
Then the rose left her cheeks, and her head licht did reel,
For she dreaded this wad be his hindmost fareweel.
“Look blithe, my dear lassie, your fears banish a',
Your parents may flyte, and your titties may jaw,
But they'll heartily rue yet, that e'er they jokes brack
Upon me, when the country I ranged wi' the pack.”
Till he tauld her he'd taen a braw shop in the toun;
Then the rose left her cheeks, and her head licht did reel,
For she dreaded this wad be his hindmost fareweel.
83
Your parents may flyte, and your titties may jaw,
But they'll heartily rue yet, that e'er they jokes brack
Upon me, when the country I ranged wi' the pack.”
The auld wife kent noucht o' the secret ava,
Till ae day to the kirk she gaed vogie an' braw;
Her heart to her mouth lap, the sweat on her brak',
When she heard Nelly cry'd to the lad wi' the pack.
She sat wi' a face hafflins roasted wi' shame,
Syne awa at twal hours she gaed scourin' straught hame;
She min't na the text, nor a word the priest spak',
A' her thoughts were ta'en up wi' the pedlar and pack.
Till ae day to the kirk she gaed vogie an' braw;
Her heart to her mouth lap, the sweat on her brak',
When she heard Nelly cry'd to the lad wi' the pack.
She sat wi' a face hafflins roasted wi' shame,
Syne awa at twal hours she gaed scourin' straught hame;
She min't na the text, nor a word the priest spak',
A' her thoughts were ta'en up wi' the pedlar and pack.
“What's wrang,” quo' the laird, “that ye're hame here sae soon?
The kail's no lang on! Is the day's service done?”
“Na, na,” quo' the kimmer, “I've got an affront
That for months yet to come will my bosom gar dunt!
That glaikit slut Nell, we have dautit sae weel,
Has now won us a pirn that will sair us to reel;
For a' we've wared on her, o' pound and o' plack,
She is thrice cry'd this day to yon chiel wi' the pack.”
The kail's no lang on! Is the day's service done?”
“Na, na,” quo' the kimmer, “I've got an affront
That for months yet to come will my bosom gar dunt!
That glaikit slut Nell, we have dautit sae weel,
Has now won us a pirn that will sair us to reel;
For a' we've wared on her, o' pound and o' plack,
She is thrice cry'd this day to yon chiel wi' the pack.”
“Od saffs!” sigh'd the laird, “gif she be sic a fool,
He sal get her as bare as the birk tree at Yule!
Whare is she, the slut? gif I could but her fin',
Fient haud me, gin I wadna reesil her skin!”
But Nelly foresaw what the upshot wad be,
Sae she gaed 'cross the Muir to a frien's house awee,
Whare a chaise-an-pair cam', an' whene'er daylight brak',
She set aff wi' the pedlar unfasht wi' the pack.
He sal get her as bare as the birk tree at Yule!
Whare is she, the slut? gif I could but her fin',
Fient haud me, gin I wadna reesil her skin!”
But Nelly foresaw what the upshot wad be,
Sae she gaed 'cross the Muir to a frien's house awee,
Whare a chaise-an-pair cam', an' whene'er daylight brak',
She set aff wi' the pedlar unfasht wi' the pack.
They were lawfully spliced by the Rev'rend J. P.
Whilk the hale kintra roun' in the Herald may see;
Now his big shop's weel stow'd, baith for bed an' for back,
That was started wi' ballads an' trumps in a pack.
He raise up in rank, and he raise up in fame,
And the title o' Bailie's affixed to his name;
Now the laird o' Glenneuk about naething will crack
Save the Bailie,—but ne'er hints a word o' the pack.
Whilk the hale kintra roun' in the Herald may see;
Now his big shop's weel stow'd, baith for bed an' for back,
That was started wi' ballads an' trumps in a pack.
He raise up in rank, and he raise up in fame,
And the title o' Bailie's affixed to his name;
Now the laird o' Glenneuk about naething will crack
Save the Bailie,—but ne'er hints a word o' the pack.
84
AULD JOHN PAUL.
Auld John Paul was nae lazy man,
And auld John Paul was nae crazy man;
Though his haffits were white, and his noddle was baul',
Yet a slee, funny joker, was auld John Paul.
Auld John Paul had a widower been
For towmonds, they said, about twal or threteen;
Yet it lap in his head—though I'm now turnin' aul',
I may yet get a help-meet, thinks auld John Paul.
And auld John Paul was nae crazy man;
Though his haffits were white, and his noddle was baul',
Yet a slee, funny joker, was auld John Paul.
Auld John Paul had a widower been
For towmonds, they said, about twal or threteen;
Yet it lap in his head—though I'm now turnin' aul',
I may yet get a help-meet, thinks auld John Paul.
Sae he daunnert down to Nanse M'Nee's,
Wha keepit the sign o' the gowd cross-keys;
A cantie widow, baith stout and hale,
Wha had saved a bit trifle by sellin' ale.
Sae he ca'd for a dram, and begoud to crack,
And syne about wedlock a joke he brake,
While the kimmer she leuch, and said, sooth, but ye'er baul';
Wad ye yet face the minister, auld John Paul?
Wha keepit the sign o' the gowd cross-keys;
A cantie widow, baith stout and hale,
Wha had saved a bit trifle by sellin' ale.
Sae he ca'd for a dram, and begoud to crack,
And syne about wedlock a joke he brake,
While the kimmer she leuch, and said, sooth, but ye'er baul';
Wad ye yet face the minister, auld John Paul?
The kintra says ye're a douse auld man,
But I really think, John, ye're a crouse auld man,
Wha yet wad splice wi' anither wife,
When ye've sprauchilt sae far up the hill o' life.
Ye hae routh to keep ony wife bien, John Paul,
I'm redd ye'se get ane at fifteen, John Paul;
To look on your spunk, it's new life to the saul—
You're the flower o' the clachan yoursel', John Paul!
But I really think, John, ye're a crouse auld man,
Wha yet wad splice wi' anither wife,
When ye've sprauchilt sae far up the hill o' life.
Ye hae routh to keep ony wife bien, John Paul,
I'm redd ye'se get ane at fifteen, John Paul;
To look on your spunk, it's new life to the saul—
You're the flower o' the clachan yoursel', John Paul!
Nae glaiget young jillet for me, quo' John;
Though I ha'e a billet for thee, quo' John;
Gin the smith ye'll discard, wi' his lang sooty beard,
Ye'se my siller get ilka bawbee, quo' John.
And nae mair wi' the souter ye'll fash, quo' John,
For he's drucken ilk plack o' his cash, quo' John;
And the miller's gane through a' his mailin, I trow,
And, forbye, he's a daft gomrel hash, quo' John.
Though I ha'e a billet for thee, quo' John;
Gin the smith ye'll discard, wi' his lang sooty beard,
Ye'se my siller get ilka bawbee, quo' John.
And nae mair wi' the souter ye'll fash, quo' John,
For he's drucken ilk plack o' his cash, quo' John;
And the miller's gane through a' his mailin, I trow,
And, forbye, he's a daft gomrel hash, quo' John.
But the beadle cam' in roarin' fou to Nanse,
Sayin', John Paul, what want ye now wi' Nanse?
Ye had better gae beek at your ain ingle cheek,
For I've offered mysel' afore you to Nanse.
It's a wonner to look at auld fools, John Paul,
Wha maun soon hurkel down 'mang the mools, John Paul;
Soon the divots will sward owre your head in my yaird,
Whan I've happit you up wi' my shools, John Paul.
Sayin', John Paul, what want ye now wi' Nanse?
85
For I've offered mysel' afore you to Nanse.
It's a wonner to look at auld fools, John Paul,
Wha maun soon hurkel down 'mang the mools, John Paul;
Soon the divots will sward owre your head in my yaird,
Whan I've happit you up wi' my shools, John Paul.
Confound your ill-breedin', gae out, quo' Nanse,
Or the tangs I'se bring owre your lang snout, quo' Nanse,
Ye'll come in here to scaul', and to kick up a brawl!
Will ye e'er be a man like John Paul, quo' Nanse.
Sae the beadle did swagger out ragin' mad,
Misca'in the alewife for a' that was bad;
While the neebours assembled to witness the brawl,
Sayin' wha wad hae thought this o' auld John Paul?
Or the tangs I'se bring owre your lang snout, quo' Nanse,
Ye'll come in here to scaul', and to kick up a brawl!
Will ye e'er be a man like John Paul, quo' Nanse.
Sae the beadle did swagger out ragin' mad,
Misca'in the alewife for a' that was bad;
While the neebours assembled to witness the brawl,
Sayin' wha wad hae thought this o' auld John Paul?
We've a sad mishanter met, quo' John,
We'll the clachan's banter get, quo' John;
That bletherin' fool, wi' his shools, and his mools,
Will be, aiblins, the first to cry dool, quo' John.
But the clerk we can get in a blink, quo' John,
Wi' his paper, his pen, and his ink, quo' John;
And niest Sunday, I say, we'll cry thrice i' ae day,
And gie the hale billies a jink, quo' John.
We'll the clachan's banter get, quo' John;
That bletherin' fool, wi' his shools, and his mools,
Will be, aiblins, the first to cry dool, quo' John.
But the clerk we can get in a blink, quo' John,
Wi' his paper, his pen, and his ink, quo' John;
And niest Sunday, I say, we'll cry thrice i' ae day,
And gie the hale billies a jink, quo' John.
Quo' Nanse, ye've my consent, John Paul,
To wed ye, I'm content, John Paul;
But first, let's get a man o' law,
To bin' the langest liver a'.
Content! quo' John, a bargain be't,
Come, gies your han' and say we're greet!
Rab Snap the contract soon will scrawl,
'Tween Nanse M'Nees and auld John Paul.
To wed ye, I'm content, John Paul;
But first, let's get a man o' law,
To bin' the langest liver a'.
Content! quo' John, a bargain be't,
Come, gies your han' and say we're greet!
Rab Snap the contract soon will scrawl,
'Tween Nanse M'Nees and auld John Paul.
Sae they were cried, and buckled syne;
The weddin' was a special shine;
Saxscore o' neebours, young and aul',
Ate, drank, and danced wi' auld John Paul.
They ranted and sang till the day did daw',
Ere ane o' the guests thought o' gaun awa;
And the fiddler swore nane shook a suppler spaul
On the floor, the hale night, than did auld John Paul,
The weddin' was a special shine;
Saxscore o' neebours, young and aul',
Ate, drank, and danced wi' auld John Paul.
They ranted and sang till the day did daw',
Ere ane o' the guests thought o' gaun awa;
And the fiddler swore nane shook a suppler spaul
On the floor, the hale night, than did auld John Paul,
This song, and a number of those succeeding, of the same character, were written for and sung by the late Mr. James Livingston, well known throughout Scotland for his fine taste, and rich and racy humour, in this class of songs.
86
ELSPA ADAIR.
A pawky auld cummer wins in the Mill glen
Wham ilk body's heard o', but nane fully ken;
She's cosie, she's cosh, and she's bien butt and ben;
She has kists fu' o' claes, and has siller to ware;
But how she's sae rowthy, though howdie she be,
Lang puzzled ilk brain through the mystery to see,
Till the carlines o' sense did ilk ither agree
That Nick was in paction wi' Elspa Adair.
Wham ilk body's heard o', but nane fully ken;
She's cosie, she's cosh, and she's bien butt and ben;
She has kists fu' o' claes, and has siller to ware;
But how she's sae rowthy, though howdie she be,
Lang puzzled ilk brain through the mystery to see,
Till the carlines o' sense did ilk ither agree
That Nick was in paction wi' Elspa Adair.
Now Elspa was thrifty the hale o' her life,
And to the laird's gamekeeper made a guid wife
For thirty lang years, without fam'ly or strife,
Till he left her a widow to mourn for him sair.
But though the protector o' paitricks and hares,
His conscience wad rack baith to set and lift snares;
And when he was tired o' his day's toilsome cares,
Awa' at the gloamin slade Elspa Adair.
And to the laird's gamekeeper made a guid wife
For thirty lang years, without fam'ly or strife,
Till he left her a widow to mourn for him sair.
But though the protector o' paitricks and hares,
His conscience wad rack baith to set and lift snares;
And when he was tired o' his day's toilsome cares,
Awa' at the gloamin slade Elspa Adair.
She could hide four guid maukins aneath her brown cloak,
And meet wi' the cadger and sell aff her stock,
And lauch aff the scorn wi' a blithe knacky joke,
Wi' conscience unscathed, and wi' heart void o' care.
When ta'en aff to howdie, by nicht or by day,
She airted aye hame whare the wily girns lay;
The laird micht traverse ilka valley and brae,
But the feck o' his game lodged wi' Elspa Adair.
And meet wi' the cadger and sell aff her stock,
And lauch aff the scorn wi' a blithe knacky joke,
Wi' conscience unscathed, and wi' heart void o' care.
When ta'en aff to howdie, by nicht or by day,
She airted aye hame whare the wily girns lay;
The laird micht traverse ilka valley and brae,
But the feck o' his game lodged wi' Elspa Adair.
GRIZZIL GRANGER.
Beyond the moss there lives a lass,
The flower o' a' this island,
Whase peerless smile each heart can wile
Frae Lowland lad or Highland.
Ye youths tak' tent, wha cross the bent,
Her look is certain danger,
Nane, wha e'er saw her, could withdraw
His heart frae Grizzil Granger.
The flower o' a' this island,
Whase peerless smile each heart can wile
Frae Lowland lad or Highland.
Ye youths tak' tent, wha cross the bent,
Her look is certain danger,
Nane, wha e'er saw her, could withdraw
His heart frae Grizzil Granger.
87
She is the boast, the constant toast,
At every merry-meeting,
Though envy flings her vemon'd stings,
And hopeless love sits greeting.
The kirk's aye fou, in ilka pew,
Wi' denizen and stranger,
And een are crack'd, and necks are rack'd,
For views o' Grizzil Granger.
At every merry-meeting,
Though envy flings her vemon'd stings,
And hopeless love sits greeting.
The kirk's aye fou, in ilka pew,
Wi' denizen and stranger,
And een are crack'd, and necks are rack'd,
For views o' Grizzil Granger.
Her witching een and gracefu' mien
Set a' their nerves a-quakin';
A' day they reel on fancy's wheel,
A' nicht their heads are aching.
Or when, in scores, about the doors,
They quarrel through contention,
Till purple een are aften gien
To end the nicht's convention.
Set a' their nerves a-quakin';
A' day they reel on fancy's wheel,
A' nicht their heads are aching.
Or when, in scores, about the doors,
They quarrel through contention,
Till purple een are aften gien
To end the nicht's convention.
A' classes show the burnin' throe
O' love's tormentin' passion,
And 'squires and clowns crack ither's crowns,
Discarding fear and caution.
The lasses bite wi' spleen and spite,
(Hot scandal's their avenger,)
And taunt and jeer, wi' envious leer,
Sweet lovely Grizzil Granger.
O' love's tormentin' passion,
And 'squires and clowns crack ither's crowns,
Discarding fear and caution.
The lasses bite wi' spleen and spite,
(Hot scandal's their avenger,)
And taunt and jeer, wi' envious leer,
Sweet lovely Grizzil Granger.
Young Grizzil had a loving lad;
When they were bairns together,
They gather'd slaes amang the braes,
And berries 'mang the heather.
Though he had gane beyond the main,
Through Canada a ranger,
Yet still his mind did roam behind
Wi' bonny Grizzil Granger.
When they were bairns together,
They gather'd slaes amang the braes,
And berries 'mang the heather.
Though he had gane beyond the main,
Through Canada a ranger,
Yet still his mind did roam behind
Wi' bonny Grizzil Granger.
'Mid this turmoil and nightly broil
Her youthfu' love returned,
Whase omened name soon cooled the flame
That in ilk bosom burned.
The lowe o' youth soon beamed, forsooth,
On this long-absent stranger,
And now through life, he's got for wife
Young bonny Grizzil Granger.
Her youthfu' love returned,
Whase omened name soon cooled the flame
That in ilk bosom burned.
The lowe o' youth soon beamed, forsooth,
On this long-absent stranger,
And now through life, he's got for wife
Young bonny Grizzil Granger.
88
KATE DARYMPLE.
In a wee cot-house far across the muir,
Where peesweeps, plovers, and whaaps cry dreary,
There lived an auld maid for mony lang years,
Wham ne'er a wooer did e'er ca' dearie.
A lanely lass was Kate Darymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Darymple;
Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's wimple,
Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate Darymple.
Where peesweeps, plovers, and whaaps cry dreary,
There lived an auld maid for mony lang years,
Wham ne'er a wooer did e'er ca' dearie.
A lanely lass was Kate Darymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Darymple;
Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's wimple,
Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate Darymple.
Her face had a smack o' the gruesome and grim,
Whilk did frae the fash o' a' wooers defend her;
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi' her chin,
That brang folk in min' o' the auld Witch o' Endor.
A weegle in her walk had Kate Darymple,
A sneevil in her talk had Kate Darymple;
And mony a cornelian and cairngorm pimple
Did bleeze on the dun face o' Kate Darymple.
Whilk did frae the fash o' a' wooers defend her;
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi' her chin,
That brang folk in min' o' the auld Witch o' Endor.
A weegle in her walk had Kate Darymple,
A sneevil in her talk had Kate Darymple;
And mony a cornelian and cairngorm pimple
Did bleeze on the dun face o' Kate Darymple.
She span tarry woo' the hale winter through,
For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident and thrifty;
She wrought 'mang the peats, coil'd the hay, shore the corn,
And supported hersel' by her ain hard shift aye.
But ne'er a lover cam' to Kate Darymple,
For beauty and tocher wanted Kate Darymple;
Unheeded was the quean by baith gentle and simple,
A blank in the warld seem'd poor Kate Darymple.
For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident and thrifty;
She wrought 'mang the peats, coil'd the hay, shore the corn,
And supported hersel' by her ain hard shift aye.
But ne'er a lover cam' to Kate Darymple,
For beauty and tocher wanted Kate Darymple;
Unheeded was the quean by baith gentle and simple,
A blank in the warld seem'd poor Kate Darymple.
But mony are the ups and the downs in life,
When the dice-box o' fate's jumbled a' tapsalteerie;
Sae Kate fell heiress to a friend's hale estate,
And nae langer for lovers had she cause to weary.
The Squire cam' a-wooing soon o' Kate Darymple,
The Priest, scrapin', bowin', fan' out Kate Darymple;
And on ilk wooer's face was seen love's smiling dimple,
And now she's nae mair Kate—but Miss Darymple.
When the dice-box o' fate's jumbled a' tapsalteerie;
Sae Kate fell heiress to a friend's hale estate,
And nae langer for lovers had she cause to weary.
The Squire cam' a-wooing soon o' Kate Darymple,
The Priest, scrapin', bowin', fan' out Kate Darymple;
And on ilk wooer's face was seen love's smiling dimple,
And now she's nae mair Kate—but Miss Darymple.
Her auld currystool, that she used at her wheel,
Is flung by for the saft gilded sofa sae gaudy;
And now she's array'd in her silks and brocade,
And can brank now for ruffs and muffs wi' ony lady.
Still an unco fash to Kate Darymple,
Was dressing and party clash to Kate Darymple;
She thought a half-marow, bred in line mair simple,
Wad be a far fitter match for Kate Darymple.
Is flung by for the saft gilded sofa sae gaudy;
And now she's array'd in her silks and brocade,
And can brank now for ruffs and muffs wi' ony lady.
89
Was dressing and party clash to Kate Darymple;
She thought a half-marow, bred in line mair simple,
Wad be a far fitter match for Kate Darymple.
She aftentimes thocht, when she dwelt by hersel',
She could wed Willie Speedyspool the sarkin weaver;
And now to the wabster she the secret did tell,
And for love or for int'rest, Will did kindly receive her.
He flang by his heddles soon for Kate Darymple,
He brunt a' his treddles doun for Kate Darymple;
Though his right e'e doth skellie, and his left leg doth limp ill,
He's wedded to, and bedded now wi' Kate Darymple.
She could wed Willie Speedyspool the sarkin weaver;
And now to the wabster she the secret did tell,
And for love or for int'rest, Will did kindly receive her.
He flang by his heddles soon for Kate Darymple,
He brunt a' his treddles doun for Kate Darymple;
Though his right e'e doth skellie, and his left leg doth limp ill,
He's wedded to, and bedded now wi' Kate Darymple.
SONG.
I ha'e cheese, and butter, and milk,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
I ha'e gowd to cleed ye in silk,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
I ha'e gowd to cleed ye in silk,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
I ha'e a flock o' kye and sheep,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Grazin' in glens, and on hillsides steep,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Grazin' in glens, and on hillsides steep,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
I ha'e bought a gaudy gowd ring,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Should your finger fit sic a thing,
Then I wouldna come ony mair to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Should your finger fit sic a thing,
Then I wouldna come ony mair to woo.
I ha'e a heart that is loving and leal,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
That feels nae joy like your comfort and weal,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
That feels nae joy like your comfort and weal,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Laddie, I ha'e listen'd you lang,
And think it time to tell ye noo;
I will follow whare'er ye gang,
Sae ye needna come ony mair to woo.
And think it time to tell ye noo;
I will follow whare'er ye gang,
Sae ye needna come ony mair to woo.
Your bonny ring on my finger I'll string,
A' for the love I bear to you;
I'll be your bride by the sweet burn side,
And ye'll ne'er rue the day ye cam to woo.
A' for the love I bear to you;
I'll be your bride by the sweet burn side,
And ye'll ne'er rue the day ye cam to woo.
90
JEAN SAIPYSAPLES.
WRITTEN FOR MR. J. GALLACHER.
Ye washer wives a', fasht wi' drouth in your thrapples,
Wha haunt spirit cellars mair than kirks or chapels,
Come list the adventures o' Jean Saipysaples,
When clasp'd in the clutches of stout Usquabae.
Ae bitter March day, when the sun was na shinin',
Jean gaed to the green, to her freathin' and synin',
Supplied wi' baith outward and inward warm linin'
To help her to warsel the toils o' the day.
Wha haunt spirit cellars mair than kirks or chapels,
Come list the adventures o' Jean Saipysaples,
When clasp'd in the clutches of stout Usquabae.
Ae bitter March day, when the sun was na shinin',
Jean gaed to the green, to her freathin' and synin',
Supplied wi' baith outward and inward warm linin'
To help her to warsel the toils o' the day.
She splashed, and she washed, till a' frothin' and sweetin',
And aye amang han's took the ither bit weetin;
She wrang them, and hang them to dry, aft repeatin'—
“Sair toil and sma' comfort's allotted to me!”
Then she edged her big boyn by the side o' the river,
Her warm, tartan mantle flang roun' her fu' clever,
And crap in the lown wi' her true Fail-me-never,
A bladder, neck-fou o' the best barley brie.
And aye amang han's took the ither bit weetin;
She wrang them, and hang them to dry, aft repeatin'—
“Sair toil and sma' comfort's allotted to me!”
Then she edged her big boyn by the side o' the river,
Her warm, tartan mantle flang roun' her fu' clever,
And crap in the lown wi' her true Fail-me-never,
A bladder, neck-fou o' the best barley brie.
The drouth was na strong, and the claes lang o' dryin',
And Jean, sair confined, in her centry-box lyin';
Forby, toiled and cauld, there is sure na denyin',
That she had strong claims on the wee, pithy drap.
Wi' toilin', and starvin', and watchin', and drinkin',
Some wad hae been sleepin' when Jean was but winkin';
But 'neath sic fatigue fast her spirits were sinkin',
And Jean doopit ower noo, as soun' as a tap.
And Jean, sair confined, in her centry-box lyin';
Forby, toiled and cauld, there is sure na denyin',
That she had strong claims on the wee, pithy drap.
Wi' toilin', and starvin', and watchin', and drinkin',
Some wad hae been sleepin' when Jean was but winkin';
But 'neath sic fatigue fast her spirits were sinkin',
And Jean doopit ower noo, as soun' as a tap.
Sleep nerves us for toil, and it clears us o' whisky,
Yet, sleep on the green is a dangerous risk aye;
But sleep, while on watch, play'd poor Jean sic a pliskie,
As may stan' for a warnin' to ane and to a'.
Ill luck threw that way a gleg, light-finger'd damsel,
Wha, for the rich prize, thought she'd risk the law's bensell;
Sae, stripped frae the railin' Jean's washin' for hansel
To her nightly toil, heedless what might befa'.
Yet, sleep on the green is a dangerous risk aye;
But sleep, while on watch, play'd poor Jean sic a pliskie,
As may stan' for a warnin' to ane and to a'.
Ill luck threw that way a gleg, light-finger'd damsel,
Wha, for the rich prize, thought she'd risk the law's bensell;
Sae, stripped frae the railin' Jean's washin' for hansel
To her nightly toil, heedless what might befa'.
The news flew, like lightnin', o' Jean's sair mishanter,
Straught aff to the office she's wheeled at a canter,
And the lads in dark-blue at their wark didna saunter,
To ferret the quean, and recover the pack.
Ilk troker and broker that wons in the city,
Ilk howff, kenned to harbour lanlowpin banditti,
They rummaged, till ance the famed lady-thief witty
They captured, wi' a' the stown gear on her back.
Straught aff to the office she's wheeled at a canter,
And the lads in dark-blue at their wark didna saunter,
To ferret the quean, and recover the pack.
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Ilk howff, kenned to harbour lanlowpin banditti,
They rummaged, till ance the famed lady-thief witty
They captured, wi' a' the stown gear on her back.
(Spoken.)—Now, Jean lay soughin' awa' fu' soun'ly in a corner o' the office till about gray daylight, when she began to rax and gaunt before her een were open; and finnin her bed rather harder than ordinar', she began to glawm about her, and soon faund there was something wrang. Syne she tried if her memory could gi'e her ony insight, but it could bring her nae far'er than creepin' into the washing boyn, wi' the bladder in her bosom, aye takin' a blink now and then at the claes on the rails, and a' after that was but mist and darkness, a confused jumble. Seein' she had got a ravelt hesp to redd by her yesterday's wark, she cries, “Mysie, brang ye in the claes frae the green?” But, gettin' nae answer frae her dochter, and hearin' a wheen outlandish giggles o' laughin' mixt wi' keelie slang, oaths and curses, she raised her head frae the hard oak bench she was lyin' on, and got a glance o' her new neebors, wha had been brought in through the nicht, and were standin' and sittin' round the big half-burnt fire. “Guid watch owre us!” quo' Jean to hersel', “what can be the meanin' o' a' this? I've surely ta'en a towt o' the nicht-mare, and if I could but turn mysel' on my side, I wad get quat o' it.” Wi' that, she gied a row to get on her side, but put rather mair force till't than folk can do in the nicht-mare; sae she row'd owre the side o' the bench, an fell wi' a soss on the breast o' an Irish sailor, wha was lyin' on the floor. “Black spot on ye, ye owld hag; what do ye main, murthering people in cowld blood, in bed?—Gemmini, but I've a mighty notion to stove in the timbers of ye'r owl' crazy hull.” Sae when Jean faun she was within range o' the grapples o' an Irish sailor, the thocht o' the nicht-mare took wing; and she was beginning to tak' her excuse for her unseemly intrusion, when ben cam' an officer, wha calmed the coleshangie, and gied Jean an explanation o' her situation, advisin' her to ha'e patience till the bailie open'd the court, and he had nae doubt that she would be gye easy dealt wi'. It was a wearisome mornin' to Jean to sit sae lang amang sic a clamjamphry o' ruffians till the court opened; but at length, when her patience was worn to a hair, the hour chappit, and in cam' the bailie; and poor Jean's heart was duntin' wi' houp and fear when she was ca'ed ben to the court. Though she wasna in vera good order, she had made hersel' as snod as she could, and, wi' a decent beck, she entered.
Bailie.—What is your name?
Jean.
—Deed, Sir, that's what I canna vera weel tell, as I'm no sure whether I e'er heard it or no.
Bailie,
laughing.
—Many appear here who have too many names, and
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Jean.
—Jean Saipysaples, please your honour.
Bailie.
—Little better than none! Such a name does, by no means, favour your case; but rather awakens stronger suspicion concerning your respectability.
Jean.
—I ha'e heard that I should ha'e anither name; but, bein' a foundlin', I was shankit aff to shift for mysel', as soon as I could do a han's turn in the place I was sent to (and that was the laird o' Glencruise's), where I was kepit slaisterin' and washin' day after day; sae the servants gied me the name o' Jean Saipysaples, and, no heedin' to take ony ither name, it just continued. But though it be a daft-like name—as lang's a body's honest, it sairs but little what the name be. There's my auld mistress, Mrs. Grubb, the lady o' Glencruisie, had a dochter baptized the ither Sabbath day, and to gar her look mair genteel, as she said, she gat her christened Margaretta Barbarina Julietta Alexina Sophietta Albertina Sarah Maria Victoria Grizzel Grubb. Now, if that wean hasna a far waurfaurt name than Jean Saipysaples, I'se leav't to your honour to judge. And yet Mrs. Grubb, for as refined a lady as she is, says it's a name that may gar the best o' the land tak' notice o' her yet, and gar a' the poets in the kintra round write sangs about her.
Bailie.
—There is truly but little in names, if the names be not fictitious. But as for women, in your line of business, carrying bladders of whisky with them to their lawful avocations, there are certainly strong objections. We have a striking proof of this in your own case. You were so much overcome by it, that the clothes were stolen with which you were intrusted; and the officers were taken off their dutie in search of the thief. The prosecution of the delinquent will cost both trouble and expenses, and all this would have been saved had you been in sobriety. So that, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, the crime of drinking to excess appears very heinous.
Jean.
—I maun e'en allow that its no good when the maut gaes aboon the meal; but how can a body work in cauld, blae, frosty weather like this, without something to warm their heart? If we hadna a cordial to bear us through, the town o' Glasgow wad be a' laid up thegither with the typhus fever or the cholera, for faut o' bein' keepit clean; and I'm sure a bladder's a far mair convenient and kindly thing to slip into a body's bosom than a bottle. But since ye hae gotten the impudent cutty that took awa the claes, I couldna say ye were owre sair on her, though she gat a quarter in Bridewell for't.
Bailie.
—I'm afraid, Mrs. Saipysaples, that will have to be your destination; her appointment must come from a higher court than this. “Saffs,” quo' Jean, “are ye speakin' that way o' ane that ne'er wrangt man, woman, or wean, a' her life?”
But just at this moment, in comes her dochter Mysie, wi' a letter in her han', accompanied by an officer, who delivered it to the bailie: the bailie soon brak' it open and read it to himsel'.
93
looking earnestly at Jean.
—I have received a letter, Mrs. Saipysaples, from Bailie Goodfellow, which has so much changed my opinion concerning your character, that I hereby dismiss you from this court, with this caution,—Take care in future not to keep too intimate acquaintance with whisky bladders.
When Jean heard this, she gied the bailie a curtchie, as laigh as she had been gaun to dance carcuddy, and left the court singin'—
Fareweel to fou bladders, that vile curse o' curses,
That cracks a' our credit, and plunders our purses,
That headaches and heartaches aye carefully nurses,
And sen's us to jails and to bridewells, forbye.
But look to stout honesty, mensefou and gawsy,
That sets down his shanks on the crown o' the causey;
Though pride cocks her nose, and struts by him right saucy,
Her scorn and disdain he can ever defy.
That cracks a' our credit, and plunders our purses,
That headaches and heartaches aye carefully nurses,
And sen's us to jails and to bridewells, forbye.
But look to stout honesty, mensefou and gawsy,
That sets down his shanks on the crown o' the causey;
Though pride cocks her nose, and struts by him right saucy,
Her scorn and disdain he can ever defy.
THE TINKLER'S WEDDING.
In June when broom in bloom was seen,
And brackens waved fou fresh and green,
And warm the sun wi' silver sheen,
The hills and glens did gladden, O;
Ae day, upon the border bent,
The tinklers pitched their gipsy tent,
And auld and young, wi' ae consent,
Resolved to haud a weddin', O.
And brackens waved fou fresh and green,
And warm the sun wi' silver sheen,
The hills and glens did gladden, O;
Ae day, upon the border bent,
The tinklers pitched their gipsy tent,
And auld and young, wi' ae consent,
Resolved to haud a weddin', O.
The bridegroom was wild Norman Scott,
Wha twice had broke the nuptial knot,
And ance was sentenced to be shot
For breach o' martial orders, O;
His gleesome joe was Madge M'Kell,
A spaewife, match for Nick himsel',
Wi' glamour, cantrip, charm, and spell,
She frichted baith the borders, O.
Wha twice had broke the nuptial knot,
And ance was sentenced to be shot
For breach o' martial orders, O;
His gleesome joe was Madge M'Kell,
A spaewife, match for Nick himsel',
Wi' glamour, cantrip, charm, and spell,
She frichted baith the borders, O.
Nae priest was there, wi' solemn face,
Nae clerk to claim, o' crowns, a brace;
The piper and fiddler play'd the grace
To set their gabs asteerin', O.
'Mang beef and mutton, pork and veal,
'Mang painches, plucks, and fresh cow-heel,
Fat haggises and caller jeel,
They clawt awa careerin', O.
Nae clerk to claim, o' crowns, a brace;
The piper and fiddler play'd the grace
To set their gabs asteerin', O.
'Mang beef and mutton, pork and veal,
'Mang painches, plucks, and fresh cow-heel,
Fat haggises and caller jeel,
They clawt awa careerin', O.
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Fresh saumon newly ta'en in Tweed,
Saut ling and cod, o' Shetland breed,
They worry'd till kytes were like to screed,
'Mang flagons and flasks o' gravy, O.
There were raisin kail, and sweet-milk saps,
And ewe-milk cheese in whangs and flaps;
And they roopit, to gust their gabs and craps,
Right mony a cadger's cavie, O.
Saut ling and cod, o' Shetland breed,
They worry'd till kytes were like to screed,
'Mang flagons and flasks o' gravy, O.
There were raisin kail, and sweet-milk saps,
And ewe-milk cheese in whangs and flaps;
And they roopit, to gust their gabs and craps,
Right mony a cadger's cavie, O.
The drink flew round in wild galore,
And soon upraised a hideous roar;
Blithe Comus ne'er a queerer core
Saw seated round his table, O.
They drank, they danced, they swore, they sang,
They quarrell'd and 'greed the hale day lang,
And the wranglin' that rang amang the thrang
Wad match'd the tongues o' Babel, O.
And soon upraised a hideous roar;
Blithe Comus ne'er a queerer core
Saw seated round his table, O.
They drank, they danced, they swore, they sang,
They quarrell'd and 'greed the hale day lang,
And the wranglin' that rang amang the thrang
Wad match'd the tongues o' Babel, O.
The drink gaed done before their drouth,
That vex'd baith mony a maw and mouth,
It damped the fire o' age and youth,
And every breast did sadden, O;
Till three stout louns flew owre the fell,
At risk o' life, their drouth to quell,
And robbed a neebourin' smuggler's stell,
To carry on the weddin', O.
That vex'd baith mony a maw and mouth,
It damped the fire o' age and youth,
And every breast did sadden, O;
Till three stout louns flew owre the fell,
At risk o' life, their drouth to quell,
And robbed a neebourin' smuggler's stell,
To carry on the weddin', O.
Wi' thunderin' shouts they hail'd them back,
To broach the barrels they werena slack,
While the fiddler's plane-tree leg they brake
For playing fareweel to whisky, O.
Delirium seized the roarous thrang,
The bagpipes in the fire they flang,
And sowthering-airns on riggins rang,
The drink play'd siccan a pliskie, O.
To broach the barrels they werena slack,
While the fiddler's plane-tree leg they brake
For playing fareweel to whisky, O.
Delirium seized the roarous thrang,
The bagpipes in the fire they flang,
And sowthering-airns on riggins rang,
The drink play'd siccan a pliskie, O.
The sun fell laigh owre Solway's banks,
While on they plied their roughsome pranks,
And the stalwart shadows o' their shanks
Wide owre the muir were spreadin', O.
Till, heads-and-thraws, amang the whins,
They fell wi' broken brows and shins,
And sair-craist banes fill'd mony skins,
To close the Tinkler's Weddin', O.
While on they plied their roughsome pranks,
And the stalwart shadows o' their shanks
Wide owre the muir were spreadin', O.
Till, heads-and-thraws, amang the whins,
They fell wi' broken brows and shins,
And sair-craist banes fill'd mony skins,
To close the Tinkler's Weddin', O.
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LOO ME LITTLE AND LOO ME LANG.
Young Mary, jimply out nineteen,
Cam' blithely singin' adown the vale;
Few maids in Scotland wide, I ween,
Could match this lass wi' her milkin' pail.
Her face was as fresh as the flowers in May,
Wi' voice like the lark she lilted and sang;
And aye the burden o' her lay,
Was—loo me little, and loo me lang.
Cam' blithely singin' adown the vale;
Few maids in Scotland wide, I ween,
Could match this lass wi' her milkin' pail.
Her face was as fresh as the flowers in May,
Wi' voice like the lark she lilted and sang;
And aye the burden o' her lay,
Was—loo me little, and loo me lang.
Blithe Robin wad me woo yestreen,
As I cam' hame frae the milkin' shiel;
He tauld me I had twa bewitchin' een,
And roosed my cheeks and my hair fu' weel.
He vow'd that he liked me best ava,
And to kiss me, his arms around my neck flang;
Half fun, half earnest, I cried—gae away!
Come—loo me little, and loo me lang.
As I cam' hame frae the milkin' shiel;
He tauld me I had twa bewitchin' een,
And roosed my cheeks and my hair fu' weel.
He vow'd that he liked me best ava,
And to kiss me, his arms around my neck flang;
Half fun, half earnest, I cried—gae away!
Come—loo me little, and loo me lang.
When wand'rin' through the birks last week,
Young winsome Willie I chanced to meet;
He, bowin', advanced wi' a tale fu' sleek,
And said that I was to his min' complete.
He roosed me for virtue, for beauty, and wit,
And syne to my praise he chanted a sang;
But I left the poor havrel whene'er I thocht fit,
Sayin'—loo me little, and loo me lang,
Young winsome Willie I chanced to meet;
He, bowin', advanced wi' a tale fu' sleek,
And said that I was to his min' complete.
He roosed me for virtue, for beauty, and wit,
And syne to my praise he chanted a sang;
But I left the poor havrel whene'er I thocht fit,
Sayin'—loo me little, and loo me lang,
But guess ye what now mak's me bonny and braw,
And guess ye what now gi'es me virtue and wit,
And guess ye what brings me the blithe wooers a',
Wha ance wadna lifted me at their fit.
My uncle is auld, and his bairns are a' dead—
He has bound me with gear, which has alter'd the sang;
But Jamie alane is the lad I will wed,
For he's looed me muckle, and looed me lang.
And guess ye what now gi'es me virtue and wit,
And guess ye what brings me the blithe wooers a',
Wha ance wadna lifted me at their fit.
My uncle is auld, and his bairns are a' dead—
He has bound me with gear, which has alter'd the sang;
But Jamie alane is the lad I will wed,
For he's looed me muckle, and looed me lang.
96
WALLACE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.
Brave sons of Scotia, ever leal,
Long trained on war's terrific fiel',
Unsheath again the flaming steel,
To gain our country's liberty!
No truce can faithless Edward bind,
So base, ambitious is his mind;
Then let us, sword-in-hand, conjoined,
Quick burst the bands of tyranny!
Long trained on war's terrific fiel',
Unsheath again the flaming steel,
To gain our country's liberty!
No truce can faithless Edward bind,
So base, ambitious is his mind;
Then let us, sword-in-hand, conjoined,
Quick burst the bands of tyranny!
Oft have his crowded ranks, before,
Been drenched amid their reeking gore,
And lowly sunk to rise no more,
Afraid to fight, unfit to flee!
And, haply, ere the blazing sun
Shall set beyond the mountain's dun,
O'er gloomy Carron's banks shall run
Our glorious shouts of victory!
Been drenched amid their reeking gore,
And lowly sunk to rise no more,
Afraid to fight, unfit to flee!
And, haply, ere the blazing sun
Shall set beyond the mountain's dun,
O'er gloomy Carron's banks shall run
Our glorious shouts of victory!
Though jealous Cummin seeks the rear,
Or meanly flies, appalled by fear,
Yet Graham and Wallace still are here,
To share your fate, whate'er it be!
Let freedom's patriotic glow
Dispel all terror of the foe,
And Edward's host, ere long, may know
The power of firm fidelity!
Or meanly flies, appalled by fear,
Yet Graham and Wallace still are here,
To share your fate, whate'er it be!
Let freedom's patriotic glow
Dispel all terror of the foe,
And Edward's host, ere long, may know
The power of firm fidelity!
On Carron's banks, our sires have stood
The Roman ranks, who all subdued,
And taught those stern marauders proud,
They fought or died for liberty!
And shall the soul-ennobling glow
Have ceased in Scottish breasts to flow,
Undaunted sons of freedom? No!
To death or glory follow me!
The Roman ranks, who all subdued,
And taught those stern marauders proud,
They fought or died for liberty!
And shall the soul-ennobling glow
Have ceased in Scottish breasts to flow,
Undaunted sons of freedom? No!
To death or glory follow me!
97
THE CHEVALIER'S WELCOME.
Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
The clan of brave Lochiel makes you welcome ev'ry one,
Since you've landed at Lochaber, wi' your tartans on.
Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
The clan of brave Lochiel makes you welcome ev'ry one,
Since you've landed at Lochaber, wi' your tartans on.
We looked for you lang, ere you came across the sea,
Till hope had fled ilk breast, and the tear fill'd every e'e;
But our fears are chased awa now, by joy before unknown,
Since ye've landed safe among us, wi' your tartans on.
Hark! the gatherin' is sounding—the clans quick advance,
Each mountain and glen gleams wi' gun, sword, and lance;
The Lochaber axe will clear you a passage to the throne,
And at Holyrood we'll crown ye, wi' your tartans on.
Till hope had fled ilk breast, and the tear fill'd every e'e;
But our fears are chased awa now, by joy before unknown,
Since ye've landed safe among us, wi' your tartans on.
Hark! the gatherin' is sounding—the clans quick advance,
Each mountain and glen gleams wi' gun, sword, and lance;
The Lochaber axe will clear you a passage to the throne,
And at Holyrood we'll crown ye, wi' your tartans on.
Our wild mountain-echoes, long silent and dumb,
Now resound, to the swell of the bagpipe and drum;
The targe and claymore, that in battle oft have shone,
Will assert our Prince's rights now, wi' his tartans on.
See the ranks from the hills, stream, attired in each dye
Of the rainbow, that gleams on the dark cloudy sky;
While the rocks resound the tread of the sons of Caledon,
Flocking to their Prince's standard, wi' their tartans on.
Now resound, to the swell of the bagpipe and drum;
The targe and claymore, that in battle oft have shone,
Will assert our Prince's rights now, wi' his tartans on.
See the ranks from the hills, stream, attired in each dye
Of the rainbow, that gleams on the dark cloudy sky;
While the rocks resound the tread of the sons of Caledon,
Flocking to their Prince's standard, wi' their tartans on.
The whigs ha'e vex'd us sarely, wi mony spitefu' jeers,
But times are alter'd fairly, sae they may ha'e their fears,
They will quickly change their tone, when they hear the bagpipe's drone,
And behold our daring warriors, wi' their tartans on.
Let us march, Charlie Stuart, wi' our tartans on,
There's no man without a true heart, that has tartans on;
Like the tempest of the North, we'll spread terror 'yond the Forth,
And the Saxon whigs will quake, to see our tartans on.
But times are alter'd fairly, sae they may ha'e their fears,
They will quickly change their tone, when they hear the bagpipe's drone,
And behold our daring warriors, wi' their tartans on.
Let us march, Charlie Stuart, wi' our tartans on,
There's no man without a true heart, that has tartans on;
Like the tempest of the North, we'll spread terror 'yond the Forth,
And the Saxon whigs will quake, to see our tartans on.
The Lowland chiefs await us, wi' anxious heart and e'e,
Brave Drummond and Kilmarnock, true Elcho and Dundee,
With daring Derwintwater, and fearless Elphistone,
Who will die before they flinch us, wi' our tartans on.
Like the wild mountain torrent, we'll quickly descend,
The rights and the laws of our Prince to defend;
The terror of our arms soon will shake the British throne,
And Whitehall will see us flauntin', wi' our tartans on.
Brave Drummond and Kilmarnock, true Elcho and Dundee,
With daring Derwintwater, and fearless Elphistone,
Who will die before they flinch us, wi' our tartans on.
Like the wild mountain torrent, we'll quickly descend,
The rights and the laws of our Prince to defend;
The terror of our arms soon will shake the British throne,
And Whitehall will see us flauntin', wi' our tartans on.
98
THE CHEVALIER'S FAREWELL TO FLORA M'DONALD.
Weep not, Flora, though we part—
Caution says “it must be so;”
For thy image on my heart
Shall remain where'er I go.
Now the blackest storm of danger
Blows around thy royal stranger;
But, though I must from thee fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
Caution says “it must be so;”
For thy image on my heart
Shall remain where'er I go.
Now the blackest storm of danger
Blows around thy royal stranger;
But, though I must from thee fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
Oft the early morn, o'ercast
By thick vapours, drear and dun,
Ushers smiling day, at last,
Gilded by the glorious sun.
So, to me, this night of sorrow,
May precede a joyous morrow;
But though fate thus turn the dye,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
By thick vapours, drear and dun,
Ushers smiling day, at last,
Gilded by the glorious sun.
So, to me, this night of sorrow,
May precede a joyous morrow;
But though fate thus turn the dye,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
This small ring I pray thee take,
And this ringlet of my hair;
Keep, O keep them for the sake
Of one worthy of thy care.
Woods and rocks may be my dwelling,
Where the winter breeze is swelling!
But while I for life do fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
And this ringlet of my hair;
Keep, O keep them for the sake
Of one worthy of thy care.
Woods and rocks may be my dwelling,
Where the winter breeze is swelling!
But while I for life do fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
Farewell, Flora, beauteous guide,
Distant from thee I must roam,
Over land and ocean wide,
Till I reach a safer home.
Far from Highland hills and valleys,
Haply, thou shalt grace my palace,
And in my embraces lie:
Farewell, lovely maid of Skye.
Distant from thee I must roam,
Over land and ocean wide,
Till I reach a safer home.
Far from Highland hills and valleys,
Haply, thou shalt grace my palace,
And in my embraces lie:
Farewell, lovely maid of Skye.
99
BAULDY FRAZER'S GAZETTE OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
Guid e'en t'ye, Bauldy, lean ye down,
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.
Auld nei'bour Gawn, wi' staff in's han',
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.
Lord Wellington, through mist and weet,
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.
Our Norlan' lads, in tartan clad,
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.
In horrid slaps, the rebel louns
Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.
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Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.
But och! it's painfu' to relate,
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
When the tyrant of Gallia had broke his captive chain,
And threatened to scourge bleeding Europe again;
The genius of Freedom fled to his cavern hoar,
But the verdant tree of liberty bloom'd fair on our shore.
Then Wellington, with manly soul, Britannia's god of war,
Preferring death to base control, indignant rose afar,
With other leaders, skilled in arms, like lions bold and true,
They met the rebels clad in steel at dire Waterloo.
And threatened to scourge bleeding Europe again;
The genius of Freedom fled to his cavern hoar,
But the verdant tree of liberty bloom'd fair on our shore.
Then Wellington, with manly soul, Britannia's god of war,
Preferring death to base control, indignant rose afar,
With other leaders, skilled in arms, like lions bold and true,
They met the rebels clad in steel at dire Waterloo.
Loud the drum's thund'ring roll, and the trumpet's martial clang,
O'er the calm plains of Belgium discordantly rang;
By the dawning of morn, march'd the deep legions on,
Like a forest of steel far around Mount Saint John.
'Twas then the daring cuirassiers, in panoply immured,
'Gainst fate, and death, and British arms, did think themselves secured,
Till through their lines, with dreadful crash, our gallant heroes flew,
With dauntless hearts, and strength unmatch'd, at dire Waterloo.
O'er the calm plains of Belgium discordantly rang;
By the dawning of morn, march'd the deep legions on,
Like a forest of steel far around Mount Saint John.
'Twas then the daring cuirassiers, in panoply immured,
'Gainst fate, and death, and British arms, did think themselves secured,
Till through their lines, with dreadful crash, our gallant heroes flew,
With dauntless hearts, and strength unmatch'd, at dire Waterloo.
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Soon the thunder of France in terrific peals awoke,
Quick our brave scarlet ranks darted through the rolling smoke,
The dense battle cloud dimm'd the bright orb of day,
While the earth shook with dread 'neath the direful affray.
Incessant reel'd the musketry, clear gleam'd the Polish lance,
Harsh peel'd the deep artillery of Britain and of France,
The dreadful charge of cavalry accordant horror threw
Upon the scene, the fatal plain of dire Waterloo.
Quick our brave scarlet ranks darted through the rolling smoke,
The dense battle cloud dimm'd the bright orb of day,
While the earth shook with dread 'neath the direful affray.
Incessant reel'd the musketry, clear gleam'd the Polish lance,
Harsh peel'd the deep artillery of Britain and of France,
The dreadful charge of cavalry accordant horror threw
Upon the scene, the fatal plain of dire Waterloo.
Not the raging tornado, nor simoom's fell sweep,
Extending destruction o'er desert and deep;
Nor earth-shaking Etna's eruption's red glare,
With lightning and thunder comixed, can compare
With the horrific havoc spread along the gory field,
When Gaul's determin'd warriors had to British arms to yield;
Far from the rampant lion's roar the imperial eagles flew,
And left the plain o'erspread with slain at dire Waterloo.
Extending destruction o'er desert and deep;
Nor earth-shaking Etna's eruption's red glare,
With lightning and thunder comixed, can compare
With the horrific havoc spread along the gory field,
When Gaul's determin'd warriors had to British arms to yield;
Far from the rampant lion's roar the imperial eagles flew,
And left the plain o'erspread with slain at dire Waterloo.
Repulsed and distracted, they fled o'er the plain,
Unable to hazard the combat again;
Through the terror-struck ranks, quick, this wild accent ran,—
“All is lost—ever lost! quickly fly, whoe'er can!”
What dreadful slaughter then ensued, when thus dismay'd by fear,
While loudly rang our heroes' blades upon their broken rear;
And those who miss'd their force and fire, most sadly yet shall rue
That ere they join'd the tyrant's flag at dire Waterloo.
Unable to hazard the combat again;
Through the terror-struck ranks, quick, this wild accent ran,—
“All is lost—ever lost! quickly fly, whoe'er can!”
What dreadful slaughter then ensued, when thus dismay'd by fear,
While loudly rang our heroes' blades upon their broken rear;
And those who miss'd their force and fire, most sadly yet shall rue
That ere they join'd the tyrant's flag at dire Waterloo.
BUONAPARTE'S LAMENT IN HIS LAST EXILE.
Sequester'd here, afar from fame,
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.
O lovely Seine, thy banks so green,
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.
Thy glades and groves, where pleasure roves,
I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.
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I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.
No pleasure brings the blazing sun,
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.
No more again, on hill or plain,
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.
THE REBEL'S LAMENT.
When I look to the Highlan's, the tear fills my e'e,
For there I was ance independent and free;
But now I maun wander the wide Lowlan's o'er,
And solicit cauld charity frae door to door;
And the cause o' my wanderin', thus hameless and poor,
Was my followin' the Prince on Culloden's sad moor.
For there I was ance independent and free;
But now I maun wander the wide Lowlan's o'er,
And solicit cauld charity frae door to door;
And the cause o' my wanderin', thus hameless and poor,
Was my followin' the Prince on Culloden's sad moor.
Ah, waeworth the fatally ruinous day,
When the foe cross'd the fords o' the clear rollin' Spey!
When the forces o' Cumberlan' seal'd my sad lot,
And my twa gallant sons fell by ae cannon shot!
Then adversity's cloud on our cause dark did lower,
When our front-rank was broke on Culloden's sad moor.
When the foe cross'd the fords o' the clear rollin' Spey!
When the forces o' Cumberlan' seal'd my sad lot,
And my twa gallant sons fell by ae cannon shot!
Then adversity's cloud on our cause dark did lower,
When our front-rank was broke on Culloden's sad moor.
Our clans fought like lions, true hearted ilk man,
Contending, like rivals, wha wad lead the van;
But, our shot being spent, wi' despair's wildest roar,
We faced the foe's fire wi' the naked claymore:
Nae tigers, defendin' their young, fought mair dour,
Than ilk clansman, that day, on Culloden's sad moor.
Contending, like rivals, wha wad lead the van;
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We faced the foe's fire wi' the naked claymore:
Nae tigers, defendin' their young, fought mair dour,
Than ilk clansman, that day, on Culloden's sad moor.
But, routed and ruin'd, I durst na gae hame;
My lands were attainted, my house set on flame;
My braw sons baith slain, my dear wife died o' grief—
Och, I thocht the could grave wad to me been relief!
Lang, lang ha'e I wandered now, hameless and poor,
And I'll mourn till I die for Culloden's sad moor.
My lands were attainted, my house set on flame;
My braw sons baith slain, my dear wife died o' grief—
Och, I thocht the could grave wad to me been relief!
Lang, lang ha'e I wandered now, hameless and poor,
And I'll mourn till I die for Culloden's sad moor.
THE POLISH REFUGEE.
On the banks of the Seine, when the twilight was failing,
And the moon's yellow rays gilded palace and tree,
A poor Polish refugee stray'd, thus bewailing
The wrongs of his country and lost liberty—
“Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
There's no land, there's no land,
'Neath the blue vault of heaven, so ill-fated as thee!
And the moon's yellow rays gilded palace and tree,
A poor Polish refugee stray'd, thus bewailing
The wrongs of his country and lost liberty—
“Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
There's no land, there's no land,
'Neath the blue vault of heaven, so ill-fated as thee!
“To arms! was the cry; 'gainst the despot, united,
Each patriot, undaunted, his weapon did draw;
But hope's verdant leaves by despair soon were blighted,
When our last stand was made round the walls of Warsaw.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Can no hand, can no hand,
Dethrone that dread power that makes tyranny law?
Each patriot, undaunted, his weapon did draw;
But hope's verdant leaves by despair soon were blighted,
When our last stand was made round the walls of Warsaw.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Can no hand, can no hand,
Dethrone that dread power that makes tyranny law?
“The conflict was dire, and the carnage appalling;
‘To exile or death’! was the savage foe's yell—
But, vanquish'd at last, to our souls, O 'twas galling,
When destruction's harsh trump sounded freedom's last knell.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Thou now art our foe's land,
And thy children must bid thee an endless farewell.”
‘To exile or death’! was the savage foe's yell—
But, vanquish'd at last, to our souls, O 'twas galling,
When destruction's harsh trump sounded freedom's last knell.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Thou now art our foe's land,
And thy children must bid thee an endless farewell.”
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KATTIE CHRISTIE.
At the east neuk o' Fife dwelt a bonnie blooming girl,
Wha, for beauty and mien, could match either lord or earl;
Sae sweet was her look, that the di'mond and the pearl
Could add naething to the charms of Kattie Christie, O.
She was sweet nineteen,
Wi' pure azure een;
And her yellow hair
Flow'd in ringlets rare;
She was tight and tall,
And, take her all-in-all,
You'll but seldom meet the match of Kattie Christie, O.
Wha, for beauty and mien, could match either lord or earl;
Sae sweet was her look, that the di'mond and the pearl
Could add naething to the charms of Kattie Christie, O.
She was sweet nineteen,
Wi' pure azure een;
And her yellow hair
Flow'd in ringlets rare;
She was tight and tall,
And, take her all-in-all,
You'll but seldom meet the match of Kattie Christie, O.
The carlins o' Fife vow'd she was nae canny cummer,
That could glaze ilka e'e, wi' Love's delusive glamour,
And ilk wooer fan she was skill'd in Venus' grammar;
When every heart did glow for Kattie Christie, O.
At bridal and fair
She the gree bore there;
She the lads o' Fife
Held in constant strife;
And the priest was vex'd,
When reading out his text,
To fin' ev'ry e'e was fix'd on Kattie Christie, O.
That could glaze ilka e'e, wi' Love's delusive glamour,
And ilk wooer fan she was skill'd in Venus' grammar;
When every heart did glow for Kattie Christie, O.
At bridal and fair
She the gree bore there;
She the lads o' Fife
Held in constant strife;
And the priest was vex'd,
When reading out his text,
To fin' ev'ry e'e was fix'd on Kattie Christie, O.
'Twas a sair time in Fife, 'mang the wooers late and early,
Mony hearts glow'd wi' hope, mony pined and languish'd sairly;
Faithers gloom'd, mithers flate, lasses spite and spleen did ware aye
In profusion 'gainst young lovely Kattie Christie, O.
Sae wide spread her fame
'Yond her circle at hame,
Lothian lairds cross'd the Forth,
Chieftains cam' frae the north;
The precentor, by report,
Ran lang metre into short,
Through a random glance he got o' Kattie Christie, O.
Mony hearts glow'd wi' hope, mony pined and languish'd sairly;
Faithers gloom'd, mithers flate, lasses spite and spleen did ware aye
In profusion 'gainst young lovely Kattie Christie, O.
Sae wide spread her fame
'Yond her circle at hame,
Lothian lairds cross'd the Forth,
Chieftains cam' frae the north;
The precentor, by report,
Ran lang metre into short,
Through a random glance he got o' Kattie Christie, O.
There were warm hopes at hame for the fortune o' this darlin',
There were sair dool and shame spaet by ilka envious carlin;
But Fate, on Time's wings, ended a' sic idle quarrellin',
And soon stamp'd the lot o' pretty Kattie Christie, O.
Now her lovers a'
Need nae langer ca',
Baith auld and young
Are aside a' flung;
For the dancing master's come,
Beating time like ony drum,
And has fairly won the heart o' Kattie Christie, O.
There were sair dool and shame spaet by ilka envious carlin;
But Fate, on Time's wings, ended a' sic idle quarrellin',
And soon stamp'd the lot o' pretty Kattie Christie, O.
Now her lovers a'
Need nae langer ca',
105
Are aside a' flung;
For the dancing master's come,
Beating time like ony drum,
And has fairly won the heart o' Kattie Christie, O.
Now there's braw peace in Fife, 'mang the rival lads and lasses,
There's an end to a' strife 'mang the fierce contending classes,
And ilk ane now sees—they were doilt as mules or asses,
To be sae sair bewitch'd by Kattie Christie, O.
She threw wealth aside
To exalt the pride
Of this jumpin' John,
Wi' his turn'-pumps on,
Who must through the world go—
Flatter, shuffle, heel-and-toe,
To support in style, his charming Kattie Christie, O.
There's an end to a' strife 'mang the fierce contending classes,
And ilk ane now sees—they were doilt as mules or asses,
To be sae sair bewitch'd by Kattie Christie, O.
She threw wealth aside
To exalt the pride
Of this jumpin' John,
Wi' his turn'-pumps on,
Who must through the world go—
Flatter, shuffle, heel-and-toe,
To support in style, his charming Kattie Christie, O.
WHILE TEMPEST RAGES O'ER THE DEEP.
While tempest rages o'er the deep,
And moon and stars in darkness sleep,
When not an object striks the eye,
Save lightning flashing through the sky;
Who then the seaman's fate would share,
Now plunged in brine, then toss'd in air:
While hope, expell'd by grim despair,
From every breast doth fly?
None then would share the seaman's lot,
Though tenant of the meanest cot.
And moon and stars in darkness sleep,
When not an object striks the eye,
Save lightning flashing through the sky;
Who then the seaman's fate would share,
Now plunged in brine, then toss'd in air:
While hope, expell'd by grim despair,
From every breast doth fly?
None then would share the seaman's lot,
Though tenant of the meanest cot.
But when the surging gale is o'er,
And swift the vessel nears the shore;
When wives and sweethearts hail again
The heroes of the stormy main;
Who then can feel the joyous glow
That in the seaman's breast doth flow,
When landed safe from storm and foe
The flowing can to drain?
The seaman's bliss but few can share,
Though born a monarch's crown to wear.
And swift the vessel nears the shore;
When wives and sweethearts hail again
The heroes of the stormy main;
Who then can feel the joyous glow
That in the seaman's breast doth flow,
When landed safe from storm and foe
The flowing can to drain?
The seaman's bliss but few can share,
Though born a monarch's crown to wear.
106
HAB O' THE MILL.
'Mang a' the fine feelings to frail mortals lent,
There is nane that's mair sweet than the smile o' content;
It gars the time flee sae delightfully smooth,
That our noddle's turn grey while we think we're in youth.
Yet it shuns courts and crowns for the glen and the hill,
And tak's shelter remote wi' auld Hab o' the Mill.
There is nane that's mair sweet than the smile o' content;
It gars the time flee sae delightfully smooth,
That our noddle's turn grey while we think we're in youth.
Yet it shuns courts and crowns for the glen and the hill,
And tak's shelter remote wi' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Auld Hab has wonn'd there for years threescore and ten,
Yet he ne'er was sax miles frae his ain native glen;
And though the same scenes to his e'e still appear,
Yet they never him tire, but are ever as dear:
While the blackbird's blithe sang, and the laverock's gay trill,
Ever cheer up the heart o' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Yet he ne'er was sax miles frae his ain native glen;
And though the same scenes to his e'e still appear,
Yet they never him tire, but are ever as dear:
While the blackbird's blithe sang, and the laverock's gay trill,
Ever cheer up the heart o' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Auld Mirren and he, as guidman and guidwife,
Ha'e a half-cent'ry pass'd free o' dull care and strife;
While a family they've raised, by example and thrift,
That for virtue are equall'd by few 'neath the lift:
Which delights the auld pair wi' true joy's sweetest thrill,
Sae few mortals are bless'd like auld Hab o' the Mill.
Ha'e a half-cent'ry pass'd free o' dull care and strife;
While a family they've raised, by example and thrift,
That for virtue are equall'd by few 'neath the lift:
Which delights the auld pair wi' true joy's sweetest thrill,
Sae few mortals are bless'd like auld Hab o' the Mill.
His sons they are hardy, true-hearted, and leal,
What they say wi' their tongue wi' their blood they will seal;
His dochters are bonny, and modest, yet free,
And the blithe blink o' love flashes warm frae ilk e'e;
And fou crouse is the wooer wha gets the guidwill
To become son-in-law to auld Hab o' the Mill.
What they say wi' their tongue wi' their blood they will seal;
His dochters are bonny, and modest, yet free,
And the blithe blink o' love flashes warm frae ilk e'e;
And fou crouse is the wooer wha gets the guidwill
To become son-in-law to auld Hab o' the Mill.
In winter, when snell frost the mill-lade up locks,
And the shochles, like crystal, hing clear frae the rocks;
Wi' some auld couthie friend he the time passes by,
Nor complains o' the drift wheeling chill through the sky.
Wi' a crack and a snuff, and a cog o' guid yill,
Never king was mair happy than Hab o' the Mill.
And the shochles, like crystal, hing clear frae the rocks;
Wi' some auld couthie friend he the time passes by,
Nor complains o' the drift wheeling chill through the sky.
Wi' a crack and a snuff, and a cog o' guid yill,
Never king was mair happy than Hab o' the Mill.
O fortune, shower titles and wealth on the great,
For me I'll ne'er wish for their splendour nor state;
If thou'lt only me bless wi' contentment through life,
Far frae malice, frae envy, frae discord, and strife;
Then the cup of my lot to the brim thou wilt fill,
And I'll toddle through life like auld Hab o' the Mill.
For me I'll ne'er wish for their splendour nor state;
If thou'lt only me bless wi' contentment through life,
Far frae malice, frae envy, frae discord, and strife;
Then the cup of my lot to the brim thou wilt fill,
And I'll toddle through life like auld Hab o' the Mill.
107
THE BRIDAL PROSPECT.
The woodcock has left the clear fountains,
The robin's awa' to the woods,
The whaup has come back to the mountains,
And the lav'rock sings blithe 'mang the clouds;
The merle and the mavis are liltin'
In the birken shaw sae gay;
Then haste thee round, blithsome beltan,
For thou art my bridal day!
The robin's awa' to the woods,
The whaup has come back to the mountains,
And the lav'rock sings blithe 'mang the clouds;
The merle and the mavis are liltin'
In the birken shaw sae gay;
Then haste thee round, blithsome beltan,
For thou art my bridal day!
I'll hae a silk gown o' the crimson,
A scarf like the blue o' the sky;
And seldom the sun's thrown a glimpse on
A bride ony brawer than I:
Wi' a Tuscan bonnet sae gaudy,
And feathers as white as the swan,
A' to charm the leal heart o' my laddie,
That day he is made my goodman.
A scarf like the blue o' the sky;
And seldom the sun's thrown a glimpse on
A bride ony brawer than I:
Wi' a Tuscan bonnet sae gaudy,
And feathers as white as the swan,
A' to charm the leal heart o' my laddie,
That day he is made my goodman.
The weaver's got plenty o' yarn now
For tykin', and blankets, and sheets;
Sae I'll look like my faither's ain bairn now,—
Wealth best aye the lowe o' love beets.
A flittin' baith gausy and gaudy,
I weel keen, my folk will gi'e me,
That winna affront my dear laddie,
Whase mailin's weel stocked and free.
For tykin', and blankets, and sheets;
Sae I'll look like my faither's ain bairn now,—
Wealth best aye the lowe o' love beets.
A flittin' baith gausy and gaudy,
I weel keen, my folk will gi'e me,
That winna affront my dear laddie,
Whase mailin's weel stocked and free.
Saxscore we will ha'e at the bridal,
A' blithsome, and bonny, and braw;
But I fear I my joy will can hide ill,
For my heart's like to loup clean awa!
And when in a raw we're marchin'
The bonny burnside alang,
The mavis, on green birks perchin',
Will lilt to the fiddle a sang.
A' blithsome, and bonny, and braw;
But I fear I my joy will can hide ill,
For my heart's like to loup clean awa!
And when in a raw we're marchin'
The bonny burnside alang,
The mavis, on green birks perchin',
Will lilt to the fiddle a sang.
We'll dance and we'll sing till the morning
In the cheery east appear;
And the joyous guests, returning,
Will get, frae the lav'rocks, a cheer.
Then haste thee round, blithesome beltan,
How can ye sae lang delay?
Thy name sets my heart a-meltin',
For thou art my bridal day.
In the cheery east appear;
And the joyous guests, returning,
Will get, frae the lav'rocks, a cheer.
Then haste thee round, blithesome beltan,
How can ye sae lang delay?
Thy name sets my heart a-meltin',
For thou art my bridal day.
108
GREEN BUD THE BIRKS AGAIN.
Green bud the birks again,
Green bud the birks again,
The primrose springs, the mavis sings,
And Robin vows he'll be my ain.
Green bud the birks again,
The primrose springs, the mavis sings,
And Robin vows he'll be my ain.
Wi' him I've ranged the birken shaw,
Wi' him I've wander'd by the burn;
I sigh'd when Robin was awa,
But sang wi' joy at his return.
Wi' him I've wander'd by the burn;
I sigh'd when Robin was awa,
But sang wi' joy at his return.
The swallow skims, on wing fu' fleet,
Athwart the summer-evenin' sky,
Sae swift, wi' Robin, and sae sweet,
The langest nichts hae glided by.
Athwart the summer-evenin' sky,
Sae swift, wi' Robin, and sae sweet,
The langest nichts hae glided by.
There's nane like him can sing and dance,
There's nane like him sae leal, I trow,
There's nane like him, wi' winnin' glance,
Sae finely kens the way to woo.
There's nane like him sae leal, I trow,
There's nane like him, wi' winnin' glance,
Sae finely kens the way to woo.
O' him I think the leelang day,
O' him I dream the leelang nicht,
Wi' him in fancy still I stray;
Sae time flees by unheeded licht.
O' him I dream the leelang nicht,
Wi' him in fancy still I stray;
Sae time flees by unheeded licht.
My faither fain would ha'e me tied
To some daft gomrel landed laird;
But I'll be nane but Robin's bride,
For he is a' my heart's regard.
To some daft gomrel landed laird;
But I'll be nane but Robin's bride,
For he is a' my heart's regard.
THE LASSIE ON THE BANKS OF CART.
The lint's in the bell, and the bloom's on the pea,
And the gowans, snaw-white, gem the green grassy lea;
In the fresh birken shaw the sweet blackbird now sings,
And wi' chorus o' larks a' the welkin loud rings.
The gloamin' draws on, and my labour is done,
And the houlet now screams frae the wa's o' Pynoon;
Wi' joy I'll tak' the gaet, like an arrow or a dart,
To my heart enchantin' lassie on the banks of Cart.
And the gowans, snaw-white, gem the green grassy lea;
In the fresh birken shaw the sweet blackbird now sings,
And wi' chorus o' larks a' the welkin loud rings.
The gloamin' draws on, and my labour is done,
And the houlet now screams frae the wa's o' Pynoon;
Wi' joy I'll tak' the gaet, like an arrow or a dart,
To my heart enchantin' lassie on the banks of Cart.
O sweet is the glance o' her mild modest e'e,
And warm is the love that she still shows to me;
Her heart's aye sae leal, and her manner sae kind,
That the strong cords of love 'round my heart are twined.
And lang may they bind my affection to her,
Whom I above all earthly objects revere!
We aye should meet at morn, if that night I mean to part,
With my charming loving lassie on the banks of Cart.
And warm is the love that she still shows to me;
109
That the strong cords of love 'round my heart are twined.
And lang may they bind my affection to her,
Whom I above all earthly objects revere!
We aye should meet at morn, if that night I mean to part,
With my charming loving lassie on the banks of Cart.
When winter assails us wi' cauld wind and weet,
And boreas descends, clad in hail, snow, or sleet,
I could wend to my true love, as blithsome and gay
As in warm July, or the mildest of May.
Gi'e av'rice to wallow in spoils of Peru,
Gi'e me but my Jeannie, sae constant and true;
Wi' rapture still we meet, but the tear is like to start,
When I leave my lovely lassie on the banks of Cart.
And boreas descends, clad in hail, snow, or sleet,
I could wend to my true love, as blithsome and gay
As in warm July, or the mildest of May.
Gi'e av'rice to wallow in spoils of Peru,
Gi'e me but my Jeannie, sae constant and true;
Wi' rapture still we meet, but the tear is like to start,
When I leave my lovely lassie on the banks of Cart.
THE LASS OF DYCHMONT-HILL.
The sun's departing splendour
Frae out the glens now steals awa',
And tints wi' orange grandeur
The tap o' Bothwell-castle's wa';
And now, 'neath dews sae mellow,
That sweetly on the fields distil,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I'll meet the lass of Dychmont-hill.
Frae out the glens now steals awa',
And tints wi' orange grandeur
The tap o' Bothwell-castle's wa';
And now, 'neath dews sae mellow,
That sweetly on the fields distil,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I'll meet the lass of Dychmont-hill.
Sweet maids baith fair and comely
Adorn the fertile country wide,
In gaudy dress or homely,
Along the charming vale of Clyde;
But a' I've heard, and a' I've seen,
To gar the youthfu' bosom thrill,
Gi'e me the lips, gi'e me the e'en,
Of her wha dwells on Dychmont-hill.
Adorn the fertile country wide,
In gaudy dress or homely,
Along the charming vale of Clyde;
But a' I've heard, and a' I've seen,
To gar the youthfu' bosom thrill,
Gi'e me the lips, gi'e me the e'en,
Of her wha dwells on Dychmont-hill.
But oh! her lovely bosom,
Where reigns that heart unstained by guile,
The purest lily's blossom
Compared wi' that were dim and vile.
Leal, constant, undeceiving,
Ne'er teas'd wi' a capricious will;
If she'll be mine, then I'll entwine
My fate wi' hers of Dychmont-hill.
Where reigns that heart unstained by guile,
The purest lily's blossom
Compared wi' that were dim and vile.
Leal, constant, undeceiving,
Ne'er teas'd wi' a capricious will;
If she'll be mine, then I'll entwine
My fate wi' hers of Dychmont-hill.
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THE MERRY GARD'NER.
When spring returns with flowers,
And fresh verdure decks the bowers,
And the chilling breath of winter's past and gone, gone, gone;
To train his plants so gay,
'Neath the blackbird's cheering lay,
Who's so happy as the gard'ner with his apron on?
And fresh verdure decks the bowers,
And the chilling breath of winter's past and gone, gone, gone;
To train his plants so gay,
'Neath the blackbird's cheering lay,
Who's so happy as the gard'ner with his apron on?
With compass, square, and line,
He makes all in order shine,
To charm the eye and make dull care begone, gone, gone;
And to shun the fervid heat,
To his bower he doth retreat;
O what bliss attends the gard'ner with his apron on!
He makes all in order shine,
To charm the eye and make dull care begone, gone, gone;
And to shun the fervid heat,
To his bower he doth retreat;
O what bliss attends the gard'ner with his apron on!
When rosy summer fair
Sweet perfumes the glowing air,
How delightfully he muses while alone, lone, lone,
'Mong sweet flowers of every die
That can charm the raptured eye—
Pleasure still attends the gard'ner with his apron on.
Sweet perfumes the glowing air,
How delightfully he muses while alone, lone, lone,
'Mong sweet flowers of every die
That can charm the raptured eye—
Pleasure still attends the gard'ner with his apron on.
Next autumn skims the plain
To reward his toil with gain,
Then how blithe he bears his horn of plenty home, home, home;
While the smile of sweet content,
Round his bless'd fireside is sent,
To rejoice the merry gard'ner with his apron on.
To reward his toil with gain,
Then how blithe he bears his horn of plenty home, home, home;
While the smile of sweet content,
Round his bless'd fireside is sent,
To rejoice the merry gard'ner with his apron on.
When winter rules the air,
To the Lodge he doth repair,
And by every honest brother there is known, known, known,
Whom he joins with heart and hand,
To fulfil the high command
Of the sceptred kings that sat on Judah's throne, throne, throne.
To the Lodge he doth repair,
And by every honest brother there is known, known, known,
Whom he joins with heart and hand,
To fulfil the high command
Of the sceptred kings that sat on Judah's throne, throne, throne.
Then fill your brimmers up,
Let each brother seize his cup,
Let all discord, care, and sadness, aye begone, gone, gone;
While we drink that joy and peace
May for evermore increase,
'Mong true gard'ners, when assembled, with their aprons on.
Let each brother seize his cup,
Let all discord, care, and sadness, aye begone, gone, gone;
While we drink that joy and peace
May for evermore increase,
'Mong true gard'ners, when assembled, with their aprons on.
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GALLOWA' TAM.
Young Gallowa' Tam cam' down the glen,
Chapt at the winnock, but durst na come ben;
I gaed to the door and I crackit awee,
And syne frae the nail whipit down the barn key.
Though the kintra misca' him for waur than the de'il,
I ne'er yet saw ought indiscreet in the chiel;
'Tis true, I maun own, he whiles tak's a bit dram,
But that's now nae exception in Gallowa' Tam.
Chapt at the winnock, but durst na come ben;
I gaed to the door and I crackit awee,
And syne frae the nail whipit down the barn key.
Though the kintra misca' him for waur than the de'il,
I ne'er yet saw ought indiscreet in the chiel;
'Tis true, I maun own, he whiles tak's a bit dram,
But that's now nae exception in Gallowa' Tam.
It happen'd that night, that the laird o' the hill
Cam' down to my father to speer the guidwill;
My mither leugh butt, and my mither leugh ben,
And tauld the laird he'd begun at the wrang end.
For a young lassie's fancy no easy gart jee,
When charm'd wi' the blink o' a young laddie's e'e;
The gowk thocht she only was makin' a sham,
But ne'er dreamt o' the wiles o' young Gallowa' Tam.
Cam' down to my father to speer the guidwill;
My mither leugh butt, and my mither leugh ben,
And tauld the laird he'd begun at the wrang end.
For a young lassie's fancy no easy gart jee,
When charm'd wi' the blink o' a young laddie's e'e;
The gowk thocht she only was makin' a sham,
But ne'er dreamt o' the wiles o' young Gallowa' Tam.
The laird is a crabbit and hoyden-gray hash,
Can talk about nocht but his gear and his cash;
The priest's no yet born wha will buckle us twa,
Though my faither should gie me nae tocher ava.
What signifies wealth, if nae pleasure we share?
What signifies wedlock, if love be nae there?
Sae, fareweel to the auld, wither'd, peat-reekit ram,
But aye welcome blithe penniless Gallowa' Tam.
Can talk about nocht but his gear and his cash;
The priest's no yet born wha will buckle us twa,
Though my faither should gie me nae tocher ava.
What signifies wealth, if nae pleasure we share?
What signifies wedlock, if love be nae there?
Sae, fareweel to the auld, wither'd, peat-reekit ram,
But aye welcome blithe penniless Gallowa' Tam.
At rockin', at bridal, at market, or fair,
Nae pleasure had I if young Tam wasna there;
But when he appear'd ilka bosom did jump,
For o' company Tam was the tongue o' the trump.
The hearts o' the lasses he wiles ane and a',
And ilka chiel's spite on his shouthers maun fa';
They may jeer, they may slander, his credit to slam,
But I ne'er think the less o' young Gallowa' Tam.
Nae pleasure had I if young Tam wasna there;
But when he appear'd ilka bosom did jump,
For o' company Tam was the tongue o' the trump.
The hearts o' the lasses he wiles ane and a',
And ilka chiel's spite on his shouthers maun fa';
They may jeer, they may slander, his credit to slam,
But I ne'er think the less o' young Gallowa' Tam.
He dances sae light, and he sings wi' sic glee,
He's wiled in love's fetters mae lasses than me;
He tells me his love wi' sae winnin' an art,
That ilka word fa's like a charm on my heart.
Come weal or come woe, then, come pleasure or pain,
Though faither and mither say—“Lassie, refrain!”
I'll wed wi' the lad that my heart first o'ercam',
And leave fortune to guide me wi' Gallowa' Tam.
He's wiled in love's fetters mae lasses than me;
He tells me his love wi' sae winnin' an art,
That ilka word fa's like a charm on my heart.
Come weal or come woe, then, come pleasure or pain,
Though faither and mither say—“Lassie, refrain!”
I'll wed wi' the lad that my heart first o'ercam',
And leave fortune to guide me wi' Gallowa' Tam.
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THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
My soldier lad now hame has come
Frae foreign wars
Unscaithed wi' scars;
Nae mair he'll follow fife and drum,
But stay wi' me,
Frae danger free.
Though time and clime ha'e blanch'd his cheeks
When far frae me
Out owre the sea;
A lealfu' heart his e'e bespeaks,
Unalter'd still
To ought that's ill.
Frae foreign wars
Unscaithed wi' scars;
Nae mair he'll follow fife and drum,
But stay wi' me,
Frae danger free.
Though time and clime ha'e blanch'd his cheeks
When far frae me
Out owre the sea;
A lealfu' heart his e'e bespeaks,
Unalter'd still
To ought that's ill.
Aye since the day he gaed awa,
My heart, frae grief,
Gat nae relief;
But now my fears are banish'd a',
When he's return'd,
For whom I mourn'd.
O when I saw his tartans green
And bonnet's plume
Wave owre the broom,
The tears o' joy did blin' my een,
To see my love
Aye constant prove.
My heart, frae grief,
Gat nae relief;
But now my fears are banish'd a',
When he's return'd,
For whom I mourn'd.
O when I saw his tartans green
And bonnet's plume
Wave owre the broom,
The tears o' joy did blin' my een,
To see my love
Aye constant prove.
Afar frae fiel's o' gleamin' steel,
The noisy drum
And bagpipe's hum,
Wi' crook and plaid my love's array'd,
To tend his flocks
'Mong glens and rocks.
Fareweel to war, and a' its waes,
The cannon's roar
And drawn claymore;
Wi' joy we'll range the heather braes,
And spend a life
Unknown to strife.
The noisy drum
And bagpipe's hum,
Wi' crook and plaid my love's array'd,
To tend his flocks
'Mong glens and rocks.
Fareweel to war, and a' its waes,
The cannon's roar
And drawn claymore;
Wi' joy we'll range the heather braes,
And spend a life
Unknown to strife.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |