human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  My name it is Donald Macdonald,
I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;
I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,
Wherever my master has land.
When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
Nae danger can fear me ava;
I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa':
Brogues an' brochin an' a',
Brochin an' brogues an' a';
An' is nae her very weel aff,
Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?
What though we befriendit young Charlie?--
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad! he cam to us but barely,
An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.
'Twas true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';
Now for George we 'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!
An' O, I wad eagerly press him
The keys o' the East to retain;
For should he gie up the possession,
We 'll soon hae to force them again,
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishing blow,
He aye may depend on Macdonald,
Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.
Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny
We 'd rattle him off frae our shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairny,
An' sing him--"Lochaber no more!"
Stanes an' bullets an a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We 'll finish the Corsican callan
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
For the Gordon is good in a hurry,
An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;
The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,
An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald,
Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!
Brogues and brochin an' a',
Brochin an' brogues an' a';
An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,
Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;
An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,
He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim;
The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he:
The conflict is past, and our name is no more--
There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just,
The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue,
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,
When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!
The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
 Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow,
Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,
Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry,
Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?
I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;
But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry!
Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald--
For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,
Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,
These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore,
Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Bless'd is thy dwelling-place--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and mountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock,
Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind--
Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,
Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:
Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,
Though bleak thy dun islands appear,
Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,
That roam on these mountains so drear!
A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,
Could never thy ardour restrain;
The marshall'd array of imperial Rome
Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain!
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,
Of genius unshackled and free,
The Muses have left all the vales of the south,
My loved Caledonia, for thee!
Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,
Where loveliness slumbers at even,
While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps,
A calm little motionless heaven!
Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,
Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave--
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,
And the land of my forefathers' grave!
 An appropriate air has just been composed for this song by Mr
O, my lassie, our joy to complete again,
Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again--
O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
Love be thy sure defence,
Beauty and innocence--
O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree,
Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be--
O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary,
List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
Then come with fairy haste,
Light foot, an' beating breast--
O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
Far, far will the bogle and brownie be,
Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it;
Kind love is the tie of our unity,
A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,
Love gars a' Nature look bonny that 's near ye;
That makes the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip an' violet--
O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
AIR--_"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."_
Come all ye jolly shepherds,
That whistle through the glen,
I 'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbour of the great--
'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
There the blackbird bigs his nest
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
O, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he 'll woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her e'e,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Doops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
See yonder pawkie shepherd,
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame,
To meet his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
O there 's a joy sae dear
That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame!
When the kye comes hame, &c.
Then since all Nature joins
In this love without alloy,
O, wha would prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha would choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame?
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes home,
'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!
O sarely may I rue the day
I fancied first the womenkind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae
Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!
They hae plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye, for a' their witchery,
The pawky things I lo'e them still.
O, the women folk! O, the women folk!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O, weary fa' the women folk,
For they winna let a body be!
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,
I 've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I 've lo'ed them better than mysel,
I 've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He 'll end at last where he began.
O, the woman folk, &c.
That they hae gentle forms an' meet,
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,
An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,
An' e'en sae pauky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the clud--
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
O, the woman folk, &c.
Even but this night, nae farther gane,
The date is neither lost nor lang,
I tak ye witness ilka ane,
How fell they fought, and fairly dang.
Their point they 've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
O, the woman folk! O, the woman folk!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O, weary fa' the women folk,
For they winna let a body be!
 The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And though you be weary,
We 'll make your heart cheery,
And welcome our Charlie,
And his loyal train.
We 'll bring down the track deer,
We 'll bring down the black steer,
The lamb from the braken,
And doe from the glen,
The salt sea we 'll harry,
And bring to our Charlie
The cream from the bothy
And curd from the penn.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the sea, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And you shall drink freely
The dews of Glen-sheerly,
That stream in the starlight
When kings do not ken;
And deep be your meed
Of the wine that is red,
To drink to your sire,
And his friend The M'Lean.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
If aught will invite you
Or more will delight you
'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
All ranged on the heather,
With bonnet and feather,
Strong arms and broad claymores,
Three hundred and ten!
 I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a
'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our town,
The young Chevalier.
An' Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.
As Charlie he came up the gate,
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
An' Charlie is my darling, &c.
Then ilka bonny lassie sang,
As to the door she ran,
Our King shall hae his ain again,
An' Charlie is the man:
For Charlie he 's my darling, &c.
Out ow'r yon moory mountain,
An' down the craggy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing,
But Charlie an' his men.
An' Charlie he 's my darling, &c.
Our Highland hearts are true an' leal,
An' glow without a stain;
Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he 's our ain.
An' Charlie he 's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he 's my darling,
The young Chevalier.
I lately lived in quiet ease,
An' never wish'd to marry, O!
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
I felt a sad quandary, O!
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
She has trepann'd me fairly, O!
Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear
Torment me late an' early, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
To tell my feats this single week,
Would mak' a daft-like diary, O!
I drave my cart outow'r a dike,
My horses in a miry, O!
I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O!
I drill the land that I should plough,
An' plough the drills entirely, O!
Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
I rose to theek the stable, O!
I keust my coat an' plied away
As fast as I was able, O!
I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I 'd been redding fire, O!
When I had done an' look'd about,
Gude faith, it was the byre, O!
Her wily glance I 'll ne'er forget,
The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't
Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't.
I tried to sing, I tried to pray,
I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't,
I tried wi' sport to drive 't away,
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love
Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
O, weel befa' the maiden gay,
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonny May
That wons in yonder glen;
Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Amang sae mony men.
O, weel befa' the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!
'Tis sweet to hear the music float
Along the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkins lightsome race--
The speckled kid in wanton chase--
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowing den;
But sweeter far the bonny face
That smiles in yonder glen!
O, had it no' been for the blush
O' maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;
But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;
But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!
There 's beauty in the violet's vest--
There 's hinney in the haw--
There 's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main--
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!
AIR--_"The Blue Bells of Scotland."_
What are the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel--
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonny heather-bell,
O, they 're the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel!
Though England eyes her roses
With pride she 'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
Still nods outow'r the fell,
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather-bell.
For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the gem away.
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gie his mou' a thraw.
Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,
The emblems o' the free,
Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we 'll be.
A foe had better brave the deil,
Within his reeky cell,
Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
Or bonny heather-bell.
"Afore the muircock begin to craw,
Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now,
The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
For I canna come every night to woo."
"The gouden broom is bonny to see,
An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,
The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea,
But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."
"Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat,
Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;
It 's no the thing that I would be at,
An' I canna come every night to woo!
The lamb is bonny upon the brae,
The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,
The bird is bonny upon the tree--
But which is the dearest of a' to you?"
"The thing that I lo'e best of a',
Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;
The dearest thing that ever I saw,
Though I canna come every night to woo,
Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
Whenever a gentle hand I press,
And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."
"Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see,
What I lo'e best I 'll tell you now,
The compliment that ye sought frae me,
Though ye canna come every night to woo;
Yet I would rather hae frae you
A kindly look, an' a word witha',
Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
Than a' the lads that ever I saw."
"Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine,
Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now,
Our hearts an' fortunes we 'll entwine,
An' I 'll aye come every night to woo;
For O, I canna descrive to thee
The feeling o' love's and nature's law,
How dear this world appears to me
Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"
Here we go upon the tide,
Pull away, jolly boys!
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away!
Here 's a weather-beaten tar,
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunders far,
Pull away, jolly boys!
To your gallant men-of-war,
Pull away!
We 've with Nelson plough'd the main,
Pull away, jolly boys!
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away!
Brave hearts, then let us go
To drub the haughty foe,
Who once again shall know,
Pull away, gallant boys!
That our backs we never shew,
Pull away!
We have fought and we have sped,
Pull away, gallant boys!
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away!
We 've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak,
We 've been bent, but never broke,
Pull away, gallant boys!
We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
Pull away!
Here we go upon the deep,
Pull away, gallant boys!
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away!
Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs,
That whene'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys!
Of the ocean we 're the kings,
Pull away!
O, saw ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine,
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine;
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!
It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
It 's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
But O, it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
That makes me as happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss--
On earth here there 's naething is equal to this!
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd:
But O, there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss--
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this!
Hersell pe auchty years and twa,
Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
She twell amang te Heelan hills,
Ayont the reefer Spey, man.
Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
She first peheld te licht, man;
Tey shot my father in tat stoure--
A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.
I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame,
In France and Shermanie, man;
And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,
Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man.
But wae licht on te nasty cun,
Tat ever she pe porn, man;
Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,
Her leaves pe never torn, man.
Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,
Phane'er it cam my turn, man;
Put a' te force tat I could gie,
Te powter wadna purn, man.
A filty loon cam wi' his cun,
Resolvt to to me harm, man;
And wi' te tirk upon her nose,
Ke me a pluddy arm, man.
I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,
And felt his nepour teit, man;
Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man.
Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks;
My oons pe nae tiscrace, man;
Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
Ter a pefore my face, man.
Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away,
An' left me here to languish,
I canna fend anither day
In sic regretfu' anguish.
My mind 's the aspen i' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean.
I downa bide to see the moon
Blink owre the glen sae clearly;
Aince on a bonnie face she shone--
A face that I lo'ed dearly!
An' when beside yon water clear,
At e'en I 'm lanely roaming,
I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile,
Thy words sae free an' kindly,
Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
The unbidden tear will blind me.
The rose's deepest blushing hue
Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou'
Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Oh! in the slippery paths of love,
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
An' virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alak! I am nae stranger;
An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang
Is best aware o' danger.
May still thy heart be kind an' true,
A' ither maids excelling;
May heaven distil its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early;
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loo'd thee dearly.
I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather,
An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither,
Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime,
Love beckons in every sweet motion,
Commanding due homage to gie;
But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.
I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
To gang to the brakens wi' me;
But though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was--"Laith wad I be!
I neither hae father nor mither,
Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never
To gang to the brakens wi' thee."
"Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,
An' try your ain love to beguile?
For ye are the richest young lady
That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile.
Your smile that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree,
An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny,
Are five hunder thousand to me!"
She turn'd her around an' said, smiling,
While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear,
"You 're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
For, O, you have valued it dear:
Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave of your finger,
I 'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"
There 's joy in the bright blooming feature,
When love lurks in every young line;
There 's joy in the beauties of nature,
There 's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there 's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain,
And that is to love and to cherish
The fond little heart that's our ain!
Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on,
The Armstrongs are flying,
Their widows are crying,
The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone;
Lock the door, Lariston,--high on the weather gleam,
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,
Yeoman and carbineer,
Billman and halberdier;
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.
Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar,
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey,
Hedley and Howard there,
Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay.
Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?
Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye?
Thou bold Border ranger
Beware of thy danger--
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.
Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;
"Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here,
Little know you of our moss-troopers' might,
Lindhope and Sorby true,
Sundhope and Milburn too,
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray."
Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale,
Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye
Mirror'd that morning sky,
Never more oped on his orbit of gold!
Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout,
Lances and halberts in splinters were borne;
Halberd and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain,
Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere,
Howard--ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!
Hear the wide welkin rend,
While the Scots' shouts ascend,
"Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now
To meet me upon the green,
Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,
An' joy in her deep blue e'en;
Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,
An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while
That had happen'd when I was away.
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now
To clasp to my bosom at even,
O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An' pray for a blessing from heaven.
An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face
In the morning, that met my eye,
Where are they now, where are they now?
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens,
An' O may they never prove,
That sharpest degree o' agony
For the child o' their earthly love--
To see a flower in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay,
Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death,
Breathe its sweet soul away.
O, dinna break, my poor auld heart!
Nor at thy loss repine,
For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent frae her Father and thine;
Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,
Even till my latest day;
For though my darling can never return,
I can follow the sooner away.
The moon was a-waning,
The tempest was over;
Fair was the maiden,
And fond was the lover;
But the snow was so deep,
That his heart it grew weary,
And he sunk down to sleep,
In the moorland so dreary.
She had made for her lover,
White were the sheets
And embroider'd the cover;
But his sheets are more white,
And his canopy grander,
And sounder he sleeps
Where the hill foxes wander.
Alas, pretty maiden,
What sorrows attend you!
I see you sit shivering,
With lights at your window;
But long may you wait
Ere your arms shall enclose him,
For still, still he lies,
With a wreath on his bosom!
How painful the task,
The sad tidings to tell you!--
An orphan you were
Ere this misery befell you;
And far in yon wild,
Where the dead-tapers hover,
So cold, cold and wan
Lies the corpse of your lover!
The year is wearing to the wane,
An' day is fading west awa',
Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,
And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;
But let the tempest tout an' blaw
Upon his loudest winter horn,
Good night, and joy be wi' you a',
We 'll maybe meet again the morn!
O, we hae wander'd far and wide
O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
An' mony a simple flower we 've cull'd,
An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell!
We 've ranged the dingle an' the dell,
The hamlet an' the baron's ha',
Now let us take a kind farewell,--
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Though I was wayward, you were kind,
And sorrow'd when I went astray;
For O, my strains were often wild,
As winds upon a winter day.
If e'er I led you from the way,
Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,--
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
grossness,--the simplicity elegant, and the naïveté scarcely
rivalled."
Blythe young Bess to Jean did say,
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
And sport a while wi' Jamie?
Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak' a care,
Nor about Jamie tak' a care,
For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.
For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see young Jamie pass,
Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,
Out ower the muir to Maggie.
I wat he gae her mony a kiss,
And Maggie took them nae amiss;
'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie.
For when a civil kiss I seek,
She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she 'll hardly speak;
Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She 'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane into the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.
O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,
But I will never stand for ane
Or twa when we do meet again;
So ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that canna be;
Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or ony thy sweet face that see,
E'er to think thee a gawkie.
But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,
I trow he likes the gawkie.
O, dear Bess! I hardly knew,
When I cam' by, your gown sae new;
I think you 've got it wet wi' dew!
Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!
It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I 'll get gowns when it is gane;
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;
He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,
If I should gang anither gate,
I ne'er could meet my dawtie.
The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue
That ever Maggie's face he knew,
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.
As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.
"Written off-hand, as one may say,
Perhaps upon a rainy day,
Perhaps while at the cradle rocking.
Instead of knitting at a stocking,
She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink,
And easily the verses clink.
Perhaps a headache at a time
Would make her on her bed recline,
And rather than be merely idle,
She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle.
She neither wanted lamp nor oil,
Nor found composing any toil;
As for correction's iron wand,
She never took it in her hand;
And can, with conscience clear, declare,
She ne'er neglected house affair,
Nor put her little babes aside,
To take on Pegasus a ride.
Rather let pens and paper flame,
Than any mother have the shame
(Except at any _orra time_)
To spend her hours in making rhyme."
TUNE--_"Farewell to Whisky."_
You 've surely heard of famous Neil,
The man who play'd the fiddle weel;
He was a heartsome merry chiel',
And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O!
For e'er since he wore the tartan hose
He dearly liket _Athole brose_!
And grieved he was, you may suppose,
To bid "farewell to whisky," O!
Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And whiles my hame is unco cauld;
I think it makes me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland whisky, O!
But a' the doctors do agree
That whisky 's no the drink for me;
I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee,
By parting me and whisky, O!
But I should mind on "auld lang syne,"
How Paradise our friends did tyne,
Because something ran in their mind--
Forbid--like Highland whisky, O!
Whilst I can get good wine and ale,
And find my heart, and fingers hale,
I 'll be content, though legs should fail,
And though forbidden whisky, O!
I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand,
And screw its strings whilst they can stand,
And mak' a lamentation grand
For guid auld Highland whisky, O!
Oh! all ye powers of music, come,
For deed I think I 'm mighty glum,
My fiddle-strings will hardly bum,
To say, "farewell to whisky," O!
 In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to
this song:--"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the
physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words
 A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.
See the winter clouds around;
See the leaves lie on the ground;
Pretty little Robin comes,
Seeking for his daily crumbs!
In the window near the tree,
Little Robin you may see;
There his slender board is fix'd,
There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.
View his taper limbs, how neat!
And his eyes like beads of jet;
See his pretty feathers shine!
Little Robin haste and dine.
When sweet Robin leaves the space,
Other birds will fill his place;
See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing!
See the Sparrow's sombre wing!
Great and grand disputes arise,
For the crumbs of largest size,
Which the bravest and the best
Bear triumphant to their nest.
What a pleasure thus to feed
Hungry mouths in time of need!
For whether it be men or birds,
Crumbs are better far than words.
following, are printed for the first time.
Within the towers of ancient Glammis
Some merry men did dine,
And their host took care they should richly fare
In friendship, wit, and wine.
But they sat too late, and mistook the gate,
(For wine mounts to the brain);
O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all;
O, we hope they 'll be back again;
We hope they 'll be back again!
Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door,
To find the proper way,
But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,
And on the steps it lay.
So his wife took care of this nice affair,
And she wiped it free from stain;
For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,
So he ne'er got the switch again;
So he ne'er got the switch again.
This wondrous little whip remains
Within the lady's sight,
(She crambo makes, with some mistakes,
But hopes for further light).
So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,
These thirty years her ain;
Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,
He will ne'er get his switch again;
He will ne'er get his switch again!
The parting kiss, the soft embrace,
I feel them at my heart!
'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms,
But agony to part.
But let us tranquillise our minds,
And hope the time may be,
When I shall see that face again,
So loved, so dear to me!
Five tedious years have roll'd along,
And griefs have had their sway,
Though many comforts fill'd my cup,
Yet thou wert far away.
On pleasant days, when friends are met,
Our sports are scarce begun,
When I shall sigh, because I miss
My George, my eldest son!
I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven,
I 've seen thee well and gay,
I 've heard the music of thy voice,
I 've heard thee sweetly play.
O try and cheer us with your strains
Ere many twelvemonths be,
And let us hear that voice again,
So loved, so dear to me!
 This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author
citizens of Glasgow.
Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was
particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with
Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,
My daddy 's dead, an' a' that;
He 's snugly laid aneath the yird,
And I 'm his heir, an' a' that;
I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
His gear an' land 's at my command,
And muckle mair than a' that.
He left me wi' his deein' breath,
A dwallin' house, an' a' that;
A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith--
A big peat-stack, an' a' that.
A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,
An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.
A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,
An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that--
Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees,
An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that;
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'--
A grecie, too, an' a' that.
I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days,
For Sundays, too, an' a' that;
I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands,
And siller, gowd, an' a' that.
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What want I noo, my dainty doo,
But just a wife to a' that.
Now, Jenny dear, my errand here
Is to seek ye to a' that;
My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer
Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that.
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof,
Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.
Syne Jenny laid her neive in his--
Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that;
An' he gied her a hearty kiss,
An' dauted her, an' a' that.
They set a day, an' a' that;
They set a day, an' a' that;
Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame,
An' haud a rant, an' a' that.
Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,
I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,
An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer
Wi' blateness, an' the care o't.
Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;
Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?
Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,
An' ne'er think on the care o't.
Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,
O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;
How mony, thochtless, are misled
By marriage, an' the care o't!
A single life 's a life o' glee,
A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,
Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,
An' a' the dool an' care o't.
Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,
Ye ne'er again shall me deny,
Ye may a toothless maiden die,
For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.
Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;--
Sae took his leave without a sigh:
Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try
The married life, an' care o't.
Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,
An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,
Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack
'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.
Though as she thocht she didna speak,
An' lookit unco mim an' meek,
Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
In marriage, wi' the care o't.
TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_
Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,
Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
Now in a kittle case ance mair
Wi' your advice assist me:
Twa lovers frequent on me wait,
An' baith I frankly speak wi';
Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait
Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.
There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
A widower fresh and canty,
Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.
Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,
A lad deserves regardin';
He 's clever, decent, sober too,
But he 's no worth ae fardin'.
Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,
But 's cash will answer a' things;
To be a lady pleases me,
And buskit be wi' braw things.
Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,
His gait and looks entice me;
But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,
And fix as ye advise me.
Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
An' thus repliet to Mary:
Unequal matches in a yoke
Draw thrawart and camstrarie.
Since gentle James ye dinna like,
Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion;
Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike,
Grup to him wi' affection.
Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',
For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,
If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',
Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.
Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,--
My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,
When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,
While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.
She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow,
The day too was set, when our bridal should be;
How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,
She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me.
For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches,
An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee,
Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess,
Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.
Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie,
An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,
Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,
Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.
Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander,
'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.
Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,
To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.
 This song is here printed for the first time.
Preserve us a'! what shall we do,
Thir dark, unhallow'd times;
We 're surely dreeing penance now,
For some most awfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,
In reality or joke;
For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,
O' a hinging, toom meal pock,
And sing, Oh waes me!
When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,
For sport and pastime free;
I seem'd like ane in paradise,
The moments quick did flee.
Like Venuses they all appear'd,
Weel pouther'd were their locks;
'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,
Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
And sing, Oh waes me!
How happy pass'd my former days,
Wi' merry heartsome glee;
When smiling Fortune held the cup,
And Peace sat on my knee.
Nae wants had I but were supplied;
My heart wi' joy did knock,
When in the neuk I smiling saw
A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
Speak no ae word about reform,
Nor petition Parliament;
A wiser scheme I 'll now propose,
I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent:
Send up a chiel or twa like me,
As a sample o' the flock,
Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof
O' a hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
And should a sicht sae ghastly-like,
Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
Hae nae impression on yon folks,
But tell ye 'll stand ahin';
O what a contrast will ye shaw,
To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,
When in St James' ye tak' your stand,
Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare,
Before yon hills o' beef;
Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,
For Scotia's relief.
Tell them ye are the vera best,
Waled frae the fattest flock;
Then raise your arms, and oh! display
A hinging, toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
miscellanies, the _British Chronicle_ newspaper, and _The Bee_,
published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a
sixty-third year of his age.
Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and
Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,
An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,
Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee
Are not sae dear as Leven Water:
When Nature form'd our favourite isle,
An' a' her sweets began to scatter,
She look'd with fond approving smile,
Alang the banks o' Leven Water.
On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,
'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';
Or through the woodlands green to stray,
In ilka buss the mavis singin':
But sweeter than the woodlands green,
Or primrose painted fair by Nature,
Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
The sunbeam in the siller dew,
That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,
Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;
An' purer is her spotless bosom.
Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;
There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;
For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,
Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;
An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,
For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:
But were I laird o' Leven's glen,
An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,
I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,
The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
The rosebud blushing to the morn,
The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  When on thy gentle bosom worn,
Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!
How blest was I, a little while,
To deem that bosom free frae guile;
When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;
Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!
Though gear was scant, an' friends were few,
My heart was leal, my love was true;
I blest your e'en of heavenly blue,
That glanced sae saft on me, Mary!
But wealth has won your heart frae me;
Yet I maun ever think of thee;
May a' the bliss that gowd can gie,
For ever wait on thee, Mary!
For me, nae mair on earth I crave,
But that yon drooping willow wave
Its branches o'er my early grave,
Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary!
An' when that hallow'd spot you tread,
Where wild-flowers bloom above my head,
O look not on my grassy bed,
Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!
silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less
"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished
by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One
of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a
real incident which it describes, namely, a supper,
where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles
to Glasgow by my father, who, when learning his
business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about
the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with
the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,'
which contains some very droll verses, was written in
compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then
also a young manufacturer, but who died about two
months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The
jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson--'Bachelor
Willie'--and my father's social good-nature, are
pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough
as they are.
 Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.
TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_
Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk,
When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing,
I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk,
And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing,
And ne'er was choked for leeing.
Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas,
If e'er I thought worthy the preeing,
Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese,
May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing,
May I sup porridge for leeing.
When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease,
Can as weel keep a body frae deeing,
As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese,
I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing,
I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.
Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze,
I never could think about fleeing,
But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese;
Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing,
Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.
TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_
Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout,
An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing;
He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout,
An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing,
An' said it wad just be a preeing.
In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door
This trout had lang been a dweller,
Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore,
An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller,
An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.
This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail
That grannie had reested her ham on,
Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail,
An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon,
An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.
This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate,
Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't;
The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat,
But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't,
But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.
When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive,
Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane,
May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive,
An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing,
An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.
Fife, an' a' the land about it,
Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
We 'll raise the song on highest key,
Through every grove till echo shout it;
The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her braid an' lang extended vales
Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;
Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;
Her woods resound wi' music mellow.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her waters pastime sweet afford
To ane an' a' wha like to angle;
The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,
Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In ilka town an' village gay,
Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin';
While to an' frae each port an' bay,
See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,
As lilies by her burnies growin';
An' ilka swain may here repair,
Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In peace, her sons like lammies mild,
Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';
In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild,
As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
May auld an' young hae meat an' claes;
May wark an' wages aye be plenty;
An' may the sun to latest days
See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.
Fife, an' a' the land about it,
Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
 A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.
pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.
 Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for
Now summer shines with gaudy pride,
By flowery vale and mountain side,
And shepherds waste the sunny hours
By cooling streams, and bushy bowers;
While I, a victim to despair,
Avoid the sun's offensive glare,
And in sequester'd wilds deplore
The perjured vows of Ella More.
Would Fate my injured heart provide
Some cave beyond the mountain tide,
Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye
Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;
I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,
To rocks that skirt the angry main;
For angry main, and rocky shore,
Are kinder far than Ella More.
And dost thou speak sincere, my love?
And must we ever part?
And dost thou unrelenting see
The anguish of my heart?
Have e'er these doating eyes of mine,
One wandering wish express'd?
No; thou alone hast ever been
Companion of my breast.
I saw thy face, angelic fair,
I thought thy form divine,
I sought thy love--I gave my heart,
And hoped to conquer thine.
But, ah! delusive, cruel hope!
Hope now for ever gone!
My Mary keeps the heart I gave,
But with it keeps her own.
When many smiling summer suns
Their silver light has shed,
And wrinkled age her hoary hairs
Waves lightly o'er my head;
Even then, in life's declining hour,
My heart will fondly trace
The beauties of thy lovely form,
And sweetly smiling face.
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled,
Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string,
Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,
Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.
Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright
As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright,
In the hall of his chief, on a festival night,
I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,
While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,
By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone,
His strains then are various--now rapid, now slow,
As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,
And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,
I list with delight to his rapturous strain,
While the borrowing echo returns it again;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
But not summer's profusion alone can inspire
His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,
But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow,
When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven,
Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven,
And smile at the billows that angrily rave,
Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;
Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,
Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart--
When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave,
And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,
Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.
"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms,
Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms;
Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires,
And in his breast awakens new desires.
In love a novice, while his bosom glows
With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows;
The rural pastimes suited to his age,
His late delight, no more his care engage;
No more he wills to give his steed the reins
In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains;
No more he joys to bend the twanging bow,
To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw;
His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove,
To wounds inflicted by the god of love.
How oft, expressive of the inward smart,
Did groans convulsive issue from his heart!
How oft did blushes own the sacred flame,
How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name!
Now presents worthy of the plighted fair,
And nuptial robes his busy train prepare--
Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired,
And those bright dames that to the beds aspired
Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid
Requires no earthly ornamental aid
To give her faultless form a single grace,
Or add one charm to her bewitching face."
fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his
"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite,
That rode upon the storm of night,
And loud the waves were heard to roar
That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."
plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my
"Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering
Jacob's grassy meads between,
Lo! thy waters, gently wandering,
Lave thy valleys rich and green.
"When the winter, keenly show'ring,
Strips fair Salem's holy shade,
Then thy current, broader flowing,
Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.
"When, O! when shall light returning
Gild the melancholy gloom,
And the golden star of morning
Jordan's solemn vault illume?
"When shall Freedom's holy charmer
Cheer my long benighted soul?
When shall Israel, proud in armour,
Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.
"To invite the wanderer to the gate,
And spread the couch of rest."
Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed
On yonder heath-clad hills,
Where wild meandering crystal Tweed
Collects his glassy rills.
And sweet the buds that scent the air,
And deck the breast of May;
But none of these are sweet or fair,
You see in Helen's face so mild,
And in her bashful mien,
The winning softness of the child,
The blushes of fifteen.
The witching smile, when prone to go,
Arrests me, bids me stay;
Nor joy, nor comfort can I know,
When 'reft of Helen Gray.
I little thought the dark-brown moors,
The dusky mountain's shade,
Down which the wasting torrent pours,
Conceal'd so sweet a maid;
When sudden started from the plain
A sylvan scene and gay,
Where, pride of all the virgin train,
I first saw Helen Gray.
May never Envy's venom'd breath,
Blight thee, thou tender flower!
And may thy head ne'er droop beneath
Affliction's chilling shower!
Though I, the victim of distress,
Must wander far away;
Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll bless
The name of Helen Gray.
Of streams that down the valley run,
Or through the meadow glide,
Or glitter to the summer sun,
The Stinshar is the pride.
'Tis not his banks of verdant hue,
Though famed they be afar;
Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue,
Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew;
'Tis she that chiefly charms the view,
The bonnie lass of Barr.
When rose the lark on early wing,
The vernal tide to hail;
When daisies deck'd the breast of spring,
I sought her native vale.
The beam that gilds the evening sky,
And brighter morning star,
That tells the king of day is nigh,
With mimic splendour vainly try
To reach the lustre of thine eye,
Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
The sun behind yon misty isle,
Did sweetly set yestreen;
But not his parting dewy smile
Could match the smile of Jean.
Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe,
Mine strove with tender war.
On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow,
While rivers to the ocean flow,
With love of thee my heart shall glow,
Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
"Wi' girnin' and chirmin',
His days they hae been spent;
When ither folk right thankfu' spoke,
He never was content."
elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver.
bookselling firm of Constable & Co. The failure of both these
The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the
 Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular
The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain;
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
AIR--_"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."_
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,
I maun lea' them a', lassie;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes
Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie?
Wha would shun the field of danger?
Wha frae fame wad live a stranger?
Now when Freedom bids avenge her,
Wha would shun her ca', lassie?
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes
Hae seen our happy bridal days,
And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes,
When I am far awa', lassie.
"Hark! the swelling bugle sings,
Yielding joy to thee, laddie,
But the dolefu' bugle brings
Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie.
Lanely I may climb the mountain,
Lanely stray beside the fountain,
Still the weary moments countin',
Far frae love, and thee, laddie.
O'er the gory fields of war,
When Vengeance drives his crimson car,
Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar,
And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."
O! resume thy wonted smile!
O! suppress thy fears, lassie!
Glorious honour crowns the toil
That the soldier shares, lassie;
Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,
Till the vengeful strife is over,
Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever,
Till the day we die, lassie;
'Midst our bonnie woods and braes,
We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays
On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.
 Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira,
Far lone amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.
Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And 's scarcely seen by ony;
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie.
Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean,
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion:--
Let Fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurell'd favours many;
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass o' Arranteenie.
We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,
And there we may be seen,
Yet we 'll meet--we 'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side.
I 'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side;
There the busy prying eye,
Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side,
Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;
There fancy smoothes her theme,
By the sweetly murm'ring stream,
And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.
Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side,
And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side;
Far frae the noisy scene,
I 'll through the fields alane,
There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.
"There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
They were set by Charlie Marshall,
And pu'd by Nannie Laird,
Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw:
The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.
Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,
Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,
'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.
Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae;
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin',
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan',
The dark days o' winter were summer to me!
Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary.
Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I 'd brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep,
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure;
But I will ford the whirling deep,
That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave,
Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie;
But when the lonesome way is past,
I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary!
Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave,
With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I 'd brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
 The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle
AIR--_"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."_
Let us go, lassie, go
To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blaeberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bower
By the clear siller fountain,
And I 'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my dearie.
When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn
On the night breeze is swelling;
So merrily we 'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear sheiling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns,
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
 A clerical friend has communicated to us the following stanza,
"While the lads of the south
Toil for bare worldly treasure--
To the lads of the north
Every day brings its pleasure:
Oh, blithe are the joys
That the Highlandman possesses,
He feels no annoys,
For he fears no distresses."
AIR--_"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."_
Gloomy winter 's now awa'
Saft the westling breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw,
The mavis sings fu' cheery, O!
Sweet the crawflower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonny sel',
My young, my artless dearie, O!
Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day,
'Midst joys that never weary, O!
Towering o'er the Newton woods,
Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds,
Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,
Adorn the banks sae briery, O!
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
And ilka thing is cheery, O!
Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!
O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie?
O! are ye sleeping, Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
Mirk and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Fearful soughs the bourtree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,
Loud the iron yate does clank,
And cry of howlets makes me eerie.
O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Aboon my breath I daurna' speak,
For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie,
Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek,
O rise, rise, my bonny lady!
O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
She opt the door, she let him in,
He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie:
"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."
Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!
Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!
What care I for howlet's cry,
For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?
Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
Is far ayont yon mountains;
And Spring beholds her azure sky
Reflected in the fountains:
Now, on the budding slaethorn bank,
She spreads her early blossom,
And wooes the mirly-breasted birds
To nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,
Sae darksome, dull, and dreary;
Now laverocks sing to hail the spring,
And Nature all is cheery.
Then let us leave the town, my love,
And seek our country dwelling,
Where waving woods, and spreading flowers,
On every side are smiling.
We 'll tread again the daisied green,
Where first your beauty moved me;
We 'll trace again the woodland scene,
Where first ye own'd ye loved me;
We soon will view the roses blaw
In a' the charms of fancy,
For doubly dear these pleasures a',
When shared with thee, my Nancy.
GAELIC AIR--_"Mor nian à Ghibarlan."_
Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O!
Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O!
Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O!
And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!
But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O!
The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O!
Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O!
That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!
The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O!
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O!
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O!
The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!
He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen:
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen;
He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O!
Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!
Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O!
Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O!
Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O!
I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!
The midges dance aboon the burn,
The dews begin to fa';
The pairtricks down the rushy holm,
Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting, gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky,
The mavis mends her lay,
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling'ring day.
While weary yeldrins seem to wail,
Their little nestlings torn;
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance through the dell
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry--
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.
'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?
And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.
The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins,
The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,
A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!
The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en;
They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!
The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin;
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin;
E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean;
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie,
The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,
He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.
 Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill
Lowland lassie, wilt thou go
Where the hills are clad with snow;
Where, beneath the icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
Ill nor wae shall thee betide,
When row'd within my Highland plaid.
Soon the voice of cheery spring
Will gar a' our plantin's ring,
Soon our bonny heather braes
Will put on their summer claes;
On the mountain's sunny side,
We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.
When the summer spreads the flowers,
Busks the glens in leafy bowers,
Then we 'll seek the caller shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed;
While the burning hours preside,
I 'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat,
I will launch the bonny boat,
Skim the loch in canty glee,
Rest the oars to pleasure thee;
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I 'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Lowland lads may dress mair fine,
Woo in words mair saft than mine;
Lowland lads hae mair of art,
A' my boast 's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride;--
O, row thee in my Highland plaid!
"Bonny lad, ye 've been sae leal,
My heart would break at our fareweel;
Lang your love has made me fain;
Take me--take me for your ain!"
Across the Firth, away they glide,
Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!
Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
And won my Mary's heart in thee.
The broom, the brier, the birken bush,
Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea,
And a' the sweets that ane can wish
Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.
Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,
The cooshat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, down thy bughted glade,
Gars echo ring frae every tree.
Thou bonny wood, &c.
Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
They 'll sing you yet a canty sang,
Then, O, in pity, let them be!
Thou bonny woods, &c.
When winter blaws in sleety showers,
Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie,
He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers,
As laith to harm a flower in thee.
Thou bonny wood, &c.
Though Fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea;
The happy hours I 'll ever mind,
That I, in youth, hae spent in thee.
Thou bonny wood, &c.
 Craigie Lea is situated to the north-west of Paisley.
AIR--_"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."_
The weary sun 's gaen down the west,
The birds sit nodding on the tree;
All nature now prepares for rest,
But rest prepared there 's none for me.
The trumpet sounds to war's alarms,
The drums they beat, the fifes they play,--
Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms,
For the morn I will be far away.
Good night, and joy--good night, and joy,
Good night, and joy be wi' you a';
For since its so that I must go,
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
I grieve to leave my comrades dear,
I mourn to leave my native shore;
To leave my aged parents here,
And the bonnie lass whom I adore.
But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd,
When danger calls I must obey.
The transport waits us on the coast,
And the morn I will be far away.
Good night, and joy, &c.
Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast!
Though bleak and drear thy mountains be,
When on the heaving ocean tost,
I 'll cast a wishful look to thee!
And now, dear Mary, fare thee well,
May Providence thy guardian be!
Or in the camp, or on the field,
I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee!
Good night, and joy, &c.
separately, and commanded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan
As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the
The music o' the year is hush'd,
In bonny glen and shaw, man;
And winter spreads o'er nature dead
A winding sheet o' snaw, man.
O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost,
A crystal brig has laid, man;
The wild geese screaming wi' surprise,
The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.
Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm,
And leave your coaxing wife, man;
Gae get your besom, tramps and stane,
And join the friendly strife, man.
For on the water's face are met,
Wi' mony a merry joke, man;
The tenant and his jolly laird,
The pastor and his flock, man.
The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd,
The bonspiel is begun, man;
The ice is true, the stanes are keen,
Huzza for glorious fun, man!
The skips are standing at the tee,
To guide the eager game, man;
Hush, not a word, but mark the broom,
And tak' a steady aim, man.
There draw a shot, there lay a guard,
And here beside him lie, man;
Now let him feel a gamester's hand,
Now in his bosom die, man;
Then fill the port, and block the ice,
We sit upon the tee, man;
Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,
And mak' their winner flee, man.
How stands the game? Its eight and eight,
Now for the winning shot, man;
Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,
I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.
The stane is thrown, it glides along,
The besoms ply it in, man;
Wi' twisting back the player stands,
And eager breathless grin, man.
A moment's silence, still as death,
Pervades the anxious thrang, man;
When sudden bursts the victor's shout,
With holla's loud and lang, man.
Triumphant besom's wave in air,
And friendly banters fly, man;
Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,
Wi' eager steps they hie, man.
Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,
And drink wi' social glee, man,
May curlers on life's slippery rink,
Frae cruel rubs be free, man;
Or should a treacherous bias lead
Their erring course ajee, man,
Some friendly in-ring may they meet,
To guide them to the tee, man.
On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,
To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;
But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,
And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd--
"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,
Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;
A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,
My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.
"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,
Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;
Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,
I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.
"But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever,
Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me;
No hope to support, and no friend to deliver,
Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.
"And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish,
New poison does mix in my cup of affliction,
For honour forbids (though without thee I languish)
To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."
"Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee,
I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit;
Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee,
My portion is ample--that portion is thine."
Hark! the martial drums resound,
Valiant brothers, welcome all,
Crowd the royal standard round,
'Tis your injured country's call.
See, see, the robbers come,
Ruin seize the ruthless foe;
For your altars, for your homes,
Heroes lay the tyrants low!
He was born to be a slave--
Let him feel the despot's lash,
And sink inglorious to the grave.
He who spurns a coward's life,
He whose bosom freedom warms,
Let him share the glorious strife,
We 'll take the hero to our arms.
Spirits of the valiant dead,
Who fought and bled at Freedom's call,
In the path you dared to tread,
We, your sons, will stand or fall.
Bending from your airy halls,
Turn on us a guardian eye--
Lead where Fame or Honour calls,
And teach to conquer or to die!
TUNE--_"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."_
Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,
Love sincere and friendship true,
Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance,
Trembling in the midnight dew.
Sad and lonely, sad and lonely,
Musing on the tints decay,
On the maid I love so dearly,
And on pleasure's fleeting day.
Bright the moonbeams, when we parted,
Mark'd the solemn midnight hour,
Clothing with a robe of silver
Hill, and dale, and shady bower.
Then our mutual faith we plighted,
Vows of true love to repeat,
Lonely oft the pale orb watching,
At this hour to lovers sweet.
On thy silent face, with fondness,
Let me gaze, fair queen of night,
For my Annie's tears of sorrow
Sparkle in thy soften'd light.
When I think my Annie views thee,
Dearly do I love thy rays,
For the distance that divides us
Seems to vanish as I gaze.
I ask no lordling's titled name,
Nor miser's hoarded store;
I ask to live with those I love,
Contented though I 'm poor.
From joyless pomp and heartless mirth
I gladly will withdraw,
And hide me in this lowly vale,
Beneath my roof of straw.
To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce
A husband's cherish'd name,
To press my children to my heart
Are titles, wealth and fame.
Let kings and conquerors delight
To hold the world in awe,
Be mine to find content and peace
Beneath my roof of straw.
When round the winters' warm fireside
We meet with social joy,
The glance of love to every heart
Shall speak from every eye.
More lovely far such such scenes of bliss
Than monarch ever saw,
Even angels might delight to dwell
Beneath my roof of straw.
Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,
My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal,
Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?
Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek,
And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek?
For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane,
Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.
But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,
An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb,
My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee,
For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.
The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold,
The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old,
And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay,
As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.
We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done,
But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon,
Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?
In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and
Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of
 We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr John Macgregor, of
Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn, love, to me;
O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty,
To get but a blink o' thine e'e.
The birds are a' sporting around us,
And sweetly they sing on the tree;
But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty,
I trow, is far dearer to me.
The ringlets, my lovely young Betty,
That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree,
I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain,
That blossom sae sweetly, like thee.
Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty,
Come over the burn, love, to me;
O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty,
To live in the blink o' thine e'e.
AIR--_"Haud awa frae me, Donald."_
Come awa, hie awa,
Come and be mine ain, lassie;
Row thee in my tartan plaid,
An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie.
A gowden brooch, an' siller belt,
Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie,
Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame,
For Highland hills wi' me, lassie.
Come awa, &c.
A bonnie bower shall be thy hame,
And drest in silken sheen, lassie.
Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha',
And gayest on the green, lassie.
Come awa, &c.
Haud awa, bide awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald;
What care I for a' your wealth,
And a' that ye can gie, Donald?
I wadna lea' my Lowland lad
For a' your gowd and gear, Donald;
Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill,
An' stay nae langer here, Donald.
Haud awa, &c.
My Jamie is a gallant youth,
I lo'e but him alane, Donald,
And in bonnie Scotland's isle,
Like him there is nane, Donald;
Haud awa, &c.
He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose,
Nor garters at his knee, Donald;
But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart,
And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.
Sae haud awa, bide awa,
Come nae mair at e'en, Donald;
I wadna break my Jamie's heart,
AIR--_"In yon garden fine and gay."_
On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,
While straying was the moon's pale beam;
At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep,
I see thy form in fancy's dream.
I see thee in the rosy morn,
Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen;
The morning smiles, but thou art lost,
Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.
Still fancy fondly dwells on thee,
And adds another day of care;
What bliss were mine could fancy paint
Thee true, as she can paint thee fair!
O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams!
Ye silken cords that bind the heart;--
Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine,
And smile and triumph in the smart?
Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
Lovely minstrel of the grove,
Charm no more the hours away,
With thine artless tale of love;
Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
Sad it steals upon mine ear;
Leave, O leave thy leafy spray,
Till the smiling morn appear.
Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song,
As the welkin's shadows low'r;
Whilst the beetle wheels along,
Humming to the twilight hour.
Not like thee I quit the scene,
To enjoy night's balmy dream;
Not like thee I wake again,
Smiling with the morning beam.
The primrose is bonnie in spring,
And the rose it is sweet in June;
It 's bonnie where leaves are green,
I' the sunny afternoon.
It 's bonny when the sun gaes down,
An' glints on the hoary knowe;
It 's bonnie to see the cloud
Sae red in the dazzling lowe.
When the night is a' sae calm,
An' comes the sweet twilight gloom,
Oh! it cheers my heart to meet
My lassie amang the broom,
When the birds in bush and brake,
Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang;
Oh! what an hour to sit
The gay gowden links amang.
The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw,
But sweeter far on Woodhouselee,
And dear I like his setting beam
For sake o' ane sae dear to me.
It was na simmer's fairy scenes,
In a' their charming luxury,
But Beauty's sel' that won my heart,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile,
Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e,
Sae sairly wounded was my heart,
That had na wist sic ills to dree;
In vain I strave in beauty's chains,
I cou'd na keep my fancy free,
She gat my heart sae in her thrall,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a',
Where aft is heard the hum of bee,
The meadow green, and breezy hill,
Where lambkins sport sae merrilie,
May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain,
When e'enin' sun dips in the sea,
But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn,
Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.
The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn,
And dew-clad gowans on the lea,
The water-lily on the lake,
Are but sweet emblems a' of thee;
And while in simmer smiles they bloom,
Sae lovely, and sae fair to see,
I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake,
The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Doun yon glen ye never will weary,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
The water is wimpling by fu' clearly,
The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie,
And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Her hair was like the Cromla mist,
When evening sun beams from the west,
When beauty wept the warrior's fall,
Then low and dark was Fingal's hall,
Sad was the lovely Morna.
O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid
That sung peace to the warrior's shade,
But none so fair as Morna.
The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,
That waved beside dark Orna's lake,
Where wander'd lovely Morna.
Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,
That died the rustling heath among,
Where sat the lovely Morna;
It slumber'd on the placid wave,
It echoed through the warrior's cave,
And sigh'd again to Morna.
The hero's plumes were lowly laid;
In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid
Sang peace and rest to Morna;
The harp's wild strain was past and gone,
No more it whisper'd to the moan
Of lovely, dying Morna.
O leeze me on the bonnie lass
That I lo'e best o' a';
O leeze me on my Marion,
The pride o' Lockershaw.
O weel I like my Marion,
For love blinks in her e'e,
And she has vow'd a solemn vow,
She lo'es na ane but me.
The flowers grow bonnie on the bank,
Where doun the waters fa';
The birds sing bonnie in the bower,
Where red, red roses blaw.
An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart,
When day has closed his e'e,
I wander wi' my Marion,
Wha lo'es na ane but me.
Sic luve as mine an' Marion's,
O, may it never fa'!
But blume aye like the fairest flower,
That grows in Lockershaw.
My Marion I will ne'er forget
Until the day I dee,
For she has vow'd a solemn vow,
She lo'es na ane but me.
_Highland Boat-air._
Put off, put off, and row with speed,
For now 's the time, and the hour of need!
To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,
Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!
Yon light that plays round the castle's moat
Is only the warder's random shot!
Put off, put off, and row with speed,
For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Those pond'rous keys shall the kelpies keep,
And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;
Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,
Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;
Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,
While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;
Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,
For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,
And the warder's voice hath treason sung;
The echoes to the falconet's roar,
Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.
Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,
We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;
For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,
Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!
 The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the
lake.
AIR--_"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."_
When Charlie to the Highlands came,
It was a' joy and gladness,
We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon
Wad broken be wi' sadness.
Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown,
And break our hearts wi' sorrow;
Oh! it will never smile again,
And bring a gladsome morrow!
Our dwellings, and our outlay gear,
Lie smoking, and in ruin;
Our bravest youths, like mountain deer,
The foe is oft pursuing.
Our home is now the barren rock,
As if by Heaven forsaken;
Our shelter and our canopy,
The heather and the bracken.
Oh! we maun wander far and near,
And foreign lands maun hide in;
Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear,
We daurna langer bide in.
Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,
When the moon was in her wane;
Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour,
And to her bower is gane.
He saftly stept in his sandal shoon,
And saftly laid him doun;
"It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore,
"Sin ye maun wauken soon.
"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock
Shall flap his siller wing,
An' saftly ye maun ope the gate,
An' loose the silken string."
"O Ellenore, my fairest fair,
O Ellenore, my bride!
How can ye fear when my merry men a'
Are on the mountain side."
The moon was hid, the night was sped,
But Ellenore's heart was wae;
She heard the cock flap his siller wing,
An' she watched the morning ray:
"Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear,
The mornin' opes its e'e;
Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower,
And safe, safe may thou be."
But there was a page, a little fause page,
Lord Ronald did espy,
An' he has told his baron all,
Where the hind and hart did lie.
"It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald,
Thy father's deeds o' weir;
But since the hind has come to my faul',
His blood shall dim my spear."
Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore,
And press'd her lily hand;
Sic a comely knight and comely dame
Ne'er met in wedlock's band:
But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch,
And kiss'd again his bride;
And with his spear, in deadly ire,
He pierced Lord Ronald's side.
The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek,
She look'd all wan and ghast;
She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side,
An' the blood was rinnin' fast:
She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue,
But his life she cou'dna stay;
Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb,
An' their spirits baith fled away.
When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,
To blaze upon the western wave;
When peace and love possess the grove,
And echo sleeps within the cave;
Led by love's soft endearing charms,
I stray the pathless winding vale,
And hail the hour that gives to me
The lovely maid of Ormadale.
Her eyes outshine the star of night,
Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue;
And pure as flower in summer shade,
Low bending in the pearly dew:
Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure,
Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail;
As angel-smile she aye will be
Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.
Let fortune soothe the heart of care,
And wealth to all its votaries give;
Be mine the rosy smile of love,
And in its blissful arms to live.
I would resign fair India's wealth,
And sweet Arabia's spicy gale,
For balmy eve and Scotian bower,
With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.
A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,
An' low she curtsied doun;
She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see,
Then a' our ladies roun'.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whare may your dwelling be?
But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,
An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
I haena a hame, nor ha';
Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,
For the night begins to fa'.
I took her into our tapestry ha',
An' we drank the ruddy wine;
An' aye I strave, but fand my heart
Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.
I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen
She was sae jimp and sma';
And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e
Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whare may your dwelling be?
Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind
Blaw cauld on sic as ye?
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
I haena a ha' nor hame;
My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,
An' him I daurna name.
Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,
Frae this ye mauna gae;
An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain,
Nae marrow ye shall hae.
Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,
Sae fu' o' the damask wine,
An' press it to your cherrie lip,
For ye shall aye be mine.
An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,
An' a' your kin sae dear;
Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e
Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.
There grew in bonnie Scotland
A thistle and a brier,
And aye they twined and clasp'd,
Like sisters, kind and dear.
The rose it was sae bonnie,
It could ilk bosom charm;
The thistle spread its thorny leaf,
To keep the rose frae harm.
A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith ear' and late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it,
And wove it with his fate;
And the leal hearts of Scotland
Pray'd it might never fa',
The thistle was sae bonny green,
The rose sae like the snaw.
But the weird sisters sat
Where Hope's fair emblems grew;
They drapt a drap upon the rose
O' bitter, blasting dew;
And aye they twined the mystic thread,--
But ere their task was done,
The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,
And wither'd in the sun!
A bonnie laddie tended
The rose baith ear' an' late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it,
And wove it with his fate;
But the thistle tap it wither'd,
Winds bore it far awa',
And Scotland's heart was broken,
For the rose sae like the snaw!
There 's nae Covenant now, lassie!
There 's nae Covenant now!
Are a' broken through!
There 's nae Renwick now, lassie,
There 's nae gude Cargill,
Nor holy Sabbath preaching
It 's naething but a sword, lassie!
A bluidy, bluidy ane!
Waving owre poor Scotland,
For her rebellious sin.
Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie,
Scotland 's a' wrang--
It 's neither to the hill nor glen,
Lassie, we daur gang.
The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken,
In simmer's dusk sae calm;
There 's nae gathering now, lassie,
To sing the e'ening psalm!
But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,
Aboon the warrior's cairn;
An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,
Aneath the waving fern!
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,
Let me love, nor love in vain;
Fate shall never fond hearts sever,
Hearts still bound by true love's chain.
Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,
Shall each day life's feast renew;
Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,
Still to live and love more true.
Mirth and folly, joys unholy,
Never shall our thoughts employ;
Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,
Love and bliss without alloy.
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
When the fair one and the dear one--
Her lover by her side--
Strays or sits as fancy flits,
Where yellow streamlets glide;
Gleams illuming--flowers perfuming
Where'er her footsteps rove;
Time beguiling with her smiling,
Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear one,
Amid a moonlight scene,
Where grove and glade, and light and shade,
Are all around serene;
Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy,
While coos the turtle-dove,
And in soft strains appeals--complains,
Oh! that 's the hour of love.
Should the fair one and the dear one
The sigh of pity lend
For human woe, that presses low
A stranger, or a friend,
Tears descending, sweetly blending,
As down her cheeks they rove;
Beauty's charms in pity's arms--
Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear one
Appears in morning dreams,
In flowing vest by fancy drest,
And all the angel beams;
The heavenly mien, and look serene,
Confess her from above;
While rising sighs and dewy eyes
Say, that 's the hour of love!
century.
Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with
pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly
"His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strain;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains."
 Thomas Campbell was one of Leyden's early literary friends; they
approbation.'"--_Lockhart's Life of Scott._
How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through a tear.
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream,
To mark that image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
To see thy lovely face so fair.
Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light,
Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft, enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers
That soon the sun will rise again.
Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.
Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,
Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love--
But sweeter to be loved again.
Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet,
Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet;
And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam,
Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home;
The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed,
Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.
Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye!
Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay.
Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies,
Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise--
Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king,
In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.
I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,
For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly;
Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array,
Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.
All the people are flocking to see him pass by;
They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye:
From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves,
And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.
His fine locks are matted, no raiment has he
For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree;
And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold,
Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.
Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array
Before his proud squadrons his banners display,
And the voice of the people exulting to own
Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown;
But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,--
One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.
Our light is departing, and darkness returns,
Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns;
Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain,
And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.
James Scadlock, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of
languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of
Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a
Along by Levern stream so clear,
When Spring adorns the infant year,
And music charms the list'ning ear,
I 'll wander with my Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary;
Not Spring itself to me is dear,
When absent from my Mary.
When Summer's sun pours on my head
His sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade,
Unseen upon a primrose bed
I 'll sit with little Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary,
Where fragrant flowers around are spread,
To charm my little Mary.
She 's mild 's the sun through April shower
That glances on the leafy bower,
She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower,
My bonny little Mary,
My blooming little Mary;
Give me but her, no other dower
I 'll ask with little Mary.
Should fickle fortune frown on me,
And leave me bare 's the naked tree,
Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be,
My lovely little Mary,
My bonny blooming Mary;
From gloomy care and sorrow free,
I 'd ever keep my Mary.
 Set to music by R. A. Smith.
WELSH AIR--_"The rising of the Lark."_
Hark, hark the skylark singing,
While the early clouds are bringing
Fragrance on their wings;
Still, still on high he 's soaring,
Through the liquid haze exploring,
Fainter now he sings.
Where the purple dawn is breaking,
Fast approaches morning's ray,
From his wings the dew he 's shaking,
As he joyful hails the day,
While echo, from his slumbers waking,
Imitates his lay.
See, see the ruddy morning,
With his blushing locks adorning
Mountain, wood, and vale;
Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing,
As the rising sun 's advancing
O'er the eastern hill;
Now the distant summits clearing,
As the vapours steal their way,
And his heath-clad breast 's appearing,
Tinged with Phœbus' golden ray,
Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheering
Morning with her lay.
Come, then, let us be straying,
Where the hazel boughs are playing,
O'er yon summits gray;
Mild now the breeze is blowing,
And the crystal streamlet 's flowing
Gently on its way.
On its banks the wild rose springing
Welcomes in the sunny ray,
Wet with dew its head is hinging,
Bending low the prickly spray;
Then haste, my love, while birds are singing,
To the newborn day.
October winds, wi' biting breath,
Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading;
Nae gowans glint upon the green,
Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.
As through the woods I musing gang,
Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,
Save little robin's lanely sang,
Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.
The sun is jogging down the brae,
Dimly through the mist he 's shining,
And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,
As Day resigns his throne to E'ening.
Oft let me walk at twilight gray,
To view the face of dying nature,
Till Spring again, wi' mantle green,
Delights the heart o' ilka creature.
interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different
deposited in his paternal library.
 Another copy has since been discovered.
I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang;
I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
Wha 's they I see?
Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel'
Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,
And here they cam awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a Captain to his trade,
Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
And papped on his knee:
Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en!
Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
But Jenny's bawbee.
A Norland Laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup;
Cried--There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie it to a tree.
What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan',
Bestow on ane o' worth your han':
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab;
O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee;
Accounts he owed through a' the toun,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
But now he thought to clout his goun
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,
A fool came neist; but life has rubs;
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And jaupit a' was he:
He danced up, squintin' through a glass,
And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass!
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,
The sodger not to strut sae big,
The lawyer not to be a prig;
The fool he cried, Te-hee!
I kenn'd that I could never fail!
But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail,
And soused him frae the water-pail,
And kept her bawbee.
Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense,
Although he had na mony pence;
And took young Jenny to the spence,
Wi' her to crack a wee.
Now Johnnie was a clever chiel',
And here his suit he press'd sae weel
That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,
And she birl'd her bawbee.
 The last stanza does not appear in the original version of the
"And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
My Jenny had, my Jenny had,
A' that e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbee.
There 's your plack and my plack,
And your plack and my plack,
And my plack and your plack,
And Jenny's bawbee.
We 'll put it in the pint stoup,
The pint stoup, the pint stoup,
We 'll put it in the pint stoup,
And birl 't a' three."
At Willie's weddin' o' the green,
The lasses, bonnie witches,
Were busked out in aprons clean,
And snaw-white Sunday mutches;
Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent,
But Jock wad na believe her;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the weaver.
In ilka country dance and reel
Wi' her he wad be babbin';
When she sat down, then he sat down,
And till her wad be gabbin';
Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben,
The coof wad never leave her,
Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen,
But Jenny dang the weaver.
Quoth he, My lass, to speak my mind,
In troth I needna swither,
Ye 've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye 're kind,
I needna court anither!
He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh,"
And bade the coof no deave her,
Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.
 The origin of the air is somewhat amusing. The Rev. Mr Gardner,
"Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!
My hopes are flown, for a 's to wreck;
Heaven guard you, love, and heal your heart,
Though mine, alas, alas! maun break."
"Dearest lad, what ills betide?
Is Willie to his love untrue?
Engaged the morn to be his bride,
Ah! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue?"
"Ye canna wear a ragged gown,
Or beggar wed wi' nought ava;
My kye are drown'd, my house is down,
My last sheep lies aneath the snaw."
"Tell na me o' storm or flood,
Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill;
For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed,
Though poor, ye are my Willie still."
"Ye canna thole the wind and rain,
Or wander friendless far frae hame;
Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swain
Will soon blot out lost Willie's name."
"I 'll tak my bundle in my hand,
An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e;
I 'll wander wi' ye ower the land;
I 'll venture wi' ye ower the sea."
"Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare,
My flocks are safe, we needna part;
I 'd forfeit them and ten times mair
To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart."
"How could ye wi' my feelings sport,
Or doubt a heart sae warm and true?
I maist could wish ye mischief for 't,
But canna wish ought ill to you."
Taste life's glad moments,
Whilst the wasting taper glows;
Pluck, ere it withers,
The quickly-fading rose.
Man blindly follows grief and care,
He seeks for thorns, and finds his share,
Whilst violets to the passing air
Unheeded shed their blossoms.
Taste life's, &c.
When tim'rous Nature veils her form,
And rolling thunder spreads alarm,
Then, ah! how sweet, when lull'd the storm,
The sun shines forth at even.
Taste life's, &c.
How spleen and envy anxious flies,
And meek content, in humble guise,
Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise,
Which golden fruits shall yield him.
Taste life's, &c.
Who fosters faith in upright breast,
And freely gives to the distress'd,
There sweet contentment builds her nest,
And flutters round his bosom.
Taste life's, &c.
And when life's path grows dark and strait,
And pressing ills on ills await,
Then friendship, sorrow to abate,
The helping hand will offer.
Taste life's, &c.
She dries his tears, she strews his way,
E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay,
Turns night to morn, and morn to day,
And pleasure still increases.
Taste life's, &c.
Of life she is the fairest band,
Joins brothers truly hand in hand,
Thus, onward to a better land,
Man journeys light and cheerly.
Taste life's, &c.
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a',
Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart;
May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw;
In sorrow may ye never part!
My spirit lives, but strength is gone,
The mountain-fires now blaze in vain;
Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done,
And in your deeds I 'll live again!
When on yon muir our gallant clan,
Frae boasting foes their banners tore;
Wha shew'd himself a better man,
Or fiercer waved the red claymore?
But when in peace--then mark me there--
When through the glen the wand'rer came,
I gave him of our lordly fare,
I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear;
Be cantie, but be gude and leal;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,
Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I 'll see ye shine;
I 'll see ye triumph ere I fa';
My parting breath shall boast you mine--
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
Hech! what a change hae we now in this town!
The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin',
Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun'
For deil a haet 's done now but feastin' and dancin'.
Gowd 's no that scanty in ilk siller pock,
When ilka bit laddie maun hae his bit staigie;
But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock,
But trotted about upon honest shank's naigie.
Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste,
Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens;
The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced,
Her equipage a'--just a gude pair o' pattens.
Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal,
Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin';
Right air we were tell 't by the housemaid or chiel',
Sir, an' ye please, here 's your lass and a lantern.
The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meets
A' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin';
Brigs may be biggit ower lums and ower streets,
The Nor' Loch itsel' heapêd heigh as the Calton.
But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see,
A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty?
Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me,
And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty.
 Contributed to the fourth volume of Mr George Thomson's
AIR--_"Bannocks o' Barley Meal."_
Argyle is my name, and you may think it strange
To live at a court, and yet never to change;
To faction, or tyranny, equally foe,
The good of the land 's the sole motive I know.
The foes of my country and king I have faced,
In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced;
I 've done what I could for my country's weal,
Now I 'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
Ye riots and revels of London, adieu!
And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you!
For Scotland, I mingled in bustle and strife;
For myself, I seek peace and an innocent life:
I 'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene,
With Maggie, my love, in her rockley o' green;
On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I 'll feel,
While she shares my bannock o' barley meal!
And if it chance Maggie should bring me a son,
He shall fight for his king, as his father has done;
I 'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride--
O! may he be worthy to wear 't on his side.
I pant for the breeze of my loved native place;
I long for the smile of each welcoming face;
I 'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can reel,
And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
 This song was contributed by Sir Alexander Boswell to the third
volume of Thomson's Collection. It is not wholly original, but an
appreciation of the beauties of nature, considerably extended his
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;
Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary,
Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.
Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him,
He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat;
The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,
The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.
He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,
On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er;
But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,
The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.
No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill;
Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him,
And stretch'd him in peace by the stream of the hill.
Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,
The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest;
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,
And moistens the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.
 Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his
The moon shone in fits,
And the tempest was roaring,
The Storm Spirit shriek'd,
And the fierce rain was pouring;
Alone in her chamber,
Fair Ellen sat sighing,
The tapers burn'd dim,
And the embers were dying.
"The drawbridge is down,
That spans the wide river;
Can tempests divide,
Whom death cannot sever?
Unclosed is the gate,
And those arms long to fold thee,
'Tis midnight, my love;
O say, what can hold thee?"
But scarce flew her words,
When the bridge reft asunder,
The horseman was crossing,
'Mid lightning and thunder,
And loud was the yell,
As he plunged in the billow,
The maid knew it well,
As she sprang from her pillow.
She scream'd o'er the wall,
But no help was beside her;
And thrice to her view
Rose the horse and his rider.
She gazed at the moon,
But the dark cloud pass'd over;
She plunged in the stream,
And she sunk to her lover.
Say, what is that flame,
O'er the midnight deep beaming?
And whose are those forms,
In the wan moonlight gleaming?
That flame gilds the wave,
Which their pale corses cover;
And those forms are the ghosts
Of the maid and her lover.
accomplishments, and with the view of acquiring a more decided
ingenious Mr Miller of Dalswinton.
Thomas was educated at the village-school of Kellieston, and
subsequently at the academy of Dumfries. The circumstances of his
destruction in terms of regret. The style of Thomas Cunningham
Adown the burnie's flowery bank,
Or through the shady grove,
Or 'mang the bonnie scroggie braes,
Come, Peggy, let us rove.
See where the stream out ower the linn
Deep headlong foamin' pours,
There let us gang and stray amang
The bloomin' hawthorn bowers.
We 'll pu' the rose frae aff the brier,
The lily frae the brae;
We 'll hear the birdies blithely sing,
As up the glen we gae.
His yellow haughs o' wavin' grain
The farmer likes to see,
But my ain Peggy's artless smile
Is far mair dear to me.
 Written when the author was quite a youth.
Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay,
I met my Julia hameward gaun;
The linties chantit on the spray,
The lammies loupit on the lawn;
On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',
An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out ower the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,
An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawning coost a glimm'rin' e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quo' I,
The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer;
But gie to me my Julia dear,
Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba',
An' oh, sae blithe through life I 'll steer,
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
When gloamin' daunders up the hill,
An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I 'll trace the mossy rill
That through the muir meand'ring rowes;
Or tint amang the scroggie knowes,
My birken pipe I 'll sweetly blaw,
An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes,
The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.
An' when auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,
Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains;
Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns,
Where heather blooms an' muircocks craw,
Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banes
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Now smiling summer's balmy breeze,
Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees;
The linnet greets the rosy morn,
Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn;
The bee hums round the woodbine bower,
Collecting sweets from every flower;
And pure the crystal streamlets run
Among the braes of Ballahun.
Oh, blissful days, for ever fled,
When wand'ring wild, as fancy led,
I ranged the bushy bosom'd glen,
The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn,
And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush,
Where nestling sat the speckled thrush;
Or, careless roaming, wander'd on
Among the braes of Ballahun.
Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh,
When hills and dales rebound with joy?
The flowery glen and lilied lea,
In vain display their charms to me.
I joyless roam the heathy waste,
To soothe this sad, this troubled breast;
And seek the haunts of men to shun,
Among the braes of Ballahun.
The virgin blush of lovely youth,
The angel smile of artless truth,
This breast illumed with heavenly joy,
Which lyart time can ne'er destroy.
Oh, Julia dear! the parting look,
The sad farewell we sorrowing took,
Still haunt me as I stray alone,
Among the braes of Ballahun.
 Ballahun is a romantic glen, near Blackwood House, on the river
Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander
Hills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,
Ilka knowe an' green meander,
Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!
Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
Howms whare rows the gowden wave;
Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!
I maun seek an unco grave.
Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,
Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,
That some faithfu' hand might kindly
Lay 't among my native mools.
Cronies dear, wha late an' early
Aye to soothe my sorrows strave,
Think on ane wha lo'es ye dearly,
Doom'd to seek an unco grave.
Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains,
Far frae a' that 's dear to dwall,
Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains,
Dings a dirk in my puir saul.
Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
Howms whare rows the gowden wave,
Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!
I maun seek an unco grave.
 The Clouden is a stream which flows into the Nith, at Lincluden
College, near Dumfries.
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
Ye flowery fells, and sunny braes,
Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'
The pleasures o' my youthfu' days!
Amang your leafy simmer claes,
And blushing blooms, the zephyr flies,
Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
Around the grave whare Julia lies.
Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
Can cheer the weary winged hours,
As up the glen I joyless stray;
For a' my hopes hae flown away,
And when they reach'd their native skies,
Left me amid the world o' wae,
To weet the grave where Julia lies.
It is na beauty's fairest bloom,
It is na maiden charms consign'd,
And hurried to an early tomb,
That wrings my heart and clouds my mind;
But sparkling wit, and sense refined,
And spotless truth, without disguise,
Make me with sighs enrich the wind
That fans the grave whare Julia lies.
AIR--_"Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."_
Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me,
My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee;
Ye burns that row sae bonnily,
Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see.
Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven,
My saul away could ne'er be riven;
For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,
An' sighs to be again wi' thee.
Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
An' lilt alang the verdant mead,
Or blithely on your whistles blaw,
An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's,
Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,
Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.
Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,
Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,
Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld,
Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see.
Sing o' her mountains bleak an high;
Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply;
Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;
Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.
To you the darling theme belangs,
That frae my heart exulting spangs;
Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs,
The lads that bled for liberty.
Think o' our auld forbears o' yore,
Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;
Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
An' bravely fell for you an' me.
My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,
Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,
Aye true unto your country be.
Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,
An' coost a mither's e'e on you;
Then let na ony spulzien crew
Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.
published a pamphlet "On the State of the Labouring Poor." A more
favourable specimens of his lyrical compositions.
Admiring Nature's simple charms,
I left my humble home,
Awhile my country's peaceful plains
With pilgrim step to roam.
I mark'd the leafy summer wave
On flowing Irvine's side,
But richer far 's the robe she wears
Within the vale of Clyde.
I roam'd the braes o' bonnie Doon,
The winding banks o' Ayr,
Where flutters many a small bird gay,
Blooms many a flow'ret fair.
But dearer far to me the stem
That once was Calder's pride,
And blossoms now the fairest flower
Within the vale of Clyde.
Avaunt, thou life-repressing north,
Ye withering east winds too;
But come, thou all-reviving west,
Breathe soft thy genial dew.
Till at the last, in peaceful age,
This lovely flow'ret shed
Its last green leaf upon my grave,
Within the vale of Clyde.
Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree,
The western breeze perfuming;
And softly smiles yon sunny brae,
Wi' gowans gaily blooming.
But sweeter than yon birchen tree,
Or gowans gaily blooming,
Is she, in blushing modesty,
Wha meets me there at gloaming.
Oh, happy, happy there yestreen,
In mutual transport ranging,
Among these lovely scenes, unseen,
Our vows of love exchanging.
The moon, with clear, unclouded face,
Seem'd bending to behold us;
And breathing birks, with soft embrace,
Most kindly to enfold us.
We bade each tree record our vows,
And each surrounding mountain,
With every star on high that glows
From light's o'erflowing fountain.
But gloaming gray bedims the vale,
On day's bright beam encroaching;
With rapture once again I hail
The trysting hour approaching.
Possessed of a lively and vigorous fancy, a generous warmth of
Alexander Balfour, was published in 1819.
How sweet is the scene at the waking o' morning!
How fair ilka object that lives in the view!
Dame Nature the valley an' hillock adorning,
The wild-rose an' blue-bell yet wet wi' the dew.
How sweet in the morning o' life is my Anna!
Her smiles like the sunbeam that glints on the lea;
To wander an' leave the dear lassie, I canna;
Frae Truth, Love, an' Beauty, I never can flee.
O lang hae I lo'ed her, and lo'ed her fu' dearly,
For saft is the smile o' her bonny sweet mou';
An' aft hae I read in her e'en, glancing clearly,
A language that bade me be constant an' true.
Then ithers may doat on their gowd an' their treasure;
For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea;
To lo'e my sweet lassie, be mine the dear pleasure;
Wi' her let me live, an' wi' her let me die.
Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley;
Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair!
Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily,
Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care.
The weary day lang
I list to your sang,
An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane;
Each sweet little treasure
O' heart-cheering pleasure,
Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.
Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan,
An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn;
Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing,
Sweet days o' delight, which can never return!
Now ever, wae's me!
The tear fills my e'e,
An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain;
Nae prospect returning,
To gladden life's morning,
For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo an' dearie, O;
Thy neck is like the siller dew
Upon the banks sae briery, O;
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,
O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo an' dearie, O.
The birdie sings upon the thorn,
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,
Rejoicing in the simmer morn,
Nae care to make it eerie, O;
But little kens the sangster sweet,
Ought o' the care I hae to meet,
That gars my restless bosom beat,
My only jo an' dearie, O.
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,
An' youth was blinking bonny, O,
Aft we wad daff the lee lang day,
Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O;
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
An' round about the thorny tree;
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
My only jo an' dearie, O.
I hae a wish I canna tine,
'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O;
I wish that thou wert ever mine,
An' never mair to leave me, O;
Then I wad dawt thee night an' day,
Nae ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgat to play,
My only jo an' dearie, O.
Now bank an' brae are clad in green,
An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring;
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream,
The birdies flit on wanton wing;
By Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's,
There let my Mary meet wi' me,
There catch her ilka glance o' love,
The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.
The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealth
Is aften laird o' meikle care;
But Mary she is a' my ain,
An' Fortune canna gie me mair.
Then let me stray by Cassillis' banks,
Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,
An' catch her ilka glance o' love,
The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.
 Cromeck in his "Reliques," erroneously attributes this song to
Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me down,
Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom,
How aft hae I gane, wi' a heart louping light,
To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom!
How aft hae I sat i' the beild o' the knowe,
While the laverock mounted sae hie,
An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around,
On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth,
We see na' the blasts that destroy;
We count na' upon the fell waes that may come,
An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.
I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear,
Till forced from my country to flee;
Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell,
To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!
"Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth,
Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;
Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist,
Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.
Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,
While the flood gushes down frae my e'e;
For never again shall the tear weet my cheek,
On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!
Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"--
Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa',
Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.
Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin,
Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;
But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep,
O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa,
But naething could banish my care;
An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past,
Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.
But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld,
An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee,
I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life,
To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken
The haunts that were dear ance to me;
I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,
An' the mavis now sings on the tree.
But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;
For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,
To think how at last my auld banes they will rest,
Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I 'll never gae back to my mammy again;
I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I 've held by her apron, &c.
Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue:
"O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"
An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.
"O come awa, lassie," &c.
He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';
While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain,
An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!"
While I fell on his bosom, &c.
Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e,
Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane,
Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.
Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.
For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I 've held by her apron, &c.
IRISH AIR--_"The Brown Maid."_
The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang,
Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear;
While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang,
An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear;
But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys,
Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control,
On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays,
An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!
Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier,
That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen;
When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer,
A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.
What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!
The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!
On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays,
An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!
Can ought be constant as the sun,
That makes the world sae cheerie?
Yes, a' the powers can witness be,
The love I bear my dearie.
But what can make the hours seem lang,
An' rin sae wondrous dreary?
What but the space that lies between
Me an' my only dearie.
Then fare ye weel, wha saw me aft,
Sae blythe, baith late and early;
An' fareweel scenes o' former joys,
That cherish life sae rarely;
Baith love an' beauty bid me flee,
Nor linger lang an' eerie,
But haste, an' in my arms enfauld,
My only pride an' dearie.
I 'll hail Lochaber's valleys green,
Where many a rill meanders;
I 'll hail wi' joy, its birken bowers,
For there Louisa wanders.
There will I clasp her to my breast,
An' tent her smile fu' cheerie;
An' thus, without a wish or want,
Live happy wi' my dearie.
For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie
Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa',
Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie,
An' fairies that danced till they heard the cock caw.
I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' the gloamin',
I daunder'd, alane, down the hazelwood green;
Alas! I was reckless, and rue sair my roamin',
For I met a young witch, wi' twa bonnie black e'en.
I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing,
Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless an' blue;
I looked again, an' my heart fell a-dancing,
When I wad hae spoken, she glamour'd my mou'.
O wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander,
At kirk or at market there 's nought to be seen;
For she dances afore me wherever I daunder,
The hazelwood witch wi' the bonnie black e'en.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',
Fare thee weel before I gang;
Bonny Doon, whare, early roamin',
First I weaved the rustic sang.
Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,
First enthrall'd this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.
Friends sae near my bosom ever,
Ye hae render'd moments dear;
But, alas! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, O how severe!
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
 This is another song of Richard Gall which has been assigned to
seventy-sixth year.
Now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean,
Now closed every eye but of misery and mine;
While, led by the moonbeam, in fondest devotion,
I doat on her image, the Flower of the Tyne.
Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom,
Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine;
The snow-drop and lily are lost on her bosom,
For beauty unmatched is the Flower of the Tyne.
So charming each feature, so guileless her nature,
A thousand fond voices pronounce her divine;
So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty,
That sweet is thy thraldom, fair Flower of the Tyne!
Thine aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,
The loves and the graces thy temples entwine;
In manners the saint and the syren uniting,
Bloom on, dear Louisa, the Flower of the Tyne.
Though fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains,
And graceful and straight as thine own silver pine,
Though fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains,
Yet fairer to me is the Flower of the Tyne.
This poor throbbing heart as an offering I give her,
A temple to love is this bosom of mine;
Then smile on thy victim, Louisa, for ever,
I 'll kneel at thine altar, sweet Flower of the Tyne.
proficiency in classical learning. During the first session of
"The tempest blackens on the dusky moor,
And billows lash the long-resounding shore;
In pensive mood I roam the desert ground,
And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.
Oh, whither fled the pleasurable hours
That chased each care, and fired the muse's powers;
The classic haunts of youth, for ever gay
Where mirth and friendship cheer'd the close of day,
The well-known valleys where I wont to roam,
The native sports, the nameless joys of home?
Far different scenes allure my wondering eye:
The white wave foaming to the distant sky;
The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile;
The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle,
The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow,
The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below,
The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled,
The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild!
Far different these from all that charm'd before,
The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore:
The sloping vales, with waving forests lined;
Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind.
Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey
Thy gilded turrets from the distant way!
Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil,
And joy shall hail me to my native soil."
Government in 1798, on the accusation of being a leader in the
Campbell was now a visitor in the first literary circles, and was
The future career of the poet was not remarkable for any decided
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe;
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,--
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow,
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.
In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar.
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn--
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne--
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er.
"O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!
From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
"Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"
"Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!"
"Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sank in her arms--the poor wounded hussar.
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth,
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime,
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom;
Then ceased, and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave--
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save.
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe! thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
Then Denmark bless'd our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As Death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride,
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou,
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
Men of England, who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on field and flood,
By the foes you 've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye 've done,
Trophies captured, breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreathes of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Whence no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch and tomb?
Pageants!--Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes,
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.
Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours,
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a hundred Agincourts!
We 're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny;
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights--so will we!
susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its
The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound!
They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground;
Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight,
All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.
Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear--
'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,--
The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes,
And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.
How featly they trip it! how happy are they
Who pass all their moments in frolic and play,
Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares,
And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!
But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon,
I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon--
I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?--
The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.
And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth
Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth;
Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud,
Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.
How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away,
O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,--
To have all this silence and lightness my own,
And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone!
What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around,
In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound!
The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care,
And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.
The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies,
That shower on the river their beautiful dyes,
The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields,
What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields!
Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake,
The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake;
Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how
Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now!
Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream
Gently splashing, are stirring the folds of my dream,
The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,--
And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard.
Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze,
In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,--
Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove,
Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love?
I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here;
I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near;
The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call
Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall!
There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air,
There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet,
Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart,
Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art?
The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide.
Ah! faded is that lovely bloom,
And closed in death that speaking eye,
And buried in a green grass tomb,
What once breathed life and harmony!
Surely the sky is all too dark,
And chilly blows the summer air,--
And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark,
That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?
Ah! never shalt thou wake her more!
And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again,
On inland mead, or sea-girt shore,
Salute the darling of the plain.
Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate
Numbers and strains mellifluous swell,
They knew the love I bore thee great,--
They knew not what I ne'er can tell.
The unstrung heart to others leaves
The music of a feebler woe,
Her numbers are the sighs she heaves,
Her off'ring tears that ever flow.
Where could I gather fancies now?
They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,--
My summer was thy cheek and brow,
And perish'd is that lovely bloom!
In his nineteenth year, Brown became a member of the "Academy of
 Margaret Brown, one of the three sisters of Dr Brown, published
Yes! the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted,
Each charm by endearing remembrance improved;
These walks of our love, the sweet bower thou hast planted,--
We must leave them to eyes that will view them unmoved.
Oh, weep not, my Fanny! though changed be our dwelling,
We bear with us all, in the home of our mind;
In virtues will glow that heart, fondly swelling,
Affection's best treasure we leave not behind.
I shall labour, but still by thy image attended--
Can toil be severe which a smile can repay?
How glad shall we meet! every care will be ended;
And our evening of bliss will be more than a day.
Content's cheerful beam will our cottage enlighten;
New charms the new cares of thy love will inspire;
Thy smiles, 'mid the smiles of our offspring, will lighten;
I shall see it--and oh, can I feel a desire?
When thy smile was still clouded in gloom,
When the tear was still dim in thine eye,
I thought of the virtues, scarce cold in the tomb,
And I spoke not of love to thy sigh!
I spoke not of love; yet the breast,
Which mark'd thy long anguish,--deplore
The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadst bless'd,
Though silent, was loving thee more!
How soon wert thou pledged to my arms,
Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day;
And thine eye grateful turn'd, oh, so sweet were its charms,
That it more than atoned the delay.
I fear'd not, too slow of belief--
I fear'd not, too proud of thy heart,
That another would steal on the hour of thy grief,
That thy grief would be soft to his art.
Thou heardst--and how easy allured,
Every vow of the past to forsware;
The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured,
Thou couldst smile, as thou gav'st to despair.
Ah, think not my passion has flown!
Why say that my vows now are free?
Why say--yes! I feel that my heart is my own;
I feel it is breaking for thee.
Ah! do not bid me wake the lute,
It once was dear to Henry's ear.
Now be its voice for ever mute,
The voice which Henry ne'er can hear.
Though many a month has pass'd since Spring,
His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew,
One whisper of those chords would bring,
In all its grief, our last adieu.
The songs he loved--'twere sure profane
To careless Pleasure's laughing brow
To breathe; and oh! what other strain
To Henry's lute could love allow?
Though not a sound thy soul hath caught,
To mine it looks, thus softly dead,
A sweeter tenderness of thought
Than all its living strings have shed.
Then ask me not--the charm was broke;
With each loved vision must I part;
If gay to every ear it spoke,
'Twould speak no longer to my heart.
Yet once too blest!--the moonlit grot,
Where last I gave its tones to swell;
Ah! the _last_ tones--thou heardst them not--
From other hands than mine they fell.
Still, silent slumbering, let it keep
That sacred touch! And oh! as dim
To life, would, would that I could sleep,
Could sleep, and only dream of _him_!
contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.
AIR--_"The Pride of the Broomlands."_
Sing on, thou little bird,
Thy wild notes sae loud,
O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree;
Aft beneath thy birken bow'r
I have met at e'ening hour
My young Jamie that 's far o'er the sea.
On yon bonnie heather knowes
We pledged our mutual vows,
And dear is the spot unto me;
Though pleasure I hae nane,
While I wander alane,
And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.
But why should I mourn,
The seasons will return,
And verdure again clothe the lea;
The flow'rets shall spring,
And the saft breeze shall bring,
My dear laddie again back to me.
Thou star! give thy light,
Guide my lover aright,
Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free;
Now gold I hae in store,
He shall wander no more,
No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.
"O, lassie, wilt thou go
The wild thyme 's in bloom.
And the flower 's on the lea;
Wilt thou go my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove,
I 'll range each hill and grove
On the Lomond wi' thee."
"O young men are fickle,
Nor trusted to be,
And many a native gem
Shines fair on the lea:
Thou mayst see some lovely flower,
Of a more attractive power,
And may take her to thy bower
On the Lomond wi' thee."
"The hynd shall forsake,
On the mountain the doe,
The stream of the fountain
Shall cease for to flow;
Ben-Lomond shall bend
His high brow to the sea,
Ere I take to my bower
Any flower, love, but thee."
She 's taken her mantle,
He 's taken his plaid;
He coft her a ring,
And he made her his bride:
They 're far o'er yon hills,
To spend their happy days,
And range the woody glens
'Mang the Lomond braes.
A zealous and respectable antiquary and cultivator of historical
Highlands; and an essay which he prepared, suggesting improved
 Mr Train published, in 1806, a small volume, entitled "Poetical
 Sir Walter Scott was convinced of the accuracy of the statement,
AIR--_"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen."_
The neighbours a' they wonder how
I am sae ta'en wi' Maggie,
But ah! they little ken, I trow,
How kind she 's to my doggie.
Yestreen as we linked o'er the lea,
To meet her in the gloamin';
She fondly on my Bawtie cried,
Whene'er she saw us comin'.
But was the tyke not e'en as kind,
Though fast she beck'd to pat him;
He louped up and slaked her cheek,
Afore she could win at him.
But save us, sirs, when I gaed in,
To lean me on the settle,
There rose an awfu' battle.
An' though that Maggie saw him lay
His lugs in bawthron's coggie,
She wi' the besom lounged poor chit,
And syne she clapp'd my doggie.
Sae weel do I this kindness feel,
Though Mag she isna bonnie,
An' though she 's feckly twice my age,
I lo'e her best of ony.
May not this simple ditty show,
How oft affection catches,
And from what silly sources, too,
Proceed unseemly matches;
An' eke the lover he may see,
Albeit his joe seem saucy,
If she is kind unto his dog,
He 'll win at length the lassie.
On this unfrequented plain,
What can gar thee sigh alane,
Bonnie blue-eyed lassie?
Is thy mammy dead and gane,
Or thy loving Jamie slain?
Wed anither, mak nae main,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Though I sob and sigh alane,
I was never wed to ane,
Quo' the blue-eyed lassie.
But if loving Jamie's slain,
Farewell pleasure, welcome pain,
A' the joy wi' him is gane
O' poor hapless Jessie.
Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
Was he ever true to thee,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie?
Was he ever frank and free?
Swore he constant aye to be?
Did he on the roseate lea
Ca' thee blooming Jessie?
Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
Aft he on the dewy lea,
Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie.
Weel I mind his words to me,
Were, if he abroad should die,
His last throb and sigh should be,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Far frae hame, and far frae thee,
I saw loving Jamie die,
Bonnie blue-eyed lassie.
Fast a cannon ball did flee,
Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea,
Soon in death he closed his e'e,
Swelling with a smother'd sigh,
Rose the snowy bosom high
Of the blue-eyed lassie.
Fleeter than the streamers fly,
When they flit athwart the sky,
Went and came the rosy dye
On the cheeks of Jessie.
Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd
Jamie couldna sae distress'd
See the blue-eyed lassie.
Fast he clasp'd her to his breast,
Told her a' his dangers past,
Vow'd that he would wed at last
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will,
Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still.
My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew
Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue;
Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore,
And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar,
The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh,
For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.
I love yet to roam where the beacon-light rose,
Where echoed thy slogan, or gather'd thy foes,
Whilst forth rush'd thy heroic sons to the fight,
Opposing the stranger who came in his might.
I love through thy time-fretted castles to stray,
The mould'ring halls of thy chiefs to survey;
To grope through the keep, and the turret explore,
Where waved the blue flag when the battle was o'er.
I love yet to roam o'er each field of thy fame,
Where valour has gain'd thee a glorious name;
I love where the cairn or the cromlach is made,
To ponder, for low there the mighty are laid.
Were these fall'n heroes to rise from their graves,
But let a foe face thee, raise fire on each hill,
Thy sons, my dear Scotia, will fight for thee still!
conjointly with Sir Walter Scott and Henry Weber, a learned work,
Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of
TUNE--_"My Wife 's a wanton wee Thing."_
My wife 's a winsome wee thing,
A bonnie, blythesome wee thing,
My dear, my constant wee thing,
And evermair sall be;
It warms my heart to view her,
I canna choose but lo'e her,
And oh! weel may I trow her
How dearly she lo'es me!
For though her face sae fair be,
As nane could ever mair be;
And though her wit sae rare be,
As seenil do we see;
Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me,
Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me,
Nor baith sae lang retain'd me,
But for her love to me.
When wealth and pride disown'd me,
A' views were dark around me,
And sad and laigh she found me,
As friendless worth could be;
When ither hope gaed frae me,
Her pity kind did stay me,
And love for love she ga'e me;
And that 's the love for me.
And, till this heart is cald, I
That charm of life will hald by;
And, though my wife grow auld, my
Leal love aye young will be;
For she 's my winsome wee thing,
My canty, blythesome wee thing,
My tender, constant wee thing,
And evermair sall be.
Go to him, then, if thou can'st go,
Waste not a thought on me;
My heart and mind are a' my store,
And they were dear to thee.
But there is music in his gold
(I ne'er sae sweet could sing),
That finds a chord in every breast
In unison to ring.
The modest virtues dread the spell,
The honest loves retire,
The purer sympathies of soul
Far other charms require.
The breathings of my plaintive reed
Sink dying in despair,
The still small voice of gratitude,
Even that is heard nae mair.
But, if thy heart can suffer thee,
The powerful call obey,
And mount the splendid bed that wealth
And pride for thee display.
Then gaily bid farewell to a'
Love's trembling hopes and fears,
While I my lanely pillow here
Wash with unceasing tears.
Yet, in the fremmit arms of him
That half thy worth ne'er knew,
Oh! think na on my lang-tried love,
How tender and how true!
For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart
My breaking heart to see,
Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed,
And yet maun thole for thee.
Walter Watson was the son of a handloom weaver in the village of
Besides the volume already mentioned, Watson published a small
Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,
The woods wi' leaves so green,
An' little burds around their bowers
In harmony convene;
The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,
While saft the zephyrs blaw,
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?
When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,
When Jockie 's far awa';
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?
Last May mornin', how sweet to see
The little lambkins play,
Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,
Did kindly walk this way!
On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,
To busk my bosom braw;
Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,
But now he 's far awa'.
O gentle peace, return again,
Bring Jockie to my arms,
Frae dangers on the raging main,
An' cruel war's alarms;
Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part
While we hae breath to draw;
Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,
My Jockie 's far awa';
My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.
The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander
Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,
An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,
To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;
The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',
As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',
An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'
Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.
The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,
The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,
While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,
As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.
Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,
The future, by thee, is made almost the present;
Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,
Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.
Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,
An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,
We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,
'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.
Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,
We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,
An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,
Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.
Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,
Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,
Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;
An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.
Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,
It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,
We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,
We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.
Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,
Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;
Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,
We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.
 The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,
My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;
My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang
Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.
How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,
When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,
Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes
That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.
There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,
An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"
Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,
An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.
I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,
Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,
Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,
It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.
We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,
Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,
Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled
By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.
Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,
Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,
Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,
Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
 The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about
seven miles north of Glasgow.
AIR--_"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."_
Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,
Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,
Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,
An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?
O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,
Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;
The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,
Her charms steal their luvers awa'.
I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',
Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,
Your wooers are aften complainin'
O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.
I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,
Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;
May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,
For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.
I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,
For fear some young laird o' degree
May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,
An' ding a' my prospects agee.
There 's naething like gowd to the miser,
There 's naething like light to the e'e,
But they canna gie me ony pleasure,
If Jessie prove faithless to me.
Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,
Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,
Though my words may be scant to address ye,
My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.
If ance I were wedded to Jessie,
An' that may be ere it be lang,
I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie
That ere was the theme o' a sang.
encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.
science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',
And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.
For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;
She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',
Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.
She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',
And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.
Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',
I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;
The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,
But Lucy likes Jamie;--she turn'd and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
AIR--_"Saw ye my Wee Thing."_
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,
The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;
I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,
An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;
I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on
The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,
The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;
Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,
Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;
I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,
When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',
When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;
Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',
Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,
Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;
Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,
An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,
She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;
An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever
She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.
Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',
That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';
But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain
That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.
The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain
To see my dear laddie, to see him again;
My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought
O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.
The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,
When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;
I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,
For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.
I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,
I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;
I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,
In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.
He never wad see me in ony ae place,
At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;
I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,
He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.
My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';
They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;
But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,
For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.
His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!
He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;
An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me--
I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.
subsequent to the middle of the century.
Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the
Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,
Let the flag unfold the features that the heather blossoms crown;
And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.
Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,
To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;
How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,
As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!
Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,
O'er crested chieftainry thy state, O thou, of right assuming!
I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant glory streaming,
As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.
The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,
Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.
A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,
And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?
The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,
And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.
Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?
They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.
O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,
And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;
all eyes though scanning them.
They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never
How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.
O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,
Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;
Nor wants their course the speed, the force,
--nor wants their gallant stature,
This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,
Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;
Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?
What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd,
in that cloud burst of steel,
That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,
While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,
And stranger notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!
Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,
Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed
Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,
And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,
And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.
O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,
The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,
Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,
Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson limb.
Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,
Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;
The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,
Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!
 The clan badge is a tuft of heather.
 The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.
 A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.
 Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_;
Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.
 The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed
 The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are
 The armorial emblem was gules.
 Prince Charles Edward was expected.
My brown dairy, brown dairy,
Brown dairy-maiden;
Brown dairy-maiden,
Bell of the heather!
A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;
Thy glove there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;
When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,
As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;
Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,
And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.
To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,
Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,
For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!
White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,
And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;
Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,
An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;
At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,
From the tresses they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,
And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.
Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading
O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.
Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,
How their lustre is shining in union becoming!
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying
With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,
O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,
When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!
The music of milking, with melodies lilting,
While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,
Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming
As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
 Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a
great figure in their poetry.
O that I were the shaw in,
When Morag was there,
Lots to be drawing
For the prize of the fair!
Mingling in your glee,
Merry maidens! We
Rolicking would be
The flow'rets along;
Time would pass away
In the oblivion of our play,
As we cropp'd the primrose gay,
The rock-clefts among;
Then in mock we 'd fight,
Then we 'd take to flight,
Then we 'd lose us quite,
Where the cliffs overhung.
Like the dew-drop blue
In the mist of morn
So thine eye, and thy hue
Put the blossom to scorn.
All beauties they shower
On thy person their dower;
Above is the flower,
Beneath is the stem;
'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,
'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,
'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers
The foremost of them!
Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!
As we wonder, still we say
Can it be a thing of clay
We see in that gem?
Since thy first feature
Sparkled before me,
Fair! not a creature
Was like thy glory.....
 We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or
 Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical
Away with all, away with all,
Away with all but Morag,
A maid whose grace and mensefulness
Still carries all before it.
You shall not find her marrow,
For beauty without furrow,
Though you search the islands thorough
So modest is each feature,
So void of pride her nature,
And every inch of stature
To perfect grace so true is.
O that drift, like a pillow,
We madden to share it;
O that white of the lily,
'Tis passion to near it;
Every charm in a cluster,
The rose adds its lustre--
Can it be but such muster
Should banish the Spirit!
We would strike the note of joy
In the morning,
The dawn with its orangery
The hill-tops adorning.
To bush and fell resorting,
While the shades conceal'd our courting,
Would not be lack of sporting
Or gleeful _phrenesie_;
Like the roebuck and his mate,
In their woodland haunts elate
The race we would debate
Around the tendril tree.
Thou bright star of maidens,
A beam without haze,
No murkiness saddens,
No disk-spot bewrays.
The swan-down to feeling,
The snow of the gaillin,
Thy limbs all excelling,
Unite to amaze.
The queen, I would name thee,
Of maidenly muster;
Thy stem is so seemly,
So rich is its cluster
Of members complete,
Adroit at each feat,
And thy temper so sweet,
Without banning or bluster.
My grief has press'd on
Since the vision of Morag,
As the heavy millstone
On the cross-tree that bore it.
In vain the world over,
Seek her match may the rover;
A shaft, thy poor lover,
First struck overpowering.
When thy ringlets of gold,
With the crooks of their fold,
Thy neck-wards were roll'd
All weavy and showering.
Like stars that are ring'd,
Like gems that are string'd
Are those locks, while, as wing'd
From the sun, blends a ray
Of his yellowest beams;
And the gold of his gleams
Behold how he streams
'Mid those tresses to play.
In thy limbs like the canna,
Thy cinnamon kiss,
Thy bright kirtle, we ken a'
New phœnix of bliss.
In thy sweetness of tone,
All the woman we own,
Nor a sneer nor a frown
On thy features appear;
When the crowd is in motion
For Sabbath devotion,
As an angel, arose on
Their vision, my fair
With her meekness of grace,
And the flakes of her dress,
As they stream, might express
Such loveliness there.
When endow'd at thy birth
We marvel that earth
From its mould, should yield worth
Of a fashion so rare.
I never dream'd would sink
On a peak that mounts world's brink,
Of sunlight, such a blink,
Morag! as thine.
As the charmings of a spell,
Working in their cell,
So dissolves the heart where dwell
Thy graces divine.
Come, counsel me, my comrades,
While dizzy fancy lingers,
Did ever flute become, lads,
The motion of such fingers?
Did ever isle or Mor-hir,
Or see or hear, before her,
Such gracefulness, adore her
Yet, woes me, how concealing
From her I 've wedded, dare I?
Still, homeward bound, I tarry,
And Jeanie's eye is weary,
Her truant unrevealing.
The glow of love I feel,
Not all the linns of Sheil,
Nor Cruachan's snow avail
To cool to congealing.....
My very brain is humming, sirs,
As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs,
And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs,
My passion such a flame is.
My very eyes are blinding, sirs,
Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs,
Nor height nor distance minding, sirs,
The crag, as Corrie, tame is....
 The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation
and periodic visits to the Islands.
 A snowy grass, well known in the moors.
 _Lit._, On the day of devotion.
Glad tidings for the Highlands!
To arms a ringing call--
Hammers storming, targets forming,
Orb-like as a ball.
Withers dismay the pale array,
That guards the Hanoverian;
Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er,
The help is nigh we weary on.
From friendly east a breeze shall haste
The fruit-freight of our prayer--
With thousands wight in baldrick white,
A prince to do and dare;
Stuart his name, his sire's the same,
For his riffled crown appealing,
Strong his right in, soon shall Britain
Be humbled to the kneeling.
Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield,
And firearms play defiance;
Forwards they fly, and still their cry,
Is, "Give us flesh!" like lions.
Make ready for your travel,
Be sharp-set, and be willing,
There will be a dreadful revel,
And liquor red be spilling.
O, that each chief whose warriors rife,
Are burning for the slaughter,
Would let their volley, like fire to holly,
Blaze on the usurping traitor.
Full many a soldier arming,
Is laggard in his spirit,
E'er his blood the flag is warming
Of the King that should inherit.
He may be loon or coward,
That spur scarce touch would nearly--
The colours shew, he 's in a glow,
Like the stubble of the barley.
Onward, gallants! onward speed ye,
Flower and bulwark of the Gael;
Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy,
Rosy-red, and do not quail.
Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous,
As your princely strain beseems,
In your hands, alert for conflict,
While the Spanish weapon gleams.--
Sweet the flapping of the bratach,
Humming music to the gale;
Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,
Proud the banner staff to bear.
A slashing weapon on his thigh,
He tends his charge unfearing;
Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh,
To the gristle nostrils sheering.
Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight,
The finger white, the clever, he
That gives the war-pipe his embrace
To raise the storm of bravery.
A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring
Battle-sounding breeze of her
Would stir the spirit of the clans
To rake the heart of Lucifer.
March ye, without feint and dolour,
By the banner of your clan,
In your garb of many a colour,
Quelling onset to a man.
Then, to see you swiftly baring
From the sheath the manly glaive,
Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing
Marrow-showering of the brave!
Woe the clattering, weapon-battering
Answering to the piobrach's yell!
When your racing speeds the chasing,
Wide and far the clamours swell.
Hard blows whistle from the bristle
Of the temples to the thigh,
Heavy handed as the land-flood,
Who will turn ye, or make fly?
Many a man has drunk an ocean
Healths to Charlie, to the gorge,
Broken many a glass proposing
But, 'tis feat of greater glory
Far, than stoups of wine to trowl,
One draught of vengeance deep and gory,
Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl!
Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all,
Join ye to your clans your cheer!
Nor heed though wife and child pursue all,
Bidding you to fight, forbear.
Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty,
Gallant in your loyal pride,
By your hacking, low as bracken
Stretch the foe the turf beside.
Our stinging kerne of aspect stern
That love the fatal game,
That revel rife till drunk with strife,
And dye their cheeks with flame,
Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear
Their foemen's crested brows,
The red-coats feel the barb of steel,
And hot its venom glows.
The few have won fields, many a one,
In grappling conflicts' play;
Then let us march, nor let our hearts
A start of fear betray.
Come gushing forth, the trusty North,
Macshimei, loyal Gordon;
And prances high their chivalry,
And death-dew sits each sword on.
 "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.
 The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour,
was assumed by the Jacobites.
 Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and
finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.
 Lovat and his clan.
 See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.
Does grief appeal to you, ye leal,
Heaven's tears with ours to blend?
The halo's veil is on, and pale
The beams of light descend.
The wife repines, the babe declines,
The leaves prolong their bend,
Above, below, all signs are woe,
The heifer moans her friend.
The taper's glow of waxen snow,
The ray when noon is nigh,
Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd
Our star of morn, as high
The southern west its blast released,
And drown'd in floods the sky--
Ah woe! was gone the star that shone,
Nor left a visage dry
For her, who won as win could none
The people's love so well.
O, welaway! the dirging lay
That rung from Moy its knell;
Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue,
With roses wont to dwell!
How can we think, nor swooning sink,
To earth them in the cell?
Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem,
And snowy as its flower,
So once, and now must love allow,
The grave chest such a dower!
The fairest shoot of noble root
A blast could overpower;
'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed,
That bids our eyes to shower.
Beseems his grief the princely chief,
Who reins the charger's pride,
And gives the gale the silken sail,
That flaps the standard's side;
Who from the hall where sheds at call,
The generous shell its tide,
And from the tower where Meiners' power
Prevails, brought home such bride.
 She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The
Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust,
And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground;
So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear,
Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound.
For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm
With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown;
The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued,
While the base-born by hosts is secured on the throne?
Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace,
Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small,
Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight,
But the musters that failed at the moment of call--
Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world,
Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day;
Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril,
Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array?
Where the sons of the glen, the Clan-gregor, in vain
That never were hail'd to the carnage of war--
Where Macvurich, the child of victory styled?
How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar!
Clan-donuil, my bosom friend, woe that the blossom
That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd,
Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts
Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd!
And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow
Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's command,
And the Farquharsons bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd,
So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand.
But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead,
As I think of Clan-chattan, the foremost in fight;
Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime,
And woe that the left had not stood at the right!
Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn,
And Alister Rua the king of the feast;
And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart,
Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased.
In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright,
Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced;
Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning,
When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast.
As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil,
Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather,
That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor,
Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather
Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed,
And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun,
Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger,
And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.
Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong
To our forces, the wiles of the traitor have wrought;
To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust
Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought.
His gorget he spurns, and his mantle he turns,
And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue;
But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal,
From the south or the north, the award of his due.
And fell William, the son of the man on the throne,
Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree;
May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit
Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be
As barren and bare--not a partner to share,
Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace;
Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour,
Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high,
And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey,
And the lieges each one, from the child to the man,
The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.
 George the First's Queen was a divorcée. The Jacobites retorted
 _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the
 Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton,
 Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.
 Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the
 The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into
 An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of
 The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with
 Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it
seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.
 Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.
My beauty dark, my glossy bright,
Dark beauty, do not leave me;
They call thee dark, but to my sight
Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.
'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,
Came tirling at my door,
The image of a lovely lass
That haunts me evermore.
Beside my sleeping couch she stood,
And now she mars my rest;
Still as I try the solemn mood,
She hunts it from my breast.
At lecture and at study
That ankle white I span,
Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,--
A fay I seem to scan.
Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray
That dashes to the side,
Or like the silver-tail'd that play
Their gambols in the tide.
As heaps of snow on mountain brow
When shed the clouds their fleece,
Or churn of waves when tempest raves,
Thy swelling limbs in grace.
Thy eyes are black as berries,
Thy cheeks are waxen dyed,
And on thy temple tarries
The raven's dusk, my pride!
Gives light below each slim eye-brow
A swelling orb of blue,
In April meads so glance the beads,
In May the honey-dew.
Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
But sheaf-like, neatly bound
Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
As bright thine ears around.
Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
That turret-bosom's shine!
False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
Who fain would call thee mine.
No lilts I spin, their love to win,
The viol strings I shun,
But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
My wisdom, dearest one!
 Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.
Easy is my pillow press'd
But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest;
Northwards do the shrill winds blow--
Thither do my musings go!
Better far with thee in groves,
Where the young deers sportive roam,
Than where, counting cattle droves,
I must sickly sigh for home.
Great the love I bear for her
Where the north winds wander free,
Sportive, kindly is her air,
Pride and folly none hath she!
Were I hiding from my foes,
Aye, though fifty men were near,
I should find concealment close
In the shieling of my dear.
Beauty's daughter! oh, to see
Days when homewards I 'll repair--
Joyful time to thee and me--
Fair girl with the waving hair!
Glorious all for hunting then,
The rocky ridge, the hill, the fern;
Sweet to drag the deer that 's slain
Downwards by the piper's cairn!
By the west field 'twas I told
My love, with parting on my tongue;
Long she 'll linger in that fold,
With the kine assembled long!
Dear to me the woods I know,
Far from Crieff my musings are;
Still with sheep my memories go,
On our heath of knolls afar:
Oh, for red-streak'd rocks so lone!
Where, in spring, the young fawns leap,
And the crags where winds have blown--
Cheaply I should find my sleep.
_Baldron_, name for a cat.
_Bawbee_, halfpenny.
_Bawsint_, a white spot on the forehead of cow or horse.
_Bawtie_, name for a dog.
_Beild_, shelter, refuge, protection.
_Ben_, the spence or parlour.
_Blethers_, nonsensical talk.
_Blewart_, a flower, the blue bottle, witch bells.
_Bob_, nosegay, bunch, or tuft; also to curtsey.
_Bobbin_, a weaver's quill or pirn.
_Bonspiel_, a match at archery, curling, golf, or foot-ball.
_Bourtree_, the elder tree or shrub.
_Braggin_, boasting.
_Braken_, the female fern (_pterisaquilina_, Linn.)
_Bree_, the eyebrow.
_Brogues_, shoes made of sheepskin.
_Bught_, a pen for sheep.
_Burn_, a stream.
_Buskit_, dressed tidily.
_Cairny_, heap of stones.
_Camstrarie_, froward, cross, and unmanageable.
_Cantrips_, spells, charms, incantations.
_Carline_, an old woman.
_Chap_, a blow, also a young fellow.
_Cleading_, clothing.
_Cleck_, to hatch, to breed.
_Corrie_, a hollow in a hill.
_Cower_, to crouch, to stoop.
_Cranreugh_, the hoarfrost.
_Croodle_, to coo as a dove, to sing with a low voice.
_Crowdy_, meal and cold water stirred together.
_Dab_, to peck as birds do.
_Daff_, to make sport.
_Dantit_, subdued, tamed down.
_Dawtie_, a pet, a darling.
_Doops_, dives down.
_Downa_, expressive of inability.
_Dreeping_, dripping, wet.
_Drucket_, drenched.
_Dumpish_, short and thick.
_Eirie_, dreading things supernatural.
_Eithly_, easily.
_Fardin_, farthing.
_Feckly_, mostly.
_Fend_, to provide for oneself, also to defend.
_Fleeched_, flattered, deceived.
_Forby_, besides.
_Freenge_, fringe.
_Fremmit_, strange, foreign.
_Gabbin_, jeering.
_Ganger_, a pedestrian.
_Gaucie_, plump, jolly.
_Gawkie_, a foolish female.
_Glamour_, the influence of a charm.
_Glint_, a glance.
_Gloaming_, the evening twilight.
_Glower_, to look staringly.
_Graffs_, graves.
_Grecie_, a little pig.
_Hecht_, called, named.
_Heftit_, familiarised to a place.
_Hinney_, honey, also a term of endearment.
_Hirple_, to walk haltingly.
_Howlet_, an owl.
_Hurkle_, to bow down to.
_Jaupit_, bespattered.
_Jimp_, neat, slender.
_Keust_, threw off.
_Kippered_, salmon salted, hung and dried.
_Kith_, acquaintance.
_Kittle_, difficult, uncertain.
_Lapt_, enwrapped.
_Leeze me_, a term of congratulatory endearment.
_Loof_, the palm of the hands.
_Lucken_, webbed.
_Lum_, a chimney.
_Lyart_, of a mixed colour, gray.
_Mawn_, mown, a basket.
_Mense_, honour, discretion.
_Mim_, prim, prudish.
_Mirk_, darkness.
_Mools_, dust, the earth of the grave.
_Mutch_, woman's cap.
_Naig_, a castrated horse.
_Neive_, the fist.
_Niddered_, stunted in growth.
_Niffer_, to exchange.
_Outower_, outover, also moreover.
_Paitrick_, partridge.
_Pawkie_, cunning, sly.
_Pleugh_, plough.
_Pliskie_, a trick.
_Rede_, to counsel--advice, wisdom.
_Reft_, bereft, deprived.
_Rocklay_, a short cloak or surplice.
_Roke_, a distaff, also to swing.
_Runts_, the trunks of trees, the stem of colewort.
_Saughs_, willow-trees.
_Scowl_, to frown.
_Scrimpit_, contracted.
_Scroggie_, abounding with stunted bushes.
_Shanks-naigie,_ to travel on foot.
_Sheiling_, a temporary cottage or hut.
_Sinsyne_, after that period.
_Skipt_, went lightly and swiftly along.
_Sleekit_, cunning.
_Slockin_, to allay thirst.
_Smoored_, smothered.
_Sowdie_, a heterogeneous mess.
_Spulzien_, spoiling.
_Squinting_, looking obliquely.
_Staigie_, the diminutive of staig, a young horse.
_Swither_, to hesitate.
_Tane_, the one of two.
_Tether_, halter.
_Thole_, to endure.
_Thraw_, to throw, to twist.
_Thrawart_, froward, perverse.
_Timmer_, timber.
_Tramps_, heavy-footed travellers.
_Trow_, to make believe.
_Wabster_, weaver.
_Wae_, sad, sorrowful.
_Warsled_, wrestled.
_Wat_, wet, also to know.
_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.
_Weir_, war, also to herd.
_Wysed_, enticed.
_Yeldrin_, a yellow hammer.
_Yirthen_, earthen.