human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  _(Copied by permission of Patterson & Sons)_
Scotland has probably produced a more patriotic and more extended
"Among the intelligent natives of the Highlands, it is well known
plan of 'The Modern Scottish Minstrel' restricts us to a period
ears of their children in the most plaintive measures. Innerlochy
"All that we have to offer belongs to recent times; but we cannot
propitious to the lilts and the luinneags, in which, as in her
"We are not aware that we need except any piece, out of the more
others that come into our own series, if we exclude the pathetic
'Old Bard's Wish,' 'The Song of the Owl,' and, perhaps, Ian Lom's
the strangers of the mountain whom we are to introduce to their
Latin choral metres is a light effort to the difficulty of
imitating the rhythm, or representing the peculiar vein of these
paraphrase, must not talk of the poorness or triteness of the
execute our task; and we shall rejoice if even a very moderate
degree of success should attend our endeavours to obtain for the
sister muse some share of that popularity to which we believe her
The ewie wi' the crookit horn,
O! why should old age so much wound us?
Still in the wrong,
The stipendless parson,
A song on the times,
As o'er the Highland hills I hied,
The Indian death-song,
My mother bids me bind my hair,
The flowers of the forest,
The season comes when first we met,
Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore,
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
The lot of thousands,
Cauld kail in Aberdeen,
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
The sheeling,
The ewe-bughts, Marion,
"     "    Part II.,
Why tarries my love?
The banks of the Dee,
My boy, Tammy,
Oh, tell me how for to woo,
Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
Come under my plaidie,
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane,
My luve's in Germany,
Dinna think, bonnie lassie,
Oh, where, tell me where?
Oh, my love, leave me not,
Logan braes,
The winter sat lang,
The troops were embarked,
The rantin' Highlandman,
Up in the mornin' early,
Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff,
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why?
The hawthorn,
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds!
The maid of Llanwellyn,
Good night, good night!
Though richer swains thy love pursue,
Poverty parts good companie,
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
Hooly and fairly,
The weary pund o' tow,
The wee pickle tow,
The gowan glitters on the sward,
Saw ye Johnnie comin'?
It fell on a morning,
Woo'd, and married, and a',
Up among yon cliffy rocks,
The lea rig,
John Anderson, my jo (a continuation),
Fair, modest flower,
Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde,
Now winter's wind sweeps,
The hawk whoops on high,
The tears I shed must ever fall,
Returning spring, with gladsome ray,
The ploughman,
Caller herrin',
The land o' the leal,
Her home she is leaving,
The bonniest lass in a' the warld,
My ain kind dearie, O!
He 's lifeless amang the rude billows,
Joy of my earliest days,
Oh, weel's me on my ain man,
Kind Robin lo'es me
Kitty Reid's house,
The robin's nest,
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' ye a'!
Cauld kail in Aberdeen,
He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,
The lass o' Gowrie,
There grows a bonnie brier bush,
Will ye no come back again?
Jamie the laird,
Songs of my native land,
The auld house,
The hundred pipers,
The women are a' gane wud,
The heiress,
The mitherless lammie,
The attainted Scottish nobles,
True love is watered aye wi' tears,
Ah, little did my mother think,
Would you be young again?
Rest is not here,
Here's to them that are gane,
Farewell, O farewell!
The dead who have died in the Lord,
Blaw saftly, ye breezes,
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream,
My dear little lassie,
"Friendship, love, and truth,"
The Swiss cowherd's song in a foreign land,
German war-song,
Verses to a robin-redbreast,
Slavery that was,
Rural content, or the muirland farmer,
Coquet water,
The young maid's wish for peace,
The fiddler's widow,
Lament for the death of an Irish chief,
The departure of summer,
It was an English ladye bright,
Where shall the lover rest,
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,
The heath this night must be my bed,
The imprisoned huntsman,
He is gone on the mountain,
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
Allen-a-Dale,
The cypress wreath,
The cavalier,
Hunting song,
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
The song of winter,
The song of the forsaken drover,
Isabel Mackay--the maid alone,
Evan's Elegy,
A clagionn--the skull,
Am bruadar--the dream,
Mairi bhān ōg (Mary, the young, the fair-haired),
The bard to his musket,
Oran na h-aois (the song of age),
Among those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a
Episcopal or non-juring clergy of Scotland. They bore the latter
"A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place."
"Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree," &c.
"Amusements of Leisure Hours; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the
descendants in the fourth generation.
Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them:
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory all agree,
To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
And cheerful sing alang wi' me
O Tullochgorum 's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
And make a happy quorum;
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays?
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their _allegros_ and a' the rest,
They canna' please a Scottish taste,
Let warldly worms their minds oppress
Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
Like old philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever try to shake a fit
May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them:
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
That 's fond o' Tullochgorum!
But for the sullen, frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him;
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae 's me for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Wha e'er he be that winna dance
When first I cam to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know;
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there and everywhere
Was like a morn in May;
No care I had, nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have past
In country or in town;
I still was pleased where'er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tuned my pipe and pleased myself
Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For _love_, I heard, gave one an air
And e'en improved the mind:
On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fix'd my eyes,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,
I offer'd many a vow;
And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breathed my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the girl, and tuned my pipe
When _love_ had thus my heart beguiled
With foolish hopes and vain;
To _friendship's_ port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain;
A friend I got by lucky chance,
'Twas something like divine,
An honest friend 's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine;
And now whatever might betide
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply.
A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;
He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
I hied me home, and tuned my pipe
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would a _patriot_ turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes
Their manly spirit I admired,
And praised their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain'd the public weal;
But e'er a month or two had pass'd,
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas _self_ and _party_, after all,
For a' the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I cursed them a', and tuned my pipe
What next to do I mused awhile,
Still hoping to succeed;
I pitch'd on _books_ for company,
And gravely tried to read:
I bought and borrow'd everywhere,
And studied night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote
That happen'd in my way:
Philosophy I now esteem'd
The ornament of youth,
And carefully through many a page
I hunted after truth.
A thousand various schemes I tried,
And yet was pleased with none;
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe
And now, ye youngsters everywhere,
That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,
Is but an empty name,
And _girls_, and _friends_, and _books_, and so,
You 'll find them all the same.
Then be advised, and warning take
From such a man as me;
I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,
Nor one of high degree;
You 'll meet displeasure everywhere;
Then do as I have done,
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves
Were I but able to rehearse
My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw;
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Wha had kent her might hae sworn
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa'.
I never needed tar nor keil
To mark her upo' hip or heel,
Her crookit horn did as weel
To ken her by amo' them a';
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor caw;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind nor wet could never wrang her,
Anes she lay an ouk and langer
Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw:
And eat the kail, for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never play'd the like,
But tyc'd about the barn wa';
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.
A better or a thriftier beast
Nae honest man could weel hae wist,
For, silly thing, she never mist
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa':
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock,
And now the laddie has a flock
O' mair nor thirty head ava';
And now the laddie has a flock, &c.
I lookit aye at even' for her,
Lest mishanter should come o'er her,
Or the fowmart might devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa;
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Well deserved baith girse and corn,
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa';
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.
Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can speak it without _greeting_?)
A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a':
I sought her sair upo' the morn,
And down aneath a buss o' thorn
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,
But my Ewie was awa';
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.
O! gin I had the loon that did it,
Sworn I have as well as said it,
Though a' the warld should forbid it,
I wad gie his neck a thra':
I never met wi' sic a turn
As this sin' ever I was born,
My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn,
Silly Ewie, stown awa';
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.
O! had she died o' crook or cauld,
As Ewies do when they grow auld,
It wad na been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':
For a' the claith that we hae worn,
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
The loss o' her we could hae born,
Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa';
The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.
But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,
I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife
Will never win aboon 't ava:
O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call your muses up and mourn,
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn
Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.
O! why should old age so much wound us?
There is nothing in it all to confound us:
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oys all around us;
For how happy now am I, &c.
We began in the warld wi' naething,
And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankful hearts were glad,
When we got the bit meat and the claithing;
We made use of what we had, &c.
We have lived all our lifetime contented,
Since the day we became first acquainted:
It 's true we 've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour,
But we never yet repined or lamented;
It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.
When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit,
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit;
But we always gave a share
Of the little we could spare,
When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it;
But we always gave a share, &c.
We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,
By means that were cunning or stealthy;
But we always had the bliss--
And what further could we wiss?--
To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy;
But we always had the bliss, &c.
What though we cannot boast of our guineas?
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies;
And these, I 'm certain, are
More desirable by far
Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies;
And these, I am certain, are, &c.
We have seen many wonder and ferly,
Of changes that almost are yearly,
Among rich folks up and down,
Both in country and in town,
Who now live but scrimply and barely;
Among rich folks up and down, &c.
Then why should people brag of prosperity?
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity;
Indeed, we 've been in want,
And our living 's been but scant,
Yet we never were reduced to need charity;
Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.
In this house we first came together,
Where we 've long been a father and mither;
And though not of stone and lime,
It will last us all our time;
And I hope we shall ne'er need anither;
And though not of stone and lime, &c.
And when we leave this poor habitation,
We 'll depart with a good commendation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better house than this,
To make room for the next generation;
We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.
Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.
 This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long
lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.
It has long been my fate to be thought in the _wrong_,
And my fate it continues to be;
The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
And the clerk and the cottar agree.
There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say,
But some one or other thinks wrong;
And to please them I find there is no other way,
But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.
Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined
In sense to a wondrous degree;
Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
And it 's _wrong_ not to seek to be free."
Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share
Of talents would raise you much higher,
Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
And it 's _wrong_ in you not to aspire."
Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life
Is surely deserving of blame?
You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
And it 's _wrong_ not to lay up for them."
Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drink
Is the true _summum bonum_ of man:
Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
And it 's _wrong_ not to live while you can."
Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,
Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
And it 's _wrong_ to look for it without them."
Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
"Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen,
And it 's _wrong_ in you even to smile."
Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
"Sir, whatever your character be,
To obey you in this I will never be brought,
And it 's _wrong_ to be meddling with me."
Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
"Our matters to ruin must go:
Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
And it 's _wrong_ to neglect the house so."
Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
And I 'm censured by old and by young,
Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
That in something I 'm still in the _wrong_.
But let them say on to the end of the song,
It shall make no impression on me:
If to differ from such be to be in the _wrong_,
In the _wrong_ I hope always to be.
TUNE--_"Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen."_
There lives a lassie i' the braes,
And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,
When she has on her Sunday's claes,
Ye never saw a lady brawer;
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!
Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,
She 's a black-eyed wanton witch,
Ye winna shaw me mony like her:
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!
A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer,
Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,
And nae a swankie far nor near,
But tries wi' a' his might to win her:
They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!
For kindly though she be, nae doubt,
She manna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rink about,
Like Highland cowt amo' the heather:
Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
It 's seven year, and some guid mair,
Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,
Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;
So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
Neist to him came Baltic John,
Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,
Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan,
And in a month or twa forgat her:
Baltic John was wooing at her,
Courting her, but cudna get her;
Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.
Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle,
Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;
Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle,
Wi' might and main he would be at her:
Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
Now Monkey French is in a roar,
And swears that nane but he sall hae her,
Though he sud wade through bluid and gore,
It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her:
So Monkey French is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien',
Need na think that she 'll come to them;
They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin,
And grace and guid have flown frae them;
They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
A stately chiel they ca' John Bull
Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;
And gin he cud get a' his wull,
There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:
Johnny Bull is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,
Wadna care to speir about her;
And swears, till he sall breathe his last,
He 'll never happy be without her:
Irish Teague is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
But Donald Scot 's the happy lad,
Though a' the lave sud try to rate him;
Whan he steps up the brae sae glad,
She disna ken maist whare to set him:
Donald Scot is wooing at her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice--
I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her;
As ye are happy, sae be wise,
And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.
Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin',
Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;
And gin ye had her a' your ain,
Ye might na find it mows to guide her:
Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her;
How happy a life does the Parson possess,
Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;
Who depends on his book and his gown for support,
And derives no preferment from conclave or court!
Derry down, &c.
Without glebe or manse settled on him by law,
No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;
In discharge of his office he holds him content,
With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
Derry down, &c.
With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,
And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then;
With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share,
And ease him at all times of family care.
Derry down, &c.
With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,
And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest;
To afford him instruction each day of the week.
Derry down, &c.
What children he has, if any are given,
He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven;
To religion and virtue he trains them while young,
And with such a provision he does them no wrong.
Derry down, &c.
With labour below, and with help from above,
He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love:
Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant,
He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want.
Derry down, &c.
With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd,
He sits in his closet and studies his text;
And while he converses with Moses or Paul,
He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
Derry down, &c.
Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,
Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,
He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,
And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer.
Derry down, &c.
In what little dealings he 's forced to transact,
He determines with plainness and candour to act;
And the great point on which his ambition is set,
Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
Derry down, &c.
Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life,
Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife;
On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look,
And at home always pleased with his wife and his book.
Derry down, &c.
And when, in old age, he drops into the grave,
This humble remembrance he wishes to have:
"By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,
Contented he lived, and lamented he died!"
Derry down, &c.
When fops and fools together prate,
O'er punch or tea, of this or that,
What silly poor unmeaning chat
Does all their talk engross!
A nobler theme employs my lays,
And thus my honest voice I raise
In well-deserved strains to praise
The worthy Man of Ross.
His lofty soul (would it were mine!)
Scorns every selfish, low design,
And ne'er was known to repine,
At any earthly loss:
But still contented, frank, and free,
In every state, whate'er it be,
Serene and staid we always see
The worthy Man of Ross.
Let misers hug their worldly store,
And gripe and pinch to make it more;
Their gold and silver's shining ore
He counts it all but dross:
'Tis better treasure he desires;
A surer stock his passion fires,
And mild benevolence inspires
The worthy Man of Ross.
When want assails the widow's cot,
Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,
When blasting winds or foggy rot
Augment the farmer's loss:
The sufferer straight knows where to go,
With all his wants and all his woe;
For glad experience leads him to
The worthy Man of Ross.
This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,
With vocal note and lyric string,
And duly, when I 've drank the king,
He 'll be my second toss.
May Heaven its choicest blessings send
On such a man, and such a friend;
And still may all that 's good attend
The worthy Man of Ross.
Now, if you ask about his name,
And where he lives with such a fame,
Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,
For truly, _inter nos_,
'Tis what belongs to you and me,
And all of high or low degree,
In every sphere to try to be
The worthy Man of Ross.
TUNE--_"Broom of the Cowdenknows."_
When I began the world first,
It was not as 'tis now;
For all was plain and simple then,
And friends were kind and true:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
The times that I now see;
I think the world 's all gone wrong,
From what it used to be.
There were not then high capering heads,
Prick'd up from ear to ear;
And cloaks and caps were rarities,
For gentle folks to wear:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
There 's not an upstart mushroom now,
But what sets up for taste;
And not a lass in all the land,
But must be lady-dress'd:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
Our young men married then for love,
So did our lasses too;
And children loved their parents dear,
As children ought to do:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
For oh, the times are sadly changed--
A heavy change indeed!
For truth and friendship are no more,
And honesty is fled:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
There 's nothing now prevails but pride,
Among both high and low;
And strife, and greed, and vanity,
Is all that 's minded now:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.
When I look through the world wide,
How times and fashions go,
It draws the tears from both my eyes,
And fills my heart with woe:
Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
The times that I now see;
I wish the world were at an end,
For it will not mend for me!
Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of
TUNE--_"As I came in by Auchindoun."_
As o'er the Highland hills I hied,
The Camerons in array I spied;
Lochiel's proud standard waving wide,
In all its ancient glory.
The martial pipe loud pierced the sky,
The bard arose, resounding high
Their valour, faith, and loyalty,
That shine in Scottish story.
No more the trumpet calls to arms,
Awaking battle's fierce alarms,
But every hero's bosom warms
With songs of exultation.
While brave Lochiel at length regains,
Through toils of war, his native plains,
And, won by glorious wounds, attains
His high paternal station.
Let now the voice of joy prevail,
And echo wide from hill to vale;
Ye warlike clans, arise and hail
Your laurell'd chiefs returning.
O'er every mountain, every isle,
Let peace in all her lustre smile,
And discord ne'er her day defile
With sullen shades of mourning.
M'Leod, M'Donald, join the strain,
Through all your bounds let gladness reign,
Both prince and patriot praising;
Whose generous bounty richly pours
The streams of plenty round your shores;
To Scotia's hills their pride restores,
Her faded honours raising.
Let all the joyous banquet share,
Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare,
With scowling brow, to overbear,
A vassal's right invading.
Let Freedom's conscious sons disdain
To crowd his fawning, timid train,
Nor even own his haughty reign,
Their dignity degrading.
Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbroke
Has still repell'd the tyrant's shock;
Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke,
With servile base prostration;--
Let each now train his trusty band,
'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand,
With undivided heart and hand,
Regiment of Light Horse, and afterwards physician in Savoy. By
contracting an early marriage, in which affection overcame more
prudential considerations, both her parents gave offence to their
The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:
Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
I go to the land where my father is gone;
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain,
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.
My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my boddice blue.
"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?"
Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
While Lubin is away.
'Tis sad to think the days are gone,
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Now Lubin is away.
Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,
Through mazy windings o'er the plain;
I 'll in some lonely cave reside,
And ever mourn my faithful swain.
Flower of the forest was my love,
Soft as the sighing summer's gale,
Gentle and constant as the dove,
Blooming as roses in the vale.
Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,
For me he search'd the banks around;
But, ah! the sad and fatal day,
My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.
Now droops the willow o'er the stream;
Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;
Dire fancy paints him in my dream;
Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.
 Of the "Flowers of the Forest," two other versions appear in the
The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,
Which time can ne'er restore?
O! days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you, indeed, for ever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;
In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace;
But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!
Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore
Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate in my heart;
In echo's cave I long to dwell,
And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doom'd to part.
Bright eyes! O that the task were mine,
To guard the liquid fires that shine,
And round your orbits play--
To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay!
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
Which animates this mortal clay;
For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain,
With hopes that we shall meet again!
Yet will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast,
Of kind affections finely wrought.
Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart,
Deserve its love as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,
If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!
 These lines were addressed by Mrs Hunter to her daughter, on the
When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close conceal'd,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be reveal'd.
'Tis hard to smile when one would weep,
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.
Yet such the lot by thousands cast,
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.
But Nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointments cannot come,
And Time guides, with unerring feet,
The weary wanderers home.
"Cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Strabogie;
But yet I fear they 'll cook o'er soon,
And never warm the cogie."
"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Strabogie,
Where ilka lad maun hae his lass,
But I maun hae my cogie."
There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Strabogie;
Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,
Ye 're welcome to your cogie.
And ye may sit up a' the night,
And drink till it be braid daylight;
Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.
In cotillions the French excel,
John Bull loves country dances;
The Spaniards dance fandangoes well;
Mynheer an all'mande prances;
In foursome reels the Scots delight,
At threesomes they dance wondrous light,
But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,
Danced to the reel o' Bogie.
Come, lads, and view your partners weel,
Wale each a blythesome rogie;
I'll tak this lassie to mysel',
She looks sae keen and vogie.
Now, piper lads, bang up the spring,
The country fashion is the thing,
To pree their mou's ere we begin
To dance the reel o' Bogie.
Now ilka lad has got a lass,
Save yon auld doited fogie,
And ta'en a fling upon the grass,
As they do in Strabogie.
But a' the lasses look sae fain,
We canna think oursel's to hain,
For they maun hae their come again,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.
Now a' the lads hae done their best,
Like true men o' Strabogie,
We 'll stop a while and tak' a rest,
And tipple out a cogie.
Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,
And try ilk ither to surpass,
In wishing health to every lass,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch!
She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,
She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;
But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,
She 's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie!
Oh, she was a canty quean,
An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch!
How happy I, had she been mine,
Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch!
Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear,
Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!
To me she ever will be dear,
Though she's for ever left her Johnnie!
Dr Couper published "Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language"
Red gleams the sun on yon hill-tap,
The dew sits on the gowan;
Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey,
Around Kinrara rowan.
Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass?
Alas! wert thou but near me,
Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye,
Would ever, ever cheer me.
The lav'rock sings among the clouds,
The lambs they sport so cheerie,
And I sit weeping by the birk:
O where art thou, my dearie?
Aft may I meet the morning dew,
Lang greet till I be weary;
Thou canna, winna, gentle maid!
Thou canna be my dearie.
TUNE--_"The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre."_
Oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain,
And smooth skims the hare o'er the plain;
At noon, the cool shade by the fountain
Is sweet to the lass and her swain.
The ev'ning sits down dark and dreary;
Oh, yon 's the loud joys of the ha';
The laird sings his dogs and his dearie--
Oh, he kens na his singin' ava.
But oh, my dear lassie, when wi' thee,
What 's the deer and the maukin to me?
The storm soughin' wild drives me to thee,
And the plaid shelters baith me and thee.
The wild warld then may be reeling,
Pride and riches may lift up their e'e;
My plaid haps us baith in the sheeling--
That 's a' to my lassie and me.
Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion?
It was ther I forgather'd wi' thee;
The sun smiled sweet ower the mountain,
And saft sough'd the leaf on the tree.
Thou wast fair, thou wast bonnie, my Marion,
And lovesome thy rising breast-bane;
The dew sat in gems ower thy ringlets,
By the thorn when we were alane.
There we loved, there thou promised, my Marion,
Thy soul--a' thy beauties were mine;
Crouse we skipt to the ha' i' the gloamin',
But few were my slumbers and thine.
Fell war tore me lang frae thee, Marion,
Lang wat'ry and red was my e'e;
The pride o' the field but inflamed me
To return mair worthy o' thee.
Oh, aye art thou lovely, my Marion,
Thy heart bounds in kindness to me;
And here, oh, here is my bosom,
That languish'd, my Marion, for thee.
numerous relatives, she contrived to find leisure for occasional
respecting any composition in Scottish verse.
In the "Pirate," published in 1823, the author of "Waverley" had
"Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent;
Despair it was come, and she thought it content;
She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale,
And she droop'd like a snowdrop broke down by the hail!"
 "She was entertaining a large party of distinguished guests at
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's come hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride,
But saving a crown-piece, he had naething beside;
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.
He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away;
My mither she fell sick--my Jamie at the sea;
And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.
My father couldna wark, and my mither couldna spin;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;--
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
Said, "Jeanie, oh, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?"
My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
The ship was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?
My father urged me sair--my mither didna speak;
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea--
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."
Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I gied him a kiss, and bade him gang awa';--
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee;
For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!
I gang like a ghaist, and carena much to spin;
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For oh, Robin Gray, he is kind to me!
The spring had pass'd over, 'twas summer nae mair,
And, trembling, were scatter'd the leaves in the air;
"Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, "we kindly agree,
For wae looks the sun when he shines upon me."
Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent;
Despair it was come, and she thought it content;
She thought it content, but her cheek was grown pale,
And she droop'd like a snow-drop broke down by the hail.
Her father was sad, and her mother was wae,
But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray;
He wander'd his lane, and his face was as lean
As the side of a brae where the torrents have been.
He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would take,
And often he said, "It is best, for her sake!"
While Jeanie supported his head as he lay,
The tears trickled down upon auld Robin Gray.
"Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie!" said he, wi' a groan;
"I 'm nae worth your sorrow--the truth maun be known;
Send round for your neighbours--my hour it draws near,
And I 've that to tell that it 's fit a' should hear.
"I 've wrang'd her," he said, "but I kent it o'er late;
I 've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date;
But a 's for the best, since my death will soon free
A faithfu' young heart, that was ill match'd wi' me.
"I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day,
The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay;
I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet o' her vow;--
In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow!
"I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee;
I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me;
While she fed your parents, oh! did you not say,
You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray?
"But sickness at hame, and want at the door--
You gi'ed me your hand, while your heart it was sore;
I saw it was sore, why took I her hand?
Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land!
"How truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight!
For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white;
White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me.
Oh, Jeanie, I 'm thankfu'--I 'm thankfu' to dee!
"Is Jamie come here yet?" and Jamie he saw;
"I 've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a';
Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be!
Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me."
They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face
Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by grace;
"Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en he will be,
Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win thee?"
The first days were dowie, while time slipt awa';
But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of a'
Was thinking she couldna be honest and right,
Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart was sae light.
But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away,
The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay;
A bonnie wee bairn--the auld folks by the fire--
Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire!
"Nae questions he spier'd her concerning her health,
He look'd at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth;
When his heart it grew grit, and, sighin', he feign'd
To gang to the door to see if it rain'd."
Why tarries my love?
Ah! where does he rove?
My love is long absent from me.
Come hither, my dove,
I 'll write to my love,
And send him a letter by thee.
To find him, swift fly!
The letter I 'll tie
Secure to thy leg with a string.
Ah! not to my leg,
Fair lady, I beg,
But fasten it under my wing.
Her dove she did deck,
She drew o'er his neck
A bell and a collar so gay;
She tied to his wing
The scroll with a string,
Then kiss'd him and sent him away.
It blew and it rain'd,
The pigeon disdain'd
To seek shelter; undaunted he flew,
Till wet was his wing,
And painful his string,
So heavy the letter it grew.
It flew all around,
Till Colin he found,
Then perch'd on his head with the prize;
Whose heart, while he reads,
With tenderness bleeds,
For the pigeon that flutters and dies.
"'And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.'
"'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the _wood-pigeon coo'd from the tree_;
At the foot of a rock, where the _wild rose was growing_,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee."
'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree,
At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.
Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever,
For there first I gain'd the affection and favour
Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.
But now he 's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
To quell the proud rebels--for valiant is he;
And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,
To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
He 's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows,
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,
And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows,
The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.
But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him,
Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;
And when he returns, with such care I 'll watch o'er him,
He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying,
The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing,
While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying,
And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.
obstacle.
subsequently endeavoured to suppress. For several years, Macneill
manners, and a decorum of expression, with no small skill in the
dramatic management of the stories." The ballad of "Scotland's
intemperance.
During his latter years, Macneill was much cherished among the
composure, and full of hope.
Stirling, for communicating some interesting letters of Macneill,
"Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing?
Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee?
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'?
Sought she the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree?
Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"
"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin',
Down by the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree.
Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!"
"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
It was na my true love, ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart--modest her nature;
She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary;
Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;--
Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."
"It was, then, your Mary; she 's frae Castlecary;
It was, then, your true love I met by the tree;--
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me."
Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew;
Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e--
"Ye 's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning;
Defend, ye fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie."
"Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling;--
Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing--
Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
"Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing?
Is it my true love here that I see?"
"Oh, Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart 's constant to me;
I 'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"
 This song was first published, in May 1791, in _The Bee_, an
Edinburgh periodical, conducted by Dr James Anderson.
"Whare hae ye been a' day,
My boy, Tammy?
Whare hae ye been a' day,
My boy, Tammy?"
"I 've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green, and mountain gray,
Courting o' this young thing,
Just come frae her mammy."
"And whare got ye that young thing,
My boy, Tammy?"
"I gat her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a broomy knowe,
Herding a wee lamb and ewe
For her poor mammy."
"What said ye to the bonnie bairn,
My boy, Tammy?"
"I praised her een, sae bonny blue,
Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou';
I pree'd it aft, as ye may true;--
She said she 'd tell her mammy.
"I held her to my beating heart,
My young, my smiling lammie!
'I hae a house, it cost me dear;
I 've wealth o' plenishin' and gear;--
Ye 'se get it a', were 't ten times mair,
Gin ye will leave your mammy.'
"The smile gaed aff her bonnie face--
'I maunna leave my mammy;
She 's gi'en me meat, she 's gi'en me claise,
She 's been my comfort a' my days;
My father's death brought mony waes--
I canna leave my mammy.'"
"We 'll tak her hame, and mak her fain,
My ain kind-hearted lammie;
We 'll gi'e her meat, we 'll gi'e her claise,
We 'll be her comfort a' her days."
The wee thing gi'es her hand and says--
"There! gang and ask my mammy."
"Has she been to kirk wi' thee,
My boy, Tammy?"
"She has been to kirk wi' me,
And the tear was in her e'e;
But, oh! she 's but a young thing,
Just come frae her mammy."
"Oh, tell me, bonnie young lassie!
Oh, tell me how for to woo!
Oh, tell me, bonnie sweet lassie!
Oh, tell me how for to woo!
Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning?
Lips, like the roses, fresh moisten'd wi' dew;
Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning?
Oh, tell me how for to woo!
"Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie!
Far hae I ventured across the saut sea;
Far hae I travell'd ower moorland and mountain,
Houseless and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea.
Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak love to onie,
For ne'er lo'ed I onie till ance I lo'ed you;
Now we 're alane in the green-wood sae bonnie--
Oh, tell me how for to woo!"
"What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie?
What care I for your crossing the sea?
It was na for naething ye left poor young Peggie;
It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me.
Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie?
Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew?
A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie?
Without this ye never need try for to woo."
"I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie;
I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew;
I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty,
I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true.
I cam' na for tocher--I ne'er heard o' onie;
I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow:
I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie:
I little thocht this was the way for to woo."
"Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd
He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see.
The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer,
And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me.
Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses!
And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow,
He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses,
And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo."
"Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller,
His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree;
His speeches for _true love_ may drap sweet as honey,
But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like _me_.
The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion--
The faster they fa' as the heart is least true;
The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo."
"Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning?
Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'?
Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain?
What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo?
Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie;
Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue;
Wi' health we 'll hae plenty--I 'll never gang gaudie;
I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true."
She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom,
The saft tear o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e;
The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit,
And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree.
He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny;
And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou';
And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie,
"Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."
 Mr Graham, of Gartmore, an intimate friend of Hector Macneill,
"Then, tell me how to woo thee, love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me."
This was published by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Minstrelsy of the
Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
Silken snood, and face sae fair;
Lassie wi' the yellow hair,
Thinkna to deceive me.
Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
Flattering smile, and face sae fair,
Fare ye weel! for never mair
Johnnie will believe ye.
Oh, no! Mary Bawn, ye 'll nae mair deceive me.
Smiling, twice ye made me troo,
Twice, poor fool! I turn'd to woo;
Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow;
Now I 've sworn to leave ye.
Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow;
Twice, poor fool! I 've learn'd to rue;
Come ye yet to mak me troo?
Thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.
Oh, no! Mary Bawn; thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.
Mary saw him turn to part;
Deep his words sank in her heart;
Soon the tears began to start--
"Johnnie, will ye leave me?"
Soon the tears began to start,
Grit and gritter grew his heart;
"Yet a word before we part,
Love could ne'er deceive ye.
Oh, no! Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo;
Oh, no! Johnnie doo--love could ne'er deceive ye."
Johnnie took a parting keek;
Saw the tears drap owre her cheek;
Pale she stood, but couldna speak--
Mary 's cured o' smiling.
Johnnie took anither keek--
Beauty's rose has left her cheek;
Pale she stands, and canna speak.
This is nae beguiling.
Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, dear Mary Bawn;
Oh, no; Mary Bawn--love has nae beguiling.
"Come under my plaidie, the night 's gaun to fa';
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw;
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
I 'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me!
There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa."
"Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa,
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw;
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, I 'll no sit beside ye;
Ye may be my gutcher;--auld Donald, gae 'wa.
I 'm gaun to meet Johnnie, he 's young and he 's bonnie;
He 's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw;
Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly!
His cheek 's like the new rose, his brow 's like the snaw."
"Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa';
Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
The hale o' his pack he has now on his back--
He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
Be frank now and kindly; I 'll busk ye aye finely;
To kirk or to market they 'll few gang sae braw;
A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'."
"My father 's aye tauld me, my mither and a',
Ye 'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw;
It 's true I lo'e Johnnie, he 's gude and he 's bonnie;
But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava.
I hae little tocher; you 've made a gude offer;
I 'm now mair than twenty--my time is but sma';
Sae gi'e me your plaidie, I 'll creep in beside ye--
I thocht ye 'd been aulder than threescore and twa."
She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa',
Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a';
The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa.
He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary;
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw;
The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women
Wad marry Auld Nick if he 'd keep them aye braw."
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane,
He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me;
He 's willing to mak' me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue,
And a pair o' mittens o' green;
The price was a kiss o' my mou',
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land and their lordly degree;
I carena for aught but my dear,
For he 's ilka thing lordly to me:
His words are sae sugar'd and sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa'!
I listen, poor fool! and I greet;
Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!
"Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer,
"Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say;
Though we 've little to brag o', near fear--
What 's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care;
Now we, though we 've naething but health,
Are cantie and leal evermair.
"O Marion! the heart that is true,
Has something mair costly than gear!
Ilk e'en it has naething to rue,
Ilk morn it has naething to fear.
Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store,
And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;
Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!"
He ends wi' a kiss and a smile--
Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss?
My laddie 's unpractised in guile,
He 's free aye to daut and to kiss!
Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks--I hae gi'en my consent,
And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!
 The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is
When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away,
Sadd'ning to Mora;
Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow.
"Loud howls the stormy wist,
Cold, cold is winter's blast;
Haste, then, O Donald, haste,
Twice twelve long months are o'er,
Since on a foreign shore
You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora."
"'Where now is Donald dear?'
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
'Say, is he still sincere
To his loved Flora?'
Parents upbraid my moan,
Each heart is turn'd to stone:
'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone,
"Come, then, O come away!
Donald, no longer stay;
Where can my rover stray
From his loved Flora!
Ah! sure he ne'er can be
False to his vows and me;
Oh, Heaven!--is not yonder he,
Bounding o'er Mora!"
"Never, ah! wretched fair!"
Sigh'd the sad messenger,
"Never shall Donald mair
Meet his loved Flora!
Cold as yon mountain snow
Donald thy love lies low;
He sent me to soothe thy woe,
"Well fought our gallant men
On Saratoga's plain;
Thrice fled the hostile train
From British glory.
But, ah! though our foes did flee,
Sad was such victory--
Truth, love, and loyalty
Fell far from Mora.
"'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,'
Donald, expiring, said;
'Give it to yon dear maid
Tell her, O Allan! tell
Donald thus bravely fell,
And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora.'"
Mute stood the trembling fair,
Speechless with wild despair;
Then, striking her bosom bare,
Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora!
Was all the fond heart could say:
At length the sound died away
TUNE--_"Ye Jacobites by name."_
My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame;
My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame;
My luve 's in Germanie,
Fighting brave for royalty:
He may ne'er his Jeanie see--
Send him hame.
He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame, send him hame;
He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame;
He 's as brave as brave can be,
He wad rather fa' than flee;
His life is dear to me--
Send him hame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame,
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame;
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
But he fell in Germanie,
In the cause of royalty,
Bonnie dame.
He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's slain, Willie 's slain;
He 'll ne'er come ower the sea,
To his love and ain countrie:
This warld 's nae mair for me--
Willie 's gane!
"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee."
"Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me."
"It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
"Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie;
And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie."
"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
"Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie;
And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me."
"Oh, never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee!
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;"
Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;"
Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie;
America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at
On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late
"Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?"
"He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.
He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."
"Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?"
"He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away.
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away."
"Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?"
"A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star;
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star."
"Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound,
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound!"
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!"
"But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds;
But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds.
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
AIR--_"Bealach na Gharraidh."_
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Oh, my love, leave me not!
Lonely and weary.
Could you but stay a while,
And my fond fears beguile,
I yet once more could smile,
Lightsome and cheery.
Night, with her darkest shroud,
Tempests that roar aloud,
Thunders that burst the cloud,
Why should I fear ye?
Till the sad hour we part,
Fear cannot make me start;
Grief cannot break my heart
Whilst thou art near me.
Should you forsake my sight,
Day would to me be night;
Sad, I would shun its light,
Heartless and weary.
duodecimo volume.
 See the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, vol. xxi. p. 170.
By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But, waes my heart! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me,
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane--
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I daunder dowie and forlane;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.
 This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza
stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the
I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies
Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wish'd to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell--
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me!
For if, when all the graces shine,
Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,
My Helen! all these charms were thine,
They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me.
I see her spirit in the air--
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave
Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
And, joining Helen in the skies,
 During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.
Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!
Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!
Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',
If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,
And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;
Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,
A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.
He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',
In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';
While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',
Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."
My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,
By the bairn she doated on early and late,
Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',
There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!
Then here is to them that are far frae us a',
The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!
Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';
And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!
Jenny's heart was frank and free,
And wooers she had mony, yet
The sang was aye, "Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnnie yet.
For ear' and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheerie, that
I wish to be, before I dee,
His ain kind dearie yet."
Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,
Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
And few or nane in a' the place,
Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet
Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,
Had gart her oft look eerie, yet
She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be
My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.
"What though he's now gane far awa',
Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet
Unless my Johnnie chance to fa'
In some uncanny battle, yet
Till he return my breast will burn
Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
For I hope to see, before I dee,
His bairns to him endear me yet."
The troops were all embark'd on board,
The ships were under weigh,
And loving wives, and maids adored,
Were weeping round the bay.
They parted from their dearest friends,
From all their heart desires;
And Rosabel to Heaven commends
The man her soul admires!
For him she fled from soft repose,
Renounced a parent's care;
He sails to crush his country's foes,
She wanders in despair!
A seraph in an infant's frame
Reclined upon her arm;
And sorrow in the lovely dame
Now heighten'd every charm:
She thought, if fortune had but smiled--
She thought upon her dear;
But when she look'd upon his child,
Oh, then ran many a tear!
"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?
Who 'll sing a lullaby,
Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,
If I should chance to die?"
On board the ship, resign'd to fate,
Yet planning joys to come,
Her love in silent sorrow sate
Upon a broken drum.
He saw her lonely on the beach;
He saw her on the strand;
And far as human eye can reach
He saw her wave her hand!
"O Rosabel! though forced to go,
With thee my soul shall dwell,
And Heaven, who pities human woe,
Will comfort Rosabel!"
Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out
To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb,
I met, as skiffin' ower the green,
A jolly, rantin' Highlandman.
His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,
And ilka smile my favour wan;
I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad
As this young rantin' Highlandman.
He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer;
Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang?
Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,
And wed a rantin' Highlandman?
In summer days, on flow'ry braes,
When frisky are the ewe and lamb,
I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid,
And be your rantin' Highlandman.
"Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell,
I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang,
If ye 'll consent to scour the bent
Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.
We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock,
Syne do the best that e'er we can;
Then come, my dear, ye needna fear
To trust a rantin' Highlandman."
His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart,
And fain I wad hae gi'en my han';
Yet durstna, lest my mither should
Dislike a rantin' Highlandman.
But I expect he will come back;
Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,
I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will,
Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south;
The drift is drifting sairly;
The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch;
Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly!
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed
Than rise in the mornin' early.
Loud roars the blast amang the woods,
And tirls the branches barely;
On hill and house hear how it thuds!
The frost is nippin' sairly.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
To sit a' nicht wad better agree
Than rise in the mornin' early.
The sun peeps ower yon southland hills,
Like ony timorous carlie;
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;
And that we find severely.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek,
Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?
Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush:
Poor things! they suffer sairly;
In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
A pennyless purse I wad rather dree,
Than rise in the mornin' early.
A cosie house and canty wife
Aye keep a body cheerly;
And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink,
They answer unco rarely.
But up in the mornin'--na, na, na!
Up in the mornin' early!
The gowans maun glint on bank and brae
When I rise in the mornin' early.
Bring her frae the Border;
Yon sweet bonnie lassie,
Let her gae nae farther.
English loons will twine ye
O' the lovely treasure;
But we 'll let them ken
A sword wi' them we 'll measure.
And regain your honour;
Drive them ower the Tweed,
And show our Scottish banner.
And ye are Jock, my brither;
But, before we lose her,
We 'll a' there thegither.
 These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel,
beginning--
Thou shalt have the horse,
And I shall have the pony."
Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green!
The blest retreats of peace an' love;
Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,
With my young swain a while to rove.
Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,
Among the beauties of the spring;
An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank,
To hear the feather'd warblers sing.
The azure sky, the hills around,
Gave double beauty to the scene;
The lofty spires of Banff in view--
On every side the waving grain.
The tales of love my Jamie told,
In such a saft an' moving strain,
Have so engaged my tender heart,
I 'm loth to leave the place again.
But if the Fates will be sae kind
As favour my return once more,
For to enjoy the peace of mind
In those retreats I had before:
Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds
Do bear me hence--I must away;
Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,
To part nae mair from scenes so gay.
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why
My fond suit you still deny?
Is your bosom cold as snow?
Did you never feel for woe?
Can you hear, without a sigh,
Him complain who for you could die?
If you ever shed a tear,
Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!
Life to me is not more dear
Than the hour brings Jessie here;
Death so much I do not fear
As the parting moment near.
Summer smiles are not so sweet
As the bloom upon your cheek;
Nor the crystal dew so clear
As your eyes to me appear.
These are part of Jessie's charms,
Which the bosom ever warms;
But the charms by which I 'm stung,
Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!
Jessie, be no longer coy;
Let me taste a lover's joy;
With your hand remove the dart,
And heal the wound that 's in my heart.
Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair,
I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air;
He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
He said he had loved me both long and sincere,
That none on the green was so gentle and fair;
I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
"Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove,
How charming their song, and enticing to love!
The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,
And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind,
Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind;
My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay,
But leave me he would not, nor let me away;
Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail,
Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, &c.
Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse?
His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows!
We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still,
And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees!
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me,
That 's aye sae neat and clean;
Ae blink of her wad banish care,
Sae lovely is my Jean.
What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,
Hae pass'd atween us twa!
How fain to meet, how wae to part,
That day she gaed awa'!
The Powers aboon can only ken,
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me
As my sweet, lovely Jean.
unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that wrung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspiréd strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
"Within _her_ mighty page,
Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."
I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree--
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,
And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,
Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?
Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,
Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:
Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;
But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,
While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.
For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as the lady of gentle degree,
Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
The sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And since, in social glee's despite,
It needs must be, Good night, good night!
The bride into her bower is sent,
And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
The dancing-floor is silent quite--
No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!
The lady in her curtain'd bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansman in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hope of days as bright
As this now gone--Good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
Though richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts, with colours gay--
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,
When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay--
Kind was she, and my friends were free;
But poverty parts gude companie.
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!
The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.
Woe is me! and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic companie?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;
We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;
And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom have been.
Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,
And poverty parts sweet companie.
At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,
The _bruse_ I hae won, and a kiss of the bride;
And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,
When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.
Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,
When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,
And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So let it be; for the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;
The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Cruelly though we ilka day see
How poverty parts dear companie.
Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be jilting and jeering,
And glancing of bonnie dark een;
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O' questions, baith pawky and keen.
And there will be Bessy, the beauty,
Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty;
Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!
And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.
And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,
Will perk at the top o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is
To catch up the gloves when they fa'.
Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless Mays are negleckit--
A crying and scandalous case.
And Mysie, whase clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;
And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.
And Andrew, whase granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!
And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.
And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty--
A pattern of havens and sense--
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.
And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.
And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.
And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,
That trades in his lawyerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking,
To bring after grist to his mill.
And Maggie--na, na! we 'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie abee;
A vilipend tongue it is evil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.
For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E'en he that comes latest and lagis
May feast upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat.
And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)
To drink the young couple gude luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,
And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stan's.
Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar o' the linn.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,
Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',
She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,
In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;
The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;
Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed--
The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred--
While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;
O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;
She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;
While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.
What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.
 The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The
authorship of which is unknown.
A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she 's runnin' to the town
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her wheel,
To draw her threads wi' care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, &c.
And then like ony merry May,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, &c.
Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe 's her delight,
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, &c.
"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs
Made o' your hinkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, &c.
"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll loe and bless thee still."
The weary pund, &c.
A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;
She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,
And that was an ill beginnin' o't.
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,
Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!
And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;
Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!
"Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d--l,
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;
O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!
"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',
They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,
Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:
They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';
They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;
They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,
And that made the ill beginning o't.
"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,
When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!
Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,
And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
The next time I try the spinnin' o't."
The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
And lengthen'd on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.
My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily!
I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,
And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tether'd on the grass.
O now I see her on the way!
She 's past the witch's knowe;
She 's climbing up the brownie's brae--
My heart is in a lowe.
Oh, no! 'tis not so,
'Tis glamrie I hae seen;
The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.
My book o' grace I 'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill;
When collie barks I 'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh, no! sad and slow,
The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fix'd like ony stane.
"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she;
"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,
And his doggie rinnin'.
Yestreen, about the gloamin' time,
I chanced to see him comin',
Whistling merrily the tune
That I am a' day hummin'," quo' she;
"I am a' day hummin'.
"Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she;
"Fee him, faither, fee him;
A' the wark about the house
Gaes wi' me when I see him:
A' the wark about the house
I gang sae lightly through it;
And though ye pay some merks o' gear,
Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she;
"No; ye winna rue it."
"What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?
What wad I do wi' him?
He 's ne'er a sark upon his back,
And I hae nane to gi'e him."
"I hae twa sarks into my kist,
And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him;
And for a merk o' mair fee,
Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she;
"Dinna stand wi' him.
"Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she;
"Weel do I lo'e him;
The brawest lads about the place
Are a' but hav'rels to him.
Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow,
We 've dull and dowie been:
He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,
And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she;
"Crack wi' me at e'en."
It fell on a morning when we were thrang--
Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking--
That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang;
But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,
Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid daylight
Is no like a chap when heard at e'en.
Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen,
Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie.
And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie,
Raised up the latch and came crousely ben.
His coat was new, and his owrelay was white,
And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein;
But a wooer that comes in braid daylight
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw,
And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit,
And looked about, like a body half glaikit,
On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a':
"Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way?
Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean--
An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day,
Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en."
"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow
You 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,
As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;
Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."
He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth,
And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between;
For wooers that come when the sun 's in the south
Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en.
"Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?"
"She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle--
Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle;
I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free."
Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,
And Nanny run laughing out to the green;
For wooers that come when the sun shines bright
Are no like the wooers that come at e'en.
Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,
"All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O:
Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow,
May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me."
But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,
For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween;
For a wooer that comes in braid daylight
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
 This song was contributed by Miss Baillie to "The Harp of
The bride she is winsome and bonnie,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek;
And faithful and kind is her Johnnie,
Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.
New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow--
New pearlings and plenishing too;
The bride that has a' to borrow
Has e'en right muckle ado.
Woo'd, and married, and a';
Woo'd, and married, and a';
And is na she very weel aff,
To be woo'd, and married, and a'?
Her mither then hastily spak--
"The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;
In my pouches I hadna a plack
The day that I was a bride.
E'en tak to your wheel and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo'd, and married, an' a',
Tocher and havings sae sma';
I think ye are very weel aff
To be woo'd, and married, and a'."
"Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither;
"She 's less of a bride than a bairn;
She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather,
Wi' sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humour inconstantly leans;
A chiel maun be constant and steady,
That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.
Kerchief to cover so neat,
Locks the winds used to blaw;
I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet,
When I think o' her married at a'."
Then out spak the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,--
"I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een;
I 'm prouder o' thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride,
Wi' purples and pearlings enew.
Dear and dearest of ony,
I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a';
And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie,
And grieve to be married at a'?"
She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,
And she lookit sae bashfully down;
The pride o' her heart was beguiled,
And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown;
She twirl'd the tag o' her lace,
And she nippit her boddice sae blue;
Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew.
Woo'd, and married, and a',
Married and carried awa';
She thinks hersel' very weel aff,
To be woo'd, and married, and a'.
 Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another
Up among yon cliffy rocks
Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats
Lilting o'er her native notes.
Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind,
An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me;
Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine,
Till he 's fairly married to me.
Drive away, ye drone, Time,
And bring about our bridal day.
"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep;
Aften does he blaw the whistle
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.
He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the Highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping aye his flock together;
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.
"Brawly can he dance and sing,
Canty glee or Highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel or round a ring,
In a brawl he 's aye the bangster:
A' his praise can ne'er be sung
By the langest-winded sangster;
Sangs that sing o' Sandy,
Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."
Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this
Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
And cuddle there fu' kindly
Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!
At thorny bush, or birken tree,
We 'll daff and never weary, O!
They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,
My ain kind dearie, O!
Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O!
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!
While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lea my pleasure grows,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!
And mony a heavy sigh I gie,
When absent frae my dearie, O!
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!
Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn,
When wi' my kind dearie, O!
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!
Upon the bonny greensward howes,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
I've courted till I've heard the craw
Of honest chanticleerie, O!
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O!
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
While in this weary world of wae,
This wilderness sae dreary, O!
What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!
 The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the
I wonder what ye mean,
To rise sae early in the morn,
And sit sae late at e'en;
Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,
And why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,
When Nature first began
To try her canny hand, John,
Her masterpiece was man;
And you amang them a', John,
Sae trig frae tap to toe--
She proved to be nae journeyman,
Ye were my first conceit;
And ye needna think it strange, John,
That I ca' ye trim and neat;
Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,
I never think ye so;
But I think ye 're aye the same to me,
We 've seen our bairns' bairns;
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
I 'm happy in your arms;
And sae are ye in mine, John,
I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;
Though the days are gane that we have seen,
TUNE--_"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon."_
Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!
Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;
Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,
And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.
But doubly bless'd shall be the youth
To whom thy heaving bosom warms;
Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,
He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.
Though storms of life were blowing snell,
And on his brow sat brooding care,
Thy seraph smile would quick dispel
The darkest gloom of black despair.
Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,
And chose thee from the dwellers there;
And sent thee from celestial bliss,
To shew what all the virtues are.
When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!
A bonnier lass ye wadna seen
Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,
Pate did to her his love explain,
And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,
The happiest lad in Gowrie.
Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,
For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;
Nor will I gang a step ajee,
For a' the gowd in Gowrie.
My father will gi'e me twa kye;
My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;
I 'll get a gown just like the sky,
Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."
"Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!
Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;
Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,
Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:
Since first I met thee at the shiel,
My saul to thee 's been true and leal;
The darkest night I fear nae deil,
Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.
"I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,
Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;
I dream a' nicht, and start about,
And wish for thee in Gowrie.
I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,
Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;
Sit down by me till ance I swear,
Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."
Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,
Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;
She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,
Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;
Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,
And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;
But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."
The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;
The priest was ca'd: a' were content;
And Katie never did repent
That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;
Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;
And her braw lasses bore the gree
Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.
 See _postea_, in this volume, under article "Lady Nairn."
Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde
The lasses busk them braw;
But when their best they hae put on,
My Jeanie dings them a';
In hamely weeds she far exceeds
The fairest o' the toun;
Baith sage and gay confess it sae,
Though drest in russit goun.
The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
Mair harmless canna be;
She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,
Except her love for me;
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,
Is like her shining een;
In shape and air wha can compare,
Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
A miscellaneous writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander
Mr Campbell was twice married; his second wife was the widow of a
Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to
Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains,
Deeply clad in drifting snow;
Soundly sleep the frozen fountains;
Ice-bound streams forget to flow:
The piercing blast howls loud and long,
The leafless forest oaks among.
Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger,
Wayworn, drooping, all alone;--
Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!
But alas! his strength is gone!
He stoops, he totters on with pain,
The hill he 'll never climb again.
Age is being's winter season,
Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;
Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,
Man feels _then_ himself grown old;
His senses one by one have fled,
His very soul seems almost dead.
The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
"The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?
'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"
To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.
Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.
The tears I shed must ever fall:
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead:
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye;
The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
Those pangs to every feeling due:
Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
To win a heart, and break it too!
No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between--
He made me blest, and broke my heart:
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected and neglecting all;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.
 The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.
Returning spring, with gladsome ray,
Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep:
All nature smiles, serene and gay,
It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.
But why, why flows the sudden tear,
Since Heaven such precious boons has lent,
The lives of those who life endear,
And, though scarce competence, content?
Sure, when no other bliss was mine
Than that which still kind Heaven bestows,
Yet then could peace and hope combine
To promise joy and give repose.
Then have I wander'd o'er the plain,
And bless'd each flower that met my view;
Thought Fancy's power would ever reign,
And Nature's charms be ever new.
I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt,
That happy bosom knew no ill--
That those who scorn'd me, time would melt,
And those I loved be faultless still.
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,
'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.
Oh! whence the change that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart and tearful eye,
And conquers the once powerful charms
Of youth, of hope, of novelty?
'Tis sad Experience, fatal power!
That clouds the once illumined sky,
That darkens life's meridian hour,
And bids each fairy vision fly.
She paints the scene--how different far
From that which youthful fancy drew!
Shews joy and freedom oft at war,
Our woes increased, our comforts few.
And when, perhaps, on some loved friend
Our treasured fondness we bestow,
Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand,
Change even that friend into a foe?
See in her train cold Foresight move,
Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn;
And Prudence every fear approve,
And Pity harden into scorn!
The glowing tints of Fancy fade,
Life's distant prospects charm no more;
Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?
Can nought my happiness restore?
Relentless power! at length be just,
Thy better skill alone impart;
Give Caution, but withhold Distrust,
And guard, but harden not, my heart!
 These tender and beautiful verses are transcribed from Johnson's
Anderson's "Bee" he contributed several poems, and a prose essay,
Kingsessing, on the river Schuylkill, about four miles from
Philadelphia,--a situation which, though attended with limited
Amidst his extraordinary deserts as a naturalist, the merits of
excel." In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of
 The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.
 The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume
Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.
For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep,
Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep!
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main,
Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
And cease while ye hear me complain.
For distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
How blest were the times when together we stray'd,
While Phœbe shone silent above,
Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
And talk'd the whole evening of love!
Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace,
Nor noise could our pleasures annoy,
Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze,
That soothed us to love and to joy.
If haply some youth had his passion express'd,
And praised the bright charms of her face,
What horrors unceasing revolved though my breast,
While, sighing, I stole from the place!
For where is the eye that could view her alone,
The ear that could list to her strain,
Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own,
Nor double the pangs I sustain?
Thou moon, that now brighten'st those regions above,
How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss,
While breathing my tender expressions of love,
I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss!
Ah, then, how I joy'd while I gazed on her charms!
What transports flew swift through my heart!
I press'd the dear, beautiful maid in my arms,
Nor dream'd that we ever should part.
But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid,
By fortune unfeelingly torn;
'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad,
In secret I wander forlorn.
And oft, while drear Midnight assembles her shades,
And Silence pours sleep from her throne,
Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal through the glades,
And sigh, 'midst the darkness, my moan.
In vain to the town I retreat for relief,
In vain to the groves I complain;
Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief,
And solitude nurses my pain.
Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best,
I languish in mis'ry and care;
Her presence could banish each woe from my heart,
But her absence, alas! is despair.
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep;
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main--
Oh, shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
And cease while ye hear me complain!
Far distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free,
Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.
Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
The road I explored out, without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.
At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
As Phœbus, behind a high mountain, went down;
The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchtertool.
An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired;
For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
"I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."
With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride;
But, asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.
To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door;
He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl
That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.
Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode,
Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road;
Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
My wrath I 'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.
 We have ventured to omit three verses, and to alter slightly the
neighbourhood.
"The Leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
An' clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair."
otherwise than by the initial letters, "K. and Q." This extreme
contributions in "The Scottish Minstrel."
The philanthropic efforts of Lady Nairn were not limited to the
purification of the national minstrelsy; her benevolence extended
"Did good by stealth, and blush'd to find it fame."
completion of our parochial economy."
 Robertson of Struan, cousin-german of Lady Nairn's mother, and a
 A daughter of Baron Hume was one of the ladies who induced Lady
There 's high and low, there 's rich and poor,
There 's trades and crafts enew, man;
But, east and west, his trade 's the best,
That kens to guide the pleugh, man.
Then, come, weel speed my pleughman lad,
And hey my merry pleughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the pleughman.
His dreams are sweet upon his bed,
His cares are light and few, man;
His mother's blessing 's on his head,
That tents her weel, the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
The lark, sae sweet, that starts to meet
The morning fresh and new, man;
Blythe though she be, as blythe is he
That sings as sweet, the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
All fresh and gay, at dawn of day
Their labours they renew, man;
Heaven bless the seed, and bless the soil,
And Heaven bless the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'?
They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Wha 'll buy caller herrin',
New drawn frae the Forth?
When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,
Dream'd ye ought o' our puir fellows,
Darkling as they faced the billows,
A' to fill the woven willows.
Buy my caller herrin',
New drawn frae the Forth.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
They 're no brought here without brave daring;
Buy my caller herrin',
Haul'd thro' wind and rain.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'!
Wives and mithers, maist despairin',
Ca' them lives o' men.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
When the creel o' herrin' passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Cast their heads, and screw their faces.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Caller herrin 's no got lightlie;
Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie;
Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',
Gow has set you a' a-singin'.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Neebour wives, now tent my tellin',
When the bonny fish ye 're sellin',
At ae word be in yer dealin'--
Truth will stand when a' thing 's failin'.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
 This song has acquired an extensive popularity, for which it is
I 'm wearin' awa', John,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John;
I 'm wearin' awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There 's nae sorrow there, John;
There 's neither cauld nor care, John;
The day 's aye fair
I' the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, John;
She was baith gude and fair, John;
And, oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrows sel' wears past, John,
And joy 's a-comin' fast, John--
The joy that 's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John;
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it 's wearin' thro', John;
And I 'll welcome you
To the land o' the leal.
Now, fare ye weel, my ain John,
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain,
In the land o' the leal.
 This exquisitely tender and beautiful lay was composed by Lady
The Laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great,
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
At his table-head he thought she 'd look well;
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new;
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat,
And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the gray mare, and rade cannily--
And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine,
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low,
And what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;"
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
He mounted his mare--he rade cannily;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.
 This humorous and highly popular song was composed by Lady Nairn
inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss
Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular
In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving,
In sad and tearful silence grieving,
And still as the moment of parting is nearer,
Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer.
Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection
Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection;
Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood,
But tells, as it passes, how blest was her childhood.
And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses,
Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses!
How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river,
The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever!
Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall,
And winter hangs out her cold icy pall--
Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see,
And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.
The joys of the past, more faintly recalling,
Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling,
And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow,
Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow.
Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling,
The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling;
And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre,
Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter.
The bonniest lass in a' the warld,
I 've often heard them telling,
She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen,
She 's in yon lonely dwelling.
But nane could bring her to my mind
Wha lives but in the fancy,
Now lasses a' keep a gude heart,
Nor e'er envy a comrade,
For be your een black, blue, or gray,
Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad.
The tender heart, the charming smile,
The truth that ne'er will falter,
Are charms that never can beguile,
And time can never alter.
Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O?
Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O?
Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me,
Mishap will never steer ye, O;
Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws--
Let them gang tapsle teerie, O!
It 's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth,
My ain kind dearie, O!
He 's lifeless amang the rude billows,
My tears and my sighs are in vain;
The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie,
Will ne'er beat for mortal again.
My lane now I am i' the warld,
And the daylight is grievous to me;
The laddie that lo'ed me sae dearly
Lies cauld in the deeps o' the sea.
Ye tempests, sae boist'rously raging,
Rage on as ye list--or be still;
This heart ye sae often hae sicken'd,
Is nae mair the sport o' your will.
Now heartless, I hope not--I fear not,--
High Heaven hae pity on me!
My soul, tho' dismay'd and distracted,
Yet bends to thy awful decree.
Joy of my earliest days,
Why must I grieve thee?
Theme of my fondest lays,
Oh, I maun leave thee!
Leave thee, love! leave thee, love!
How shall I leave thee?
Absence thy truth will prove,
For, oh! I maun leave thee!
When on yon mossy stane,
Wild weeds o'ergrowin',
Ye sit at e'en your lane,
And hear the burn rowin';
Oh! think on this partin' hour,
And to Him that has a' the pow'r,
AIR--_"Landlady count the lawin'."_
Oh, weel's me on my ain man,
My ain man, my ain man!
Oh, weel's me on my ain gudeman!
He 'll aye be welcome hame.
I 'm wae I blamed him yesternight,
For now my heart is feather light;
For gowd I wadna gie the sight;
I see him linking ower the height.
Oh, weel's me on my ain man, &c.
Rin, Jamie, bring the kebbuck ben,
And fin' aneath the speckled hen;
Meg, rise and sweep about the fire,
Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre.
For weel's me on my ain man,
My ain man, my ain man!
For weel's me on my ain gudeman!
I see him linkin' hame.
Robin is my ain gudeman,
Now match him, carlins, gin ye can,
For ilk ane whitest thinks her swan,
But kind Robin lo'es me.
To mak my boast I 'll e'en be bauld,
For Robin lo'ed me young and auld,
In summer's heat and winter's cauld,
My kind Robin lo'es me.
Robin he comes hame at e'en
Wi' pleasure glancin' in his e'en;
He tells me a' he 's heard and seen,
And syne how he lo'es me.
There 's some hae land, and some hae gowd,
Mair wad hae them gin they could,
But a' I wish o' warld's guid,
Is Robin still to lo'e me.
 The author seems to have composed these stanzas as a sequel to a
Hech, hey! the mirth that was there,
The mirth that was there,
The mirth that was there;
Hech, how! the mirth that was there,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
In Kitty's Reid's house, in Kitty Reid's house,
There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
Hech, hey! the fright that was there,
The fright that was there,
The fright that was there;
Hech, how! the fright that was there,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
The light glimmer'd in through a crack i' the wa',
An' a'body thocht the lift it wad fa',
And lads and lasses they soon ran awa'
Frae Kitty's Reid's house on the green, Jo!
Hech, hey! the dule that was there,
The dule that was there,
The dule that was there;
The birds and beasts it wauken'd them a',
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
The wa' gaed a hurley, and scatter'd them a',
The piper, the fiddler, auld Kitty, and a';
The kye fell a routin', the cocks they did craw,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
Their nest was in the leafy bush,
Sae soft and warm, sae soft and warm,
And Robins thought their little brood
All safe from harm, all safe from harm.
The morning's feast with joy they brought,
To feed their young wi' tender care;
The plunder'd leafy bush they found,
But nest and nestlings saw nae mair.
The mother cou'dna leave the spot,
But wheeling round, and wheeling round,
The cruel spoiler aim'd a shot,
Cured her heart's wound, cured her heart's wound.
She will not hear their helpless cry,
Nor see them pine in slavery!
The burning breast she will not bide,
For wrongs of wanton knavery.
Oh! bonny Robin Redbreast,
Ye trust in men, ye trust in men,
But what their hard hearts are made o',
Ye little ken, ye little ken.
They 'll ne'er wi' your wee skin be warm'd,
Nor wi' your tiny flesh be fed,
But just 'cause you 're a living thing,
It 's sport wi' them to lay you dead.
Ye Hieland and ye Lowland lads,
As birdies gay, as birdies gay,
Oh, spare them, whistling like yoursel's,
And hopping blythe from spray to spray!
Their wings were made to soar aloft,
And skim the air at liberty;
And as you freedom gi'e to them,
May you and yours be ever free!
Saw ye nae my Peggy comin'
Through Tillibelton's broom?
I 'm frae Aberdagie,
Ower the crafts o' Craigie,
For aught I ken o' Peggie,
She 's ayont the moon.
'Twas but at the dawin',
Clear the cock was crawin',
I saw Peggy cawin'
Hawky by the brier.
Early bells were ringin',
Blythest birds were singin',
Sweetest flowers were springin',
A' her heart to cheer.
Now the tempest's blawin',
Almond water 's flowin',
Deep and ford unknowin',
She maun cross the day.
Almond waters, spare her,
Safe to Lynedoch bear her!
Its braes ne'er saw a fairer,
Oh, now to be wi' her!
Or but ance to see her
Skaithless, far or near,
I 'd gie Scotland's crown.
Byeword, blind 's a lover--
Wha 's yon I discover?
Just yer ain fair rover,
Stately stappin' down.
 Another song with the same title, "Saw ye nae my Peggy?" is
exceptionable words, beginning, "Saw ye my Maggie?"
The best o' joys maun hae an end,
The best o' friends maun part, I trow;
The langest day will wear away,
And I maun bid fareweel to you.
The tear will tell when hearts are fu',
For words, gin they hae sense ava,
They 're broken, faltering, and few:
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!
Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide,
O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell!
And mony a simple flower we 've pu'd,
And twined it wi' the heather-bell.
We 've ranged the dingle and the dell,
The cot-house, and the baron's ha';
Now we maun tak a last farewell:
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!
My harp, fareweel! thy strains are past,
Of gleefu' mirth, and heartfelt care;
The voice of song maun cease at last,
And minstrelsy itsel' decay.
But, oh! whar sorrow canna win,
Nor parting tears are shed ava',
May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin,
And joy for aye be wi' us a'!
There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
There 's castocks in Strabogie;
And morn and e'en, they 're blythe and bein,
That haud them frae the cogie.
Now, haud ye frae the cogie, lads;
O bide ye frae the cogie!
I 'll tell ye true, ye 'll never rue,
O' passin' by the cogie.
Young Will was braw and weel put on,
Sae blythe was he and vogie;
And he got bonnie Mary Don,
The flower o' a' Strabogie.
Wha wad hae thocht, at wooin' time,
He 'd e'er forsaken Mary,
And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade,
Wi' boozin' Rob and Harry?
Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat,
She scarce could lift the ladle;
Wi' pithless feet, 'tween ilka greet,
She 'd rock the borrow'd cradle.
Her weddin' plenishin' was gane,
She never thocht to borrow:
Her bonnie face was waxin' wan--
And Will wrought a' the sorrow.
He 's reelin' hame ae winter's nicht,
Some later than the gloamin';
He 's ta'en the rig, he 's miss'd the brig,
And Bogie 's ower him foamin'.
Wi' broken banes, out ower the stanes,
He creepit up Strabogie;
And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' micht,
To keep him frae the cogie.
Now Mary's heart is light again--
She 's neither sick nor silly;
For auld or young, nae sinfu' tongue,
Could e'er entice her Willie;
And aye the sang through Bogie rang--
"O had ye frae the cogie;
The weary gill 's the sairest ill
On braes o' fair Strabogie."
 This excellent ballad is the fourth version adapted to the air,
He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,
He 's ower the hills we daurna name;
He 's ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
Wha soon will get his welcome hame.
My father's gane to fight for him,
My brithers winna bide at hame;
My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they 're no to blame.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer;
But, ah! that love maun be sincere
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
An' for his sake leaves a' beside.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
His right these hills, his right these plains;
Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns;
What lads e'er did our laddies will do;
Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
Oh, did ye but see him, ye 'd do as we've done!
Hear him but ance, to his standard you 'll run.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight;
For your country, religion, and a' that is right;
Were ten thousand lives now given to me,
I 'd die as aft for ane o' the three.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
'Twas on a summer's afternoon,
A wee afore the sun gaed down,
A lassie, wi' a braw new gown,
Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie.
The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower,
Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower;
But Kitty was the fairest flower
That e'er was seen in Gowrie.
To see her cousin she cam' there,
An', oh, the scene was passing fair!
For what in Scotland can compare
The sun was setting on the Tay,
The blue hills melting into gray;
The mavis' and the blackbird's lay
Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.
Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd!
An' truth and constancy had vow'd,
But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed,
Until she saw fair Gowrie.
I pointed to my faither's ha',
Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw,
Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw;
Wad she no bide in Gowrie?
Her faither was baith glad and wae;
Her mither she wad naething say;
The bairnies thocht they wad get play
If Kitty gaed to Gowrie.
She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet,
The blush and tear were on her cheek;
She naething said, an' hung her head;
But now she's Leddy Gowrie.
I praised her beauty loud an' lang,
Then round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, "My dearie, will ye gang
"I'll tak ye to my father's ha',
In yon green field beside the shaw;
I'll mak you lady o' them a'--
The brawest wife in Gowrie."
Soft kisses on her lips I laid,
The blush upon her cheek soon spread;
She whisper'd modestly, and said,
"I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie."
The auld folks soon ga'e their consent,
Syne for Mess John they quickly sent,
Wha tied them to their heart's content,
And now she's Lady Gowrie.
A wee bit north frae yon green wood,
Whar draps the sunny showerie,
The lofty elm-trees spread their boughs,
To shade the braes o' Gowrie;
An' by yon burn ye scarce can see,
There stan's a rustic bowerie,
Whar lives a lass mair dear to me
Than a' the maids in Gowrie.
Nae gentle bard e'er sang her praise,
'Cause fortune ne'er left dowrie;
The rose blaws sweetest in the shade,
So does the flower o' Gowrie.
When April strews her garlands roun',
Her bare foot treads the flowerie;
Her sang gars a' the woodlands ring,
That shade the braes o' Gowrie.
Her modest blush an' downcast e'e,
A flame sent beating through me;
For she surpasses all I've seen,
This peerless flower o' Gowrie.
I've lain upon the dewy green
Until the evening hourie,
An' thought gin e'er I durst ca' mine
The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.
The bushes that o'erhang the burn,
Sae verdant and sae flowerie,
Can witness that I love alane
The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.
Let ithers dream an' sigh for wealth,
An' fashions fleet and flowery;
Gi'e me that heav'nly innocence
Upon the braes o' Gowrie.
There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,
And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard,
Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hieland lads,
And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me,
Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.
"But were they a' true that were far awa?
Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'?
They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.
"Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been,
Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green;
Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."
"I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green,
I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean,
Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa',
And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill,
And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
 The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The
He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's a terrible man, John Tod;
He scolds in the house,
He scolds at the door,
He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod,
He scolds on the vera hie road.
The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The weans a' fear John Tod;
When he 's passing by,
The mithers will cry,--
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod,
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.
The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The callants a' fear John Tod;
If they steal but a neep,
The callant he 'll whip,
And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod,
It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.
His bannet was blue,
His shoon maistly new,
An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod,
Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.
How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod?
How is he wendin', John Tod?
He 's scourin' the land,
Wi' his rung in his hand,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.
Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod
Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod;
Wi' your auld strippit coul,
Ye look maist like a fule,
But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod, John Tod,
But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod;
He 's a terrible man,
But we 'd a' gae wrang
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod,
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.
 A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense.
Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
Safely ower the friendly main;
Mony a heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again.
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be--
Will ye no come back again?
Ye trusted in your Hieland men,
They trusted you, dear Charlie!
They kent your hiding in the glen,
Death or exile braving.
English bribes were a' in vain,
Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be;
Siller canna buy the heart
That beats aye for thine and thee.
We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour,
We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray;
Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e,
Oh, there is none that wad betray!
Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang,
Lilting wildly up the glen;
But aye to me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no come back again?
AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_
Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink,
Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think;
Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw,
An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava.
Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e,
In body or mind, nae fau't can she see;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow,
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee,
His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee;
He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he,
A dafter-like body I never did see.
An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein',
When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein';
Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation,
I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.
An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun,
An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun.
Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say,
"I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae,
Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury--
I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury.
For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.
Freen's! gi'e your advice!--I 'll follow your counsel--
Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council,
Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae.
The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin',
For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin';
The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin',
For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'.
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
Songs of my native land,
To me how dear!
Songs of my infancy,
Sweet to mine ear!
Entwined with my youthful days,
Wi' the bonny banks and braes,
Where the winding burnie strays,
Murmuring near.
Strains of my native land,
That thrill the soul,
Pouring the magic of
Your soft control!
Often has your minstrelsy
Soothed the pang of misery,
Winging rapid thoughts away
To realms on high.
Weary pilgrims _there_ have rest,
Their wand'rings o'er;
There the slave, no more oppress'd,
Hails Freedom's shore.
Sin shall then no more deface,
Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease,
Ending in eternal peace,
And songs of joy!
There, when the seraphs sing,
In cloudless day;
There, where the higher praise
The ransom'd pay.
Soft strains of the happy land,
Chanted by the heavenly band,
Who can fully understand
How sweet ye be!
Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone,
The green grass o'er thee growin';
On hill of _Care_ thou art alone,
The _Sorrow_ round thee flowin'.
Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
Nae banners now are streamin',
The houlet flits amang thy ha's,
And wild birds there are screamin'.
Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;
Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
And mourn the great Montrose.
Here ladies bright were aften seen,
Here valiant warriors trod;
And here great Knox has aften been,
Wha fear'd nought but his God!
But a' are gane! the guid, the great,
And naething now remains,
But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
And crumblin' down the stanes.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show,
What ragin' flames had done.
Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,
And all was solitude.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
Lane, on the winding Earn there stands
An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,
Biggit by lang forgotten hands,
Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.
Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd
And rived thy gray disjaskit wa',
But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd
To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!
Oh, may a muse unkent to fame
For this dim greesome relic sue,
It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,
The truest Scotland ever knew.
Just leave in peace each mossy stane
Tellin' o' nations' rivalry,
An' for succeeding ages hain
Remains o' Scottish chivalry.
What though no monument to thee
Is biggit by thy country's hand;
Engraved are thy immortal deeds
On every heart o' this braid land.
Rude Time may monuments ding doun,
An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;
Enduring, deathless, noble chief,
Thy name can never pass away!
Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,--
Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;
In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,
"WALLACE" remember'd aye shall be.
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu' o' glee!
The wild-rose and the jesamine
Still hang upon the wa';
How mony cherish'd memories
Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!
Sae canty, kind, and crouse;
How mony did he welcome to
His ain wee dear auld house!
And the leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The blue bells sweetly blaw,
The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa'.
The auld house, the auld house,
Deserted though ye be,
There ne'er can be a new house,
Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear tree
The bairnies liked to see,
And oh, how aften did they speir
When ripe they a' wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin' here and there,
The merry shout--oh! whiles we greet
To think we 'll hear nae mair.
For they are a' wide scatter'd now,
Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
Not here we 'll meet again.
The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,
Wi' flowers o' every hue,
Shelter'd by the holly's shade,
An' the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun,
How glorious it gaed down;
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies aboon!
The auld dial, the auld dial,
It tauld how time did pass;
The wintry winds hae dung it down,--
Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,
Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,
An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,
An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',
Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
The women are a' gane wud,
Oh, that he had biden awa'!
He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,
And ruin will bring on us a'.
George was a peaceable man,
My wife she did doucely behave;
But now dae a' that I can,
She 's just as wild as the lave.
My wife she wears the cockade,
Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,
She has a true friend in her maid,
And they ne'er mind a word that I say.
The wild Hieland lads as they pass,
The yetts wide open do flee;
They eat the very house bare,
And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.
I 've lived a' my days in the Strath
Now Tories infest me at hame,
And tho' I tak nae side at a',
Baith sides will gae me the blame.
The senseless creturs ne'er think
What ill the lad wad bring back;
The Pope we 'd hae, and the d--l,
And a' the rest o' his pack.
 These verses are printed from a MS. in possession of one of Lady
St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,
Where gowan'd grass was growin',
For man and beast were food and rest,
And milk and honey flowin'.
A father's blessing follow'd close,
Where'er her foot was treading,
And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys
On every side were spreading wide,
On every side were spreading.
The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,
St Anthon's well aye springin';
The lammies playing at her feet,
The birdies round her singin'.
The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,
Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,
The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,
The lowly wells o' Weary, O
The lowly wells o' Weary.
But evil days and evil men,
Came ower their sunny dwellin',
Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,
Or wastefu' waters swellin'.
What aince was sweet is bitter now,
The sun of joy is setting;
In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,
The briny tear is wetting fast,
The briny tear is wetting.
Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,
In faithful supplication;
Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,
The guardian o' the nation.
A hero's heart--a sister's love--
A martyr's truth unbending;
They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid--
And she is gane, her leefu' lane,
To Lunnon toun she 's wending!
 The romantic scenery depicted in this song is in the immediate
vicinity of the Queen's Drive, Edinburgh.
 The wells of Weary are situated near the Windyknowe, beneath
GAELIC AIR--_"Mo Leannan Falnich."_
I 'll no be had for naething,
I 'll no be had for naething,
I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,
So ye needna follow me.
Oh, the change is most surprising,
Last year I was plain Betty Brown,
Now to me they 're a' aspiring,--
The fair Elizabeth I am grown!
What siller does is most amazing,
Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,
Now my charms they a' are praising,
For my sake they 're like to dee.
Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;
Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention--
Oh, surely this is no me!
But I 'll no, &c.
The yett is now for ever ringing,
Showers o' valentines aye bringing,
Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,
Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.
The siller, O the weary siller!
Aft in toil and trouble sought,
But better far it should be sae,
Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
But there is ane, when I had naething,
A' his heart he gi'ed to me;
And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,
To bring me when he cam frae sea.
If ever I should marry ony,
He will be the lad for me;
For he was baith gude and bonny,
And he thought the same o' me.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,
We tentit it kindly by night and by day,
The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,
Its food was the gowan--its music was "_mai_."
Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,
But it would gae witless the world to see;
The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,
Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.
Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,
Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;
He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,
And left its kind hame the wide world to try.
We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',
Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,
Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';
'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.
Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,
To tell o' hame-made sorrow,
And if they cheat you o' your tears,
They 'll dry upon the morrow.
Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,
In verity they're sportin',
My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,
But wakin' true misfortune.
Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',
For loyalty attainted,
A nameless bardie 's wae to see
Your sorrows unlamented;
For if your fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
Ye 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
For old hereditary right,
For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;
And for the crown their valiant sons
Themselves have shed their injured blood;
And if their fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
They 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
 This song having become known to George IV., it is said to have
True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
It grows 'neath stormy skies,
It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fears
An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound,
Oh! wha the heart can buy?
The titled glare, the warldling's care,
Even absence 'twill defy,
Even absence 'twill defy.
And time, that kills a' ither things,
His withering touch 'twill brave,
'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
'Twill live beyond the grave!
'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep,
In true heart's memorie--
Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair,
Sae bricht, sae young, could dee,
Sae young could dee.
Unfeeling hands may touch the chord
Where buried griefs do lie--
How many silent agonies
May that rude touch untie!
But, oh! I love that plaintive lay--
That dear auld melodie!
For, oh, 'tis sweet!--yet I maun greet,
For it was sung by thee,
Sung by thee!
They may forget wha lichtly love,
Or feel but beauty's chain;
But they wha loved a heavenly mind
Can never love again!
A' my dreams o' warld's guid
Aye were turn'd wi' thee,
But I leant on a broken reed
Which soon was ta'en frae me,
Ta'en frae me.
'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna ken
What we may live to see,
'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veil
O'er sad futurity!
Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven,
Wha feel the warld is vain,
Oh, fix your broken earthly ties
Where they ne'er will break again,
Break again!
 Here first printed.
Ah, little did my mother think
When to me she sung,
What a heartbreak I would be,
Her young and dautit son.
And oh! how fond she was o' me
In plaid and bonnet braw,
When I bade farewell to the north countrie,
And marching gaed awa!
Ah! little did my mother think
A banish'd man I 'd be,
Sent frae a' my kith and kin,
Them never mair to see.
Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drap
Aft ye did gi'e to me,
That has brought a' this misery
 These verses are here first printed.
Would you be young again?
So would not I--
One tear to memory given,
Onward I 'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope's smiles around us shed,
Heavenward--away.
Where, then, are those dear ones,
Our joy and delight?
Dear and more dear though now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly, time, fly speedily;
Come, life and light.
 This song was composed in 1842, when the author had attained her
What 's this vain world to me?
Rest is not here;
False are the smiles I see,
The mirth I hear.
Where is youth's joyful glee?
Where all once dear to me?
Gone, as the shadows flee--
Rest is not here.
Why did the morning shine
Blythely and fair?
Why did those tints so fine
Vanish in air?
Does not the vision say,
Faint, lingering heart, away,
Why in this desert stay--
Dark land of care!
Where souls angelic soar,
Thither repair;
Let this vain world no more
Lull and ensnare.
That heaven I love so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
All things around me tell
Rest is found there.
AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."_
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,
That will never be here again--no, never.
But where are they now that are gane?
Oh, where are the faithful and true?
They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,
An' their day of rejoicing shall end--no, never.
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,
But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last--for ever.
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
But the storm and the cloud are now past--for ever.
Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
Oh, how sad the last parting tear!
But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
Can bedim the bright vision again--no, never.
Then, speed to the wings of old Time,
That waft us where pilgrims would be;
To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
Where the full tide of glory shall flow--for ever.
Fareweel, O fareweel!
My heart it is sair;
Fareweel, O fareweel!
I 'll see him nae mair.
Lang, lang was he mine,
Lang, lang--but nae mair;
I mauna repine,
But my heart it is sair.
His staff 's at the wa',
Toom, toom is his chair!
His bannet, an' a'!
An' I maun be here!
But oh! he 's at rest,
Why sud I complain?
Gin my soul be blest,
I 'll meet him again.
Oh, to meet him again,
Where hearts ne'er were sair!
Oh, to meet him again,
To part never mair!
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,
Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.
The sun is not set, but is risen on high,
Nor long in corruption his body shall lie--
Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,
Nor the music of heaven be discord below;
Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But give to the living thy passion of tears
Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,
By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.
Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;
Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,
And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.
 These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in
Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,
Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;
'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,
The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.
For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,
Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!
Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?
Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?
When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!--
That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?
Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,
Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,
Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',
Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,
Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;
Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,
When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.
The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,
When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;
An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,
An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.
Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,
For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!
When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,
An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,
My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?
But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.
Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,
To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!
Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,
The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.
But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear,
Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;
For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,
Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,
While loud as a lavrock she sang.
Her Geordie had promised to marry,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair.
"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,
An' say they expect soon to hear me,
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.
An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,
An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'
An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter,
He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.
"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;
His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,
For fient a hair has he ava'.
"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty I never will miss 't.
Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever will burn?
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.
"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,
A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear.
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,
Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',
His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!
"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;
Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;
An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,
His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,
Designin' to rax her a lounder,
He chanced on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,
Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!
My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still;
I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!
My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',
I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.
Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try--
Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew weary the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,
'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye--
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;
And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!
There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined
productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he
authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of
publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new
productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest
circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious
publication.
As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his
"I sang of war--but it was the war of freedom, in which death was
sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which
'Next to heaven above,
Land of my fathers! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
With all thy faults I love thee still.'
pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his
brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I
sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard
Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves--I have received
testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers,
communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like
posterity."
When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound
Among a band of brothers,
The cup of joy goes gaily round,
Each shares the bliss of others.
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;
The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again to-morrow.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;
Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,
In gay good-humour smiling:
With ermine beard and forelock gray,
His reverend part adorning,
He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
Night soften'd into Morning.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
From these delightful fountains flow
Ambrosial rills of pleasure;
Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
Will form a constellation,
Where every star, with modest light,
Shall gild its proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth--
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,--
The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?--
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
Heaven speed the righteous sword,
And freedom be the word;
Come, brethren, hand in hand,
Fight for your fatherland.
Germania from afar
Invokes her sons to war;
Awake! put forth your powers,
And victory must be ours.
On to the combat, on!
Go where your sires have gone;
Their might unspent remains,
Their pulse is in our veins.
On to the battle, on!
Rest will be sweet anon;
The slave may yield, may fly,--
We conquer, or we die!
O Liberty! thy form
Shines through the battle-storm.
Away with fear, away!
Let justice win the day.
Night turns to day:--
When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Ere long the opening flowers,
With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.
Storms die in calms:--
When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up;
The voice of wild commotion,
Proclaims tranquillity behind.
Winter wakes spring:--
When icy blasts are blowing
O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,
Cheer up, cheer up;
All beautiful and glowing,
May floats in fragrance on the breeze.
War ends in peace:--
Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghostly corses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Where groan'd the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast, go round.
Toil brings repose:--
With noontide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.
Death springs to life:--
Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up;
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb.
Welcome, pretty little stranger!
Welcome to my lone retreat!
Here, secure from every danger,
Hop about, and chirp, and eat:
Robin! how I envy thee,
Happy child of Liberty!
Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,
Shakes the world with tempests round,
Heaven above with vapours scowling,
Frost imprisons all the ground:
Robin! what are these to thee?
Thou art bless'd with liberty.
Though yon fair majestic river
Mourns in solid icy chains,
Though yon flocks and cattle shiver
On the desolated plains:
Robin! thou art gay and free,
Happy in thy liberty.
Hunger never shall disturb thee,
While my rates one crumb afford;
Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;
Come and share my humble board:
Robin! come and live with me--
Live, yet still at liberty.
Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,
Steal upon the blooming year;
Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,
Thy sweet song shall warble clear:
Then shall I, too, join with thee--
Swell the hymn of Liberty.
Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,
In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,
And confine thee in a cage,
Then, poor prisoner! think of me--
Think, and sigh for liberty.
Ages, ages have departed,
Since the first dark vessel bore
Afric's children, broken-hearted,
To the Caribbéan shore;
She, like Rachel,
Weeping, for they were no more.
Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,
In the fight and on the deep;
Millions, millions more have water'd,
With such tears as captives weep,
Fields of travail,
Where their bones till doomsday sleep.
Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,
Rent her garments, smote her breast,
Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,
Gladden'd all the gloomy west,--
"Come, ye weary,
Come, and I will give you rest!"
Tidings, tidings of salvation!
Britons rose with one accord,
Purged the plague-spot from our nation,
Slaves no longer,
_Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.
AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_
I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,
And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,
And I hae servants at my command,
And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,
And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.
Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,
And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.
A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,
I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,
And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.
My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,
And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;
And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,
And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,
How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.
In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,
But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,
And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.
Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae--
My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?--
In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,
And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.
Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,
My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;
My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,
And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.
And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,
And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.
My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phœbus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.
And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;
He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,
And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.
And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,
Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.
And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;
Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,
And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,
On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,
And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,
Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.
Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,
Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:
For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,
The seasons row round us in rural content;
We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony lang towmond thegither,
There lived an auld man and his wife.
About the affairs o' the nation,
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did saur in their wizens like soot.
In winter, when deep are the gutters,
And night's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
And lowsin' his buttons for bed.
Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',
To lock in the door was her care;
She seein' our signals a-blazin',
Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.
"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!
Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"
"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,
And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"
Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.
"Our youngest son 's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too in the ranks shall appear."
His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"
And teughly she hang by his tails.
"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,
"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,
For now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."
Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!
Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.
"And yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croakin';
I kend it foreboded some ill."
"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
For ere the next sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown?"
"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,
I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,
And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."
Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,
Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.
There footmen and yeomen paradin',
To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.
Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,
And to the commander he gaes;
Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,
And help ye to lounder our faes.
"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,
Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,
And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."
"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"
The captain did smiling reply,
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till daylight should glent in the sky.
Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;
Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,
Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,
Gaed bannin' the French again hame.
AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_
Whan winter winds forget to blaw,
An' vernal suns revive pale nature,
A shepherd lad by chance I saw,
Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.
Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,
His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,
While echoes answer'd frae the braes,
That skirt the banks of Coquet water.
"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"
Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;
An' deem mysel' as happy syne,
As landit laird on Coquet water.
"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,
In foreign lands their fortune fritter;
But love's pure joys be mine at home,
Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.
"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,
Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;
Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,
Tending my flocks by Coquet water.
"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,
For on thy banks aft hae I met her;
Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,
That busk the banks of Coquet water."
Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,
An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;
Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,
Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.
My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,
An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;
But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,
That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.
When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,
An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;
Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,
An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.
Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,
Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;
In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,
Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.
Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,
An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:
But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,
First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.
An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!
On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,
Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,
Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.
Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!
An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;
On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,
An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.
But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand
To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,
When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,
An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.
There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,
He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,
An' in his profession he had right good luck
At bridals his elbow to diddle.
But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,
As a' men to dust must return;
An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,
That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.
Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,
Lamenting the day that she saw,
An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,
That silent now hang on the wa'.
Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,
Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,
As in came a younker some comfort to speak,
Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.
"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,
Consent but to marry me now,
I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,
An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."
The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
Folks needna contend against fate."
He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
An' put a' the thairms in tune,
The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.
Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever;
For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.
He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.
Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.
When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.
Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,--
Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.
Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted--
The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed--
Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.
Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,
I sigh, for thy exit is near;
Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,
Who now presses hard on thy rear.
The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,
Droop sick as they nod on the lea;
The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning
Shrill warbles his song from the tree.
Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,
No warbler to lend her a lay,
No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,
As wont for to welcome the day.
Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,
Each landscape how pensive its mien!
They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,
And losing their liv'ry of green.
O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,
To where purer streamlets still flow,
Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,
Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.
fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the
performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.
During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter
accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal
unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the
In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal
"The grass is trodden by the feet
Of thousands, from a thousand lands--
The prince, the peasant, tottering age,
And rosy schoolboy bands;
All crowd to fairy Abbotsford,
And lingering gaze, and gaze the more;
Hang o'er the chair in which _he_ sat,
The latest dress _he_ wore."
 From "The Grave of Sir Walter Scott," a poem by Thomas C. Latto
It was an English ladye bright
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.
For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all.
That wine she had not tasted well
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
When dead in her true love's arms she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all.
He pierced her brother to the heart,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall--
So perish all would true love part,
That Love may still be lord of all!
And then he took the cross divine
(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
And died for her sake in Palestine,
So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!
 This song appears in the sixth canto of "The Lay of the Last
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)
"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far,
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow;
Where early violets die
Under the willow.
Eleu loro, &c.
Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever;
Never again to wake,
Never, O never!
Eleu loro, &c.
Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingle war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
Eleu loro, &c.
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it,--
Never, O never!
Eleu loro, &c.
Never, O never!
 From the third canto of "Marmion."
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow;
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor wardens challenge here;
Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
 The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of "The Lady of the
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!
Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;
Moor'd in the rifted rock
Proof to the tempest shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Shake when they hear agen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!
Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from the deepmost glen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtains for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
Far, far from love and thee, Mary.
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be the bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught,
For if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose
To my young bride and me, Mary!
 Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall;
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that 's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing:
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee--
That life is lost to love and me!
 "The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth.
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Wafts the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever.
 "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me ye knew, my love!
No more of me ye knew.
"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again."
He turn'd his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love!
And adieu for evermore."
 "Rokeby," canto third.
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother she asked of his household and home;
"Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel and the mother was stone,
They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;
But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
 "Rokeby," canto third.
Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Too lively glow the lilies' light,
The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,
The mayflower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree!
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green;
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Strike the wild harp while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing-bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree!
Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past
And I have look'd and loved my last!
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,--
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree!
 "Rokeby," canto fifth.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;--
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down--
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her king is his leader, her church is his cause,
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--
God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.
There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the barons of England that fight for the crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier,
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!
 "Rokeby," canto fifth.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they--
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can shew you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can shew the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown;
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
For those raptures that still are thine own.
Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
Its tendrils in infancy curl'd;
'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,
Whose life-blood enlivens the world.
Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,
Has assumed a proportion more round,
And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,
Looks soberly now on the ground--
Enough, after absence to meet me again,
Thy steps still with ecstacy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.
His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the
 Songs and Poems of Robert Mackay, p. 38. (Inverness, 1829. 8vo.)
This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It
At waking so early
Was snow on the Ben,
And, the glen of the hill in,
The storm-drift so chilling
The linnet was stilling,
That couch'd in its den;
And poor robin was shrilling
In sorrow his strain.
Every grove was expecting
Its leaf shed in gloom;
The sap it is draining,
Down rootwards 'tis straining,
And the bark it is waning
As dry as the tomb,
And the blackbird at morning
Is shrieking his doom.
Ceases thriving, the knotted,
The stunted birk-shaw;
While the rough wind is blowing,
And the drift of the snowing
Is shaking, o'erthrowing,
The copse on the law.
'Tis the season when nature
Is all in the sere,
When her snow-showers are hailing,
Her rain-sleet assailing,
Her mountain winds wailing,
Her rime-frosts severe.
'Tis the season of leanness,
Unkindness, and chill;
Its whistle is ringing,
An iciness bringing,
Where the brown leaves are clinging
In helplessness, still,
And the snow-rush is delving
With furrows the hill.
The sun is in hiding,
Or frozen its beam
On the peaks where he lingers,
On the glens, where the singers,
With their bills and small fingers
Are raking the stream,
Or picking the midstead
For forage--and scream.
When darkens the gloaming
Oh, scant is their cheer!
All benumb'd is their song in
The hedge they are thronging,
And for shelter still longing,
The mortar they tear;
Ever noisily, noisily
Squealing their care.
The running stream's chieftain
Is trailing to land,
So flabby, so grimy,
So sickly, so slimy,--
The spots of his prime he
Has rusted with sand;
Crook-snouted his crest is
That taper'd so grand.
How mournful in winter
The lowing of kine;
How lean-back'd they shiver,
How draggled their cover,
How their nostrils run over
With drippings of brine,
So scraggy and crining
In the cold frost they pine.
'Tis hallow-mass time, and
To mildness farewell!
Its bristles are low'ring
With darkness; o'erpowering
Are its waters, aye showering
With onset so fell;
Seem the kid and the yearling
As rung their death-knell.
Every out-lying creature,
How sinew'd soe'er,
Seeks the refuge of shelter;
The race of the antler
They snort and they falter,
A-cold in their lair;
And the fawns they are wasting
Since their kin is afar.
Such the songs that are saddest
And dreariest of all;
I ever am eerie
In the morning to hear ye!
When foddering, to cheer the
Poor herd in the stall--
While each creature is moaning,
And sickening in thrall.
Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable
the following is a translation, were much approved.
I see the wretch of high degree,
Though poverty has struck his race,
Pass with a darkness on his face
That door of hospitality.
I see the widow in her tears,
Dark as her woe--I see her boy--
From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;
The flash of youth through rags appears.
I see the poor's--the minstrel's lot--
As brethren they--no boon for song!
I see the unrequited wrong
Call for its helper, who is not.
You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?
You ask me _when_ this deep distress
Began to rage without redress?
"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"
I fly from the fold, since my passion's despair
No longer must harbour the charms that are there;
Anne's slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long,
Her turreted bosom--and Isabel's song;
What has been, and is not--woe 's my thought!
It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.
I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove,
And each spot it reported the kiss of my love;
But I saw her caressing another--and feel
'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal.
What has been, and is not, &c.
Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away,
The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay;
Though unsummon'd of thee, love has captured thy thrall,
And my hope of redemption for ever is small.
Day and night, though I strive aye
To shake him away, still he clings like the ivy.
But, auburn-hair'd Anna! to tell thee my plight,
'Tis old love unrequited that prostrates my might,
In presence or absence, aye faithful, my smart
Still racks, and still searches, and tugs at my heart--
Broken that heart, yet why disappear
From my country, without one embrace from my dear?
She answers with laughter and haughty disdain--
"To handle my snood you petition in vain;
Six suitors are mine since the year thou wert gone,
What art _thou_, that thou should'st be the favourite one?
Art thou sick? Ha, ha, for thy woe!
Art thou dying for love? Troth, love's payment was slow."
Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain,
And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain--
All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns,
And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns;
And I hope--yes, I hope once more,
Till my hope waxes high as a tower in its soar.
 "Anne"--Rob's first love, the heroine of the piece. "Similar in
 "Isabel"--the daughter of Ian Macechan, the subject of other
verses.
 Alluding to his absence, and delay in his courtship.
 Rather more modest than the classic's "feriam sidera vertice."
Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
And Isabel Mackay is alone;
Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c.
Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye,
At the forest foot--and alone?
Thou bride-lacking one,
If ever thy time
Is coming, begone,
The occasion is prime,
Is with the milk kye
At the skirts of the forest,
And with her is none.
Woe is the sign!
It is not well
With the lads that dwell
Around us, so brave,
When the mistress fine
Of Riothan-a-dave
Is out with the kine,
And with her is none.
O, woe is the sign, &c.
That a bride would gain
Of gentle degree,
And a drove or twain,
His speed let him strain
To Riothan-a-dave,
And a bride he shall have.
Then, to her so fain!
And a bride he shall have,
The maid that's alone.
Oh, seest not the dearie
So fit for embracing,
Her patience distressing,
The bestial a-chasing,
And she alone!
'Tis a marvellous fashion
That men should be slack,
When their bosoms lack
An object of passion,
To look such a lass on,
Her patience distressing,
The bestial a-chasing,
In the field, alone.
Oh, look upon the prize, sirs,
That where yon heights are rising,
The whole long twelvemonth sighs in,
Because she is alone.
Go, learn it from my minstrelsy,
Who list the tale to carry,
The maiden shuns the public eye,
And is ordain'd to tarry
'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware,
Where brown hills rear their ridges bare,
And wails her plight the livelong year,
To spend the day alone.
 A common Highland adjuration.
inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet,
apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he
"crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the
George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old
appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the
_Quarterly_, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.
How often, Death! art waking
The imploring cry of Nature!
When she sees her phalanx breaking,
As thou'dst have all--grim feature!
Since Autumn's leaves to brownness,
Of deeper shade were tending,
We saw thy step, from palaces,
To Evan's nook descending.
Oh, long, long thine agony!
A nameless length its tide;
Since breathless thou hast panted here,
And not a friend beside.
Thine errors what, I judge not;
What righteous deeds undone;
But if remains a se'ennight,
Redeem it, dying one!
Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,
What dust of time would blind?
Such thy impartiality
To our highest, lowest kind.
Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,
Determined none to miss;
It rose to Pelham's princely bower,
It sinks to shed like this!
So great thy victims, that the noble
Stand humbled by the bier;
So poor, it shames the poorest
To grace them with a tear.
Between the minister of state
And him that grovels there,
Should one remain uncounselled,
Is there one whom dool shall spare?
The hail that strews the battle-field
Not louder sounds its call,
Than the falling thousands round us
Are voicing words to all.
Hearken! least of all the nameless;
Evan's hour is going fast;
Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones--
Princely Pelham's hour is past.
Friends of my heart! in the twain we see
A type of life's declining;
'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,
At either end a-dwining.
Where was there one more low than thou--
Thou least of meanest things?
And where than his was higher place
Except the throne of kings?
 At this humiliating apostrophe, the beggar is reported to have
legend--a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in
The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical
rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length
 The same account observes that though none of his works are
 These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and
As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave
Lo! a featureless skull on the ground;
The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp,
While I turn it around and around.
Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express
Of the bystander nigh, a thought;
Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both,
Nor passes emotion its throat.
No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace
Its brow, and no ear for my song;
Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death
The raised features hath flatten'd along.
The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam--
The intelligent sight, are no more;
But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil,
Come hither their dwellings to bore.
No lineament here is left to declare
If monarch or chief art thou;
Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave
That on dunghill expires, is as low.
Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath
Who tenants my hand, unfold;
That my voice may not die without a reply,
Though the ear it addresses is cold.
Say, wert thou a May, of beauty a ray,
And flatter'd thine eye with a smile?
Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net,
The hearts of the youth to wile?
Alas every charm that a bosom could warm
Is changed to the grain of disgust!
Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her
Gracefulness all in the dust!
Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe
Acknowledge thy rule o'er them--
A magistrate true, to all dealing their due,
And just to redress or condemn?
Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold
In the scales of thy partial decree;
While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd,
And appeal'd their distresses to thee?
Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power
To extinguish the fever of ail?
And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried
O'er omnipotent death to prevail?
Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd
Thy hope when the need was thine own;
What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing
When the hours of thy portion were flown?
Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory,
While armies thy truncheon obey'd;
To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering
In flight, left their mountains of dead?
Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade,
When came onwards in battle array
The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms,
To sack and to rifle their prey?
How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while
Besieging, the reptile is vain,
And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find
His defence in the lodge of thy brain!
Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been,
Some, the organ where music repair'd;
In rabble and rout they come in and come out
At the gashes their fangs have bared.
Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,
Represented by nakedness, here?
Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,
Nor all unimparted thy gear;
Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!
To leanness their countenances grew--
'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right
Required, to a moment, its due;
While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied
To cover their head from the chill,
And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,
As cold blows the blast of the hill.
Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,
Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;
All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!
While but claims their obeisance the dead.
Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,
That death must have lent them his sting--
So daring they were, so reckless of fear,
As heaven had wanted a king?
Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy
In the haunt of thy venomous jaws,
Its slander display, as poisons its prey
The devilish snake in the grass?
That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,
The inflexible shackles of death;
And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail
Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath.
And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn
And expired, with impenitent groan;
To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,
And then to appear--at the Throne!
Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take
To the Judge of thy actions the way,
And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,
Thy sentence of termless dismay.
The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,
To brass-links the veins of thy frame
Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow
Like the anvil that melts not in flame!
But wert thou the mould of a champion bold
For God and his truth and his law?
Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense
Is broken--each gem with a flaw--
Be comforted thou! For rising in air
Thy flight shall the clarion obey;
And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,
If they will, by the creatures of prey.
 Maiden or virgin--_orig._
We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The
unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.
As lockfasted in slumber's arms
I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race
When every spectral object charms,
To melt, like shadow, in the chase),
A vision came; mine ear confess'd
Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!
Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,
Or fills the world thy crave of thought?
"Since fell transgression ravaged here
And reft Man's garden-joys away,
He weeps his unavailing tear,
And straggles, like a lamb astray.
"With shrilling bleat for comfort hie
To every pinfold, humankind;
Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,
The stranger mother proves unkind.
"No rest for toil, no drink for drought,
For bosom-peace the shadow's wing--
So feeds expectancy on nought,
And suckles every lying thing.
"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,
And hope foretells the clasp undone;
Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain
Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!
"Not all that trial's lore unlearns
Of all the lies that life betrays,
Avails, for still desire returns--
The last day's folly is to-day's.
"Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste
Survived the hour its lust was drown'd;
Or yields thine expectation's zest
To full fruition, golden-crown'd?
"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,
'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven--
Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,
When to the grasping hand 'tis given.
"Go, search the world, wherever woe
Of high or low the bosom wrings,
There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,
Is answer'd from the breast of kings.
"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,
From every heart its sigh is roll'd;
The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud
Is both the sting's and honey's fold.
"Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine
Where high its tempting heaps are piled?
Look down, behold the fountain shine,
And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!
"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,
And falls an insect in its toil?
The creature turns thy life-blood pale,
And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.
"When high thy fellow-mortal soars,
His state is like the topmost nest--
It swings with every blast that roars,
And every motion shakes its crest.
"And if the world for once is kind,
Yet ever has the lot its bend;
Where fortune has the crook inclined,
Not all thy strength or art shall mend.
"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,
Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,
Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk
At this extreme what there was gain'd.
"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,
'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,
Not all his miser care avail'd
His neighbour's portion to outvie.
"So, blended all that nature owns,
So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless--
With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;
With courtly luxury, distress.
"Lift up the balance--heap with gold,
Its other shell vile dust shall fill;
And were a kingdom's ransom told,
The scales would want adjustment still.
"Life has its competence--nor deem
That better than enough were more;
Sure it were phantasy to dream
With burdens to assuage thy sore.
"It is the fancy's whirling strife
That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves,
To-morrow spurns--suffices life
When passion asks what passion braves?
"Should appetite her wish achieve,
To herd with brutes her joy would bound;
Pleased other paradise to leave,
Content to pasture on the ground.
"But pride rebels, nor towers alone
Beyond that confine's lowly sphere--
Seems as from the Eternal Throne
It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.
"'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;
But, seek we to our bliss the way,
Let us to Heaven our path refer,
Believe, and worship, and obey.
"That choice is all--to range beyond
Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace,
In these He gives, who sits enthroned,
Salvation, competence, and peace."
The instructive vision pass'd away,
But not its wisdom's dreamless lore;
No more in shadow-tracks I stray,
And fondle shadow-shapes no more.
 _Orig._--The venomous red spider.
My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,
My life-time love, my own!
The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie
Was bound to me alone,
By covenant true, and ritual holy,
Gave happiness all but divine;
Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,
Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.
'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted
Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,
The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,
That force can never unbind.
I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,
While I gain'd a love and a bride,
I heard my heart, and could tell each second,
As its pulses struck on my side.
I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,
And said that no salve could save;
She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,
For herself to my breast she gave.
Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee
For chasing away, away,
My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,
And teaching no more to stray.
I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,
All shapely from branch to stem,
My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying
To cull the fairest from them;
One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,
Bent lowly down to my hand,
And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,
To me, the least of the band.
I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,
Where the stream's transparence ran,
Forget shall I never, how the beauty I drew in,
Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.
Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection
With such a prize to my share!
My love is a ray, a morning reflection,
Beside me she sleeps, a star.
 Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy
brightness.
The noble Otter hill!
It is a chieftain Beinn,
Ever the fairest still
Of all these eyes have seen.
Spacious is his side;
I love to range where hide,
In haunts by few espied,
The nurslings of his den.
In the bosky shade
Of the velvet glade,
Couch, in softness laid,
The nimble-footed deer;
To see the spotted pack,
That in scenting never slack,
Coursing on their track,
Is the prime of cheer.
Merry may the stag be,
The lad that so fairly
Flourishes the russet coat
That fits him so rarely.
'Tis a mantle whose wear
Time shall not tear;
'Tis a banner that ne'er
Sees its colours depart:
And when they seek his doom,
Let a man of action come,
A hunter in his bloom,
With rifle not untried:
A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,
To strike a trusty dint,
And make the gun-lock glint
With a flash of pride.
Let the barrel be but true,
And the stock be trusty too,
So, Lightfoot, though he flew,
Shall be purple-dyed.
He should not be novice bred,
But a marksman of first head,
By whom that stag is sped,
In hill-craft not unskill'd;
So, when Padraig of the glen
Call'd his hounds and men,
The hill spake back again,
As his orders shrill'd;
Then was firing snell,
And the bullets rain'd like hail,
And the red-deer fell
Like warrior on the field.
Oh, the young doe so frisky,
So coy, and so fair,
That gambols so briskly,
And snuffs up the air;
And hurries, retiring,
To the rocks that environ,
When foemen are firing,
And bullets are there.
Though swift in her racing,
Like the kinsfolk before her,
No heart-burst, unbracing
Her strength, rushes o'er her.
'Tis exquisite hearing
Her murmur, as, nearing,
Her mate comes careering,
Her pride, and her lover;--
He comes--and her breathing
Her rapture is telling;
How his antlers are wreathing,
His white haunch, how swelling!
High chief of Bendorain,
He seems, as adoring
His hind, he comes roaring
To visit her dwelling.
'Twere endless my singing
How the mountain is teeming
With thousands, that bringing
Each a high chief's proud seeming,
With his hind, and her gala
Of younglings, that follow
O'er mountain and beala,
All lightsome are beaming.
When that lightfoot so airy,
Her race is pursuing,
Oh, what vision saw e'er a
Feat of flight like her doing?
She springs, and the spreading grass
Scarce feels her treading,
It were fleet foot that sped in
Twice the time that she flew in.
The gallant array!
How the marshes they spurn,
In the frisk of their play,
And the wheelings they turn,--
As the cloud of the mind
They would distance behind,
And give years to the wind,
In the pride of their scorn!
'Tis the marrow of health
In the forest to lie,
Where, nooking in stealth,
They enjoy her supply,--
Her fosterage breeding
A race never needing,
Save the milk of her feeding,
From a breast never dry.
Her hill-grass they suckle,
Her mammets they swill,
And in wantonness chuckle
O'er tempest and chill;
With their ankles so light,
And their girdles of white,
And their bodies so bright
With the drink of the rill.
Through the grassy glen sporting
In murmurless glee,
Nor snow-drift nor fortune
Shall urge them to flee,
Save to seek their repose
In the clefts of the knowes,
And the depths of the howes
Of their own Eas-an-ti.
In the forest den, the deer
Makes, as best befits, his lair,
Where is plenty, and to spare,
Of her grassy feast.
There she browses free
On herbage of the lea,
Or marsh grass, daintily,
Until her haunch is greased.
Her drink is of the well,
Where the water-cresses swell,
Nor with the flowing shell
Is the toper better pleased.
The bent makes nobler cheer,
Or the rashes of the mere,
Than all the creagh that e'er
Gave surfeit to a guest.
Come, see her table spread;
The _sorach_ sweet display'd
The _ealvi_, and the head
Of the daisy stem;
The _dorach_ crested, sleek,
And ringed with many a streak,
Presents her pastures meek,
Profusely by the stream.
Such the luxuries
That plump their noble size,
And the herd entice
To revel in the howes.
Nobler haunches never sat on
Pride of grease, than when they batten
On the forest links, and fatten
On the herbs of their carouse.
Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,
When the supper-time
Calls all their hosts from roaming,
To see their social prime;
And when the shadows gather,
They lair on native heather,
Nor shelter from the weather
Need, but the knolls behind.
Dread or dark is none;
Their 's the mountain throne,
Height and slope their own,
The gentle mountain kind;
Pleasant is the grace
Of their hue, and dappled dress,
And an ark in their distress,
In Bendorain dear they find.
So brilliant thy hue
With tendril and flow'ret,
The grace of the view,
What land can o'erpower it?
Thou mountain of beauty,
Methinks it might suit thee,
The homage of beauty
To claim as a queen.
What needs it? Adoring
Thy reign, we see pouring
The wealth of their store in
Already, I ween.
The seasons--scarce roll'd once,
Their gifts are twice told--
And the months, they unfold
On thy bosom their dower,
With profusion so rare,
Ne'er was clothing so fair,
Like the bud and the flower
Of the groves on thy breast,
Where rejoices to rest
His magnificent crest,
The mountain-cock, shrilling
In quick time, his note;
And the clans of the grot
With melody's note,
Their numbers are trilling.
No foot can compare,
In the dance of the green,
With the roebuck's young heir;
And here he is seen
With his deftness of speed,
And his sureness of tread,
And his bend of the head,
And his freedom of spring!
Over corrie careers he,
The wood-cover clears he,
And merrily steers he
With bound, and with fling,--
As he spurns from his stern
The heather and fern,
And dives in the dern
Of the wilderness deep;
Or, anon, with a strain,
And a twang of each vein
He revels amain
'Mid the cliffs of the steep.
With the burst of a start
When the flame of his heart
Impels to depart,
How he distances all!
Two bounds at a leap,
The brown hillocks to sweep,
His appointment to keep
With the doe, at her call.
With her following, the roe
From the danger of ken
Couches inly, and low,
In the haunts of the glen;
Ever watchful to hear,
Ever active to peer,
Ever deft to career,--
All ear, vision, and limb.
And though Cult and Cuchullin,
With their horses and following,
Should rush to her dwelling,
And our prince in his trim,
They might vainly aspire
Without rifle and fire
To ruffle or nigh her,
Her mantle to dim.
Stark-footed, lively,
Ever capering naively
With motion alive, aye,
And wax-white, in shine,
When her startle betrays
That the hounds are in chase,
The same as the base
Is the rocky decline--
She puffs from her chest,
And she ambles her crest
And disdain is express'd
In her nostril and eye;--
That eye--how it winks!
Like a sunbeam it blinks,
And it glows, and it sinks,
And is jealous and shy!
A mountaineer lynx,
Like her race that 's gone by.
Her lodge is in the valley--here
No huntsman, void of notion,
Should hurry on the fallow deer,
But steal on her with caution;--
With wary step and watchfulness
To stalk her to her resting place,
Insures the gallant wight's success,
Before she is in motion.
The hunter bold should follow then,
By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,
And nestle in the gulley, then,
And watch with deep devotion
The shadows on the benty grass,
And how they come, and how they pass;
Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,
To quicken her emotion.
With nerve and eye so wary, sir,
That straight his piece may carry, sir,
He marks with care the quarry, sir,
The muzzle to repose on;
And now, the knuckle is applied,
The flint is struck, the priming tried,
Is fired, the volley has replied,
And reeks in high commotion;--
Was better powder ne'er to flint,
Nor trustier wadding of the lint--
And so we strike a telling dint,
Well done, my own Nic-Coisean!
 Anglicised into _Ben_.
 The deer.
 Stag of the first head.
personified as a nurse or mother.
 Bog-holes.
 St John's wort.
 A kind of cress, or marshmallow.
 _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in
traditional Gaelic poetry.
 Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's
Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of
feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the
original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are
enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the
forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of
Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic
patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he
carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as
enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was
love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.
Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal
May happen to a Highlan' man;
Though he fall in love he soon may feel
He cannot get the fancied one;
The first I loved in time that 's past,
I courted twenty years, ochone!
But she forsook me at the last,
And Duncan then was left alone.
To Edinbro' I forthwith hied
To seek a sweetheart to my mind,
An', if I could, to find a bride
For the fause love I left behind;
"I ken a widow secretly,
An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,
To put her, Duncan, in your way."
As was his wont, I trow, did he
Fulfil his welcome promise true,
He gave the widow unto me,
And all her portion with her too;
And whosoe'er may ask her name,
And her surname also may desire,
They call her Janet--great her fame--
An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.
She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,
No vexing gloom or look at hand,
As high in rank and in degree
As any lady in the land;
She 's my support and my relief,
Since e'er she join'd me, any how;
Great is the cureless cause of grief
To him who has not got her now!
Nic-Coisean I 've forsaken quite,
Altho' she liveth still at ease--
An' allow the crested stags to fight
And wander wheresoe'er they please,
A young wife I have chosen now,
Which I repent not any where,
I am not wanting wealth, I trow,
Since ever I espoused the fair.
I pass my word of honour bright--
Most excellent I do her call;
In her I ne'er, in any light,
Discover'd any fault at all.
She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,
Without a hidden fault, my friend;
In her, defect I never found,
Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.
When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!
For money in a great degree;
Ah, George's daughter--generous lass--
Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;
She keepeth me in drink, and stays
By me in ale-houses and all,
An' at once, without a word, she pays
For every stoup I choose to call!
An' every turn I bid her do
She does it with a willing grace;
She never tells me aught untrue,
Nor story false, with lying face;
She keeps my rising family
As well as I could e'er desire,
Although no labour I do try,
Nor dirty work for love or hire.
I labour'd once laboriously,
Although no riches I amass'd;
A menial I disdain'd to be,
An' keep my vow unto the last.
I have ceased to labour in the lan',
Since e'er I noticed to my wife,
That the idle and contented man
Endureth to the longest life.
'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed--
In whom I faithfully believe,
She 's able still to earn my bread,
An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;
I 'll have no lack of linens fair,
An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,
An' trust me that all worldly care
Now gives me not the least concern.
 The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the
Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of
 A byeword for a regimental firelock.
 A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and
elsewhere.
versification.
Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,
The notes would betray the languor of woe;
My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone
That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.
The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare,
And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,
Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,
For under the sun is no hope of release.
'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen
Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside;
How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower
The arm of our power, and the step of our pride.
As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,
The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,
So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,
Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.
Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,
And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;
Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve--
In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.
To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,
Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;
The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.
Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held
By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;
The friends of our love at thy call must remove,--
What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?
They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store,
Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;
Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,
Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.
Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face
To hasten its race on the route to the tomb,
To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,
Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,
Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!
To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,
Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none.
We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd
Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;
Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,
And the ivory tare from its sockets' repose.
Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,
Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;
What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,
And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!
Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?
Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave,
Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.
Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,
Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;
Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight,
And thy grizzle of white, and thy crippleness, come
To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,
And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;
All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall
The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"
 Alluding to the plagues.
 The teeth.
 _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.
Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a
 In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.
A health to Caberfae,
A toast, and a cheery one,
That soon return he may,
Though long and far his tarrying.
The death of shame befal me,
Be riven off my eididh too,
But my fancy hears thy call--we
Should all be _up and ready, O_!
'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,
Thine arm, inaction scorning,
Assign their dues to the Munroes,
Their _welcome_ in the morning.
Nor stood the Cátach to his bratach
For dread of a belabouring,
When up gets the Staghead,
And raises his cabar on.
When he to fight must challenge thee;
Nor better fared the Roses
That lent _Monro_ their valiancy.
They tarried not the melee in;
Fled Forbes, in dismay, sir,
Culloden-wards, undallying.
Away they ran, while firm remain,
Not one to three, retiring so,
The earl, the craven, took to haven,
Scarce a pistol firing, O!
Mackay of Spoils, his heart recoils,
He cries in haste his cabul on,
He flies--as soars the Staghead,
And raises his cabar on.
Like feather'd creatures flying,
That in the hill-mist shiver,
In haste for refuge hieing,
To the meadow or the river--
So, port they sought, and took to boat,
Bewailing what had happened them,
To trust was rash, the missing flash
Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them.
The coracle of many a skull,
The relics of his neighbour, on,
Monro retreats--for Staghead
Is raising his cabar on.
I own my expectation,--
'Tis this has roused my apathy,
That He who rules creation
May change the dismal hap of thee,
And hasten to restore thee
In safety from thy danger,
To thine own, in joy and glory,
To save us from the stranger.
With princely grace to give redress,
Nor a taunt to suffer back again;
The fell Monro has felt thy blow,
And should he dare attack again,
Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,
The flames to quench he 'll labour on,
Of castle fired--when Staghead
High raises his cabar on!
I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,
A gracious chieftain ever,
The Cátach self below thee,
And the Gallach cower'd for cover;
But ever more their striving,
When claim'd respect thine eye,
Thy scourge corrected, driving
To other lands to fly.
Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,
No panic fear shall turn them,
With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd,
Their banning foes they spurn them.
Clan-Shimei then may dare them,
They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,
Needs but a look--when Staghead
Once raises his cabar on.
Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,
Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle, O!
Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,
That forays with the beagle, O!
For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird!
My song shall raise the mountain-deer;
The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,
He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.
His lodge is in the forest;--
While carion-flesh enticing
Thy greedy maw, thou buriest
Thou kite of prey! thy claws in
The putrid corse of famish'd horse,
The greedy hound a-striving
To rival thee in gluttony,
Both at the bowels riving.
Thou called the _true bird_!--Never,
Thou foster child of evil, ha!
How ill match with thy feather
The talons of thy devilry!
But when thy foray preys on
How often has the shepherd
With trusty baton master'd thee;
Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,
Else, not alone, belabouring,
He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,
Up-raising his cabar on.
Woe worth the world, deceiver--
So false, so fair of seeming!
We 've seen the noble Siphort
With all his war-notes screaming;
When not a chief in Albain,
Mac-Ailein's self though backing him,
Could face his frown--as Staghead
Arose with his cabar on.
To join thy might, when call'd the right,
A gallant army springing on,
Would rise, from Assint to the crags
Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on.
Each man upon, true-flinted gun,
Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;
When up rose thy cabar on!
While stream'd their flag its bravery;
Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,
That havock'd on the cavalry.
With many a flashing trigger there,
The foemen rushing in on,
Resistless shew'd their vigour there.
May fortune free thee--may we see thee
Again in Bràun, the turreted,
Girt with thy clan! And not a man
But will get the scorn he merited.
Then wine will play, and usquebae
From flaggons, and from badalan,
And pipers scream--when Staghead
High raises his cabar on.
 Applicable both to the chief and his crest.
 Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.
 Rose of Kilravock and his clan.
 Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.
 Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the
 The Caithness and Sutherland men.
 Lovat's men.
 The eagle being the crest of the Monro.
 The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel
habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the
 _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.
 Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.
 The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.
 Clanranald's country.
 Literally--Of blue steel.
 Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.
 Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.
 _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.
_Bang_, to change place hastily.
_Bangster_, a violent person.
_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.
_Bein_, good, suitable.
_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.
_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.
_Boggie_, a marsh.
_Braw_, gaily dressed.
_Busk_, to attire oneself.
_Cantie_, cheerful.
_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.
_Chuckies_, chickens.
_Chuffy_, clownish.
_Clavering_, talking idly.
_Cleeding_, clothing.
_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.
_Clocksie_, vivacious.
_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.
_Coft_, purchased.
_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.
_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.
_Creel_, a basket.
_Croft_, a tenement of land.
_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.
_Crusie_, a small lamp.
_Cuddle_, embrace.
_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.
_Cuttie_, a short pipe.
_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.
_Dautit_, fondled.
_Dirdum_, tumult.
_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.
_Doited_, stupid.
_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.
_Draigle_, draggle.
_Dringing_, delaying.
_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.
_Dung_, defeated.
_Eerie_, timorous.
_Elf_, a puny creature.
_Fashious_, troublesome.
_Ferlies_, remarkable things.
_Fleyt_, frightened.
_Fogie_, a stupid old person.
_Foumart_, a pole-cat.
_Fraise_, flattery.
_Frumpish_, crumpled.
_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.
_Gart_, compelled.
_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.
_Glaikit_, stupid.
_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.
_Grusome_, frightful.
_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.
_Gutchir_, grandfather.
_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.
_Hain_, save, preserve.
_Havens_, endowments.
_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.
_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.
_Howe_, a hollow.
_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.
_Kebbuck_, a cheese.
_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.
_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.
_Leal_, honest, faithful.
_Leese me_, pleased am I with.
_Lyart_, gray-haired.
_Loof_, the palm of the hand.
_Lucky, A_, an old woman.
_Luntin_, smoking.
_Mailin_, a farm.
_Maukin_, a hare.
_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.
_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.
_Mouldie_, crumbling.
_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.
_Mutch_, a woman's cap.
_Neip_, a turnip.
_Neive_, the closed fist.
_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.
_Owerlay_, a cravat.
_Perlins_, women's ornaments.
_Poortith_, poverty.
_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.
_Rink_, run about.
_Routh_, abundance.
_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.
_Sabbit_, sobbed.
_Scartle_, a graip or fork.
_Scrimply_, barely.
_Shaw_, a plantation.
_Shiel_, a sheep shed.
_Skeigh_, timorous.
_Skiffin_, moving lightly.
_Smeddum_, sagacity.
_Snooded_, the hair bound up.
_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.
_Spence_, a larder.
_Steenies_, guineas.
_Sumph_, a soft person.
_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.
_Sweir_, indolent.
_Tabbit_, benumbed.
_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.
_Thairms_, strings.
_Thowless_, thoughtless.
_Tirl_, to uncover.
_Towmond_, a year.
_Tryst_, appointment.
_Tyced_, made diversion.
_Vauntit_, boasted.
_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.
_Wizen_, the throat.