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Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns
by Robert Burns
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Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And to her auld husband he's carried her back, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "But ne'er was in hell till I met wi' a wife," And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.



The Slave's Lament

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, For the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O.

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O:

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, In the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O; And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O:



O Can Ye Labour Lea?

Chorus—O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea? It fee nor bountith shall us twine Gin ye can labour lea.

I fee'd a man at Michaelmas, Wi' airle pennies three; But a' the faut I had to him, He could na labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O clappin's gude in Febarwar, An' kissin's sweet in May; But my delight's the ploughman lad, That weel can labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O kissin is the key o' luve, And clappin' is the lock; An' makin' o's the best thing yet, That e'er a young thing gat. O can ye labour lea, &c.



The Deuks Dang O'er My Daddie

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O! The fien-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin' body, O! He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn' he paidles late and early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O.

O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O: I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O. I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, And cuddl'd me late and early, O; But downa-do's come o'er me now, And oh, I find it sairly, O!



The Deil's Awa Wi' The Exciseman

The deil cam fiddlin' thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman, And ilka wife cries, "Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man."

Chorus—The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink, We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man, And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman. The deil's awa, &c.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man, But the ae best dance ere came to the land Was—the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. The deil's awa, &c.



The Country Lass

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the lea And roses blaw in ilka beild! Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says—"I'll be wed, come o't what will": Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild; "O' gude advisement comes nae ill.

"It's ye hae wooers mony ane, And lassie, ye're but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale A routhie butt, a routhie ben; There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; Take this frae me, my bonie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire."

"For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae love to spare for me; But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear."

"O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But aye fu'—han't is fechtin' best, A hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend and some will spare, An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."

"O gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome love, The gowd and siller canna buy; We may be poor—Robie and I— Light is the burden love lays on; Content and love brings peace and joy— What mair hae Queens upon a throne?"



Bessy And Her Spinnin' Wheel

O Leeze me on my spinnin' wheel, And leeze me on my rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me biel and warm at e'en; I'll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal, O leeze me on my spinnin' wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest; The sun blinks kindly in the beil', Where blythe I turn my spinnin' wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays; The craik amang the claver hay, The pairtrick whirring o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinnin' wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great? Amid their flairing, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin' wheel?



Love For Love

Ithers seek they ken na what, Features, carriage, and a' that; Gie me love in her I court, Love to love maks a' the sport.

Let love sparkle in her e'e; Let her lo'e nae man but me; That's the tocher-gude I prize, There the luver's treasure lies.



Saw Ye Bonie Lesley

O saw ye bonie Lesley, As she gaed o'er the Border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects, we before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonie face, And say—"I canna wrang thee!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonie.



Fragment Of Song

No cold approach, no altered mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest—and broke my heart.



I'll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig

When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where birken buds Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind Dearie O; Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae weary O, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun; To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen Adown the burn to steer, my jo: Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.



My Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing

Air—"My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing."

Chorus.—She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine, She is a winsome, &c.

The warld's wrack we share o't; The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. She is a winsome, &c.



Highland Mary

Tune—"Katherine Ogie."

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie: There Simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last Farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden Hours on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my Dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my Flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.



Auld Rob Morris

There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction nae words can express.



The Rights Of Woman

An Occasional Address.

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connection, One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.— The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis decorum.— There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay even thus invade a Lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred— Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest; Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, Most humbly own—'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life—immortal love. Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs; 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares, When awful Beauty joins with all her charms— Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions; Let Majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!



Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character

Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning Nature, torturing art; Loves and Graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.



Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson

Dost thou not rise, indignant shade, And smile wi' spurning scorn, When they wha wad hae starved thy life, Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae, Wi' meikle honest toil, And claught th' unfading garland there— Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.

And wear it thou! and call aloud This axiom undoubted— Would thou hae Nobles' patronage? First learn to live without it!

To whom hae much, more shall be given, Is every Great man's faith; But he, the helpless, needful wretch, Shall lose the mite he hath.



Duncan Gray

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blythe Yule-night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his e'en baith blear't an' blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and Chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And oh! her een they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't: Duncan could na be her death, Swelling Pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.



Here's A Health To Them That's Awa

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never gude luck be their fa'! It's gude to be merry and wise, It's gude to be honest and true; It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to Charlie^1 the chief o' the clan, Altho' that his band be but sma'! May Liberty meet wi' success! May Prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine i' the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's a health to Tammie,^2 the Norlan' laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law! Here's freedom to them that wad read, Here's freedom to them that wad write,

[Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.]

[Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.]

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they whom the truth would indite.

Here's a Health to them that's awa, An' here's to them that's awa! Here's to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like 'em Be built in a hole in the wa'; Here's timmer that's red at the heart Here's fruit that is sound at the core; And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn'd to the back o' the door.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw; Here's friends on baith sides o' the firth, And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed; And wha wad betray old Albion's right, May they never eat of her bread!



A Tippling Ballad

On the Duke of Brunswick's Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.

When Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots, A'Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down, Nor envies a crown, And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow, And comforts himself as he dow.

The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle, He hunted o'er height and o'er howe, In the braes o' Gemappe, He fell in a trap, E'en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow, E'en let him come out as he dow.

But truce with commotions, And new-fangled notions, A bumper, I trust you'll allow; Here's George our good king, And Charlotte his queen, And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow, And lang may they ring as they dow.



1793



Poortith Cauld And Restless Love

Tune—"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."

O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An 'twere na for my Jeanie.

Chorus—O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining?

The warld's wealth, when I think on, It's pride and a' the lave o't; O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't! O why, &c.

Her e'en, sae bonie blue, betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks o' rank and fashion. O why, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am? O why, &c.

How blest the simple cotter's fate! He woos his artless dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make him eerie, O why, &c.



On Politics

In Politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see.



Braw Lads O' Galla Water

Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amang the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonie lad o' Galla Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure.



Sonnet Written On The Author's Birthday,

On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.



Wandering Willie—First Version

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e: Now welcome the Simmer, and welcome my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me.

Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o'your slumbers, O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!



Wandering Willie—Revised Version

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, Welcome now the Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!



Lord Gregory

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, O, wilt thou bring me rest! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see; But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me.



Open The Door To Me, Oh

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, oh, Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, oh.

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh: The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh.

The wan Moon is setting beyond the white wave, And Time is setting with me, oh: False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh.

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide, She sees the pale corse on the plain, oh: "My true love!" she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh.



Lovely Young Jessie

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr; But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily, at evening close; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law: And still to her charms she alone is a stranger; Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'.



Meg O' The Mill

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; The laird was a widdifu', bleerit knurl; She's left the gude fellow, and taen the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving, The lair did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin', And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl'!



Meg O' The Mill—Another Version

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? A braw new naig wi' the tail o' a rottan, And that's what Meg o' the Mill has gotten.

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly, An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly? A dram o' gude strunt in the morning early, And that's what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly.

O ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was married, An' ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was married? The priest he was oxter'd, the clark he was carried, And that's how Meg o' the Mill was married.

O ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was bedded, An' ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was bedded? The groom gat sae fou', he fell awald beside it, And that's how Meg o' the Mill was bedded.



The Soldier's Return

Air—"The Mill, mill, O."

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander: I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonie glen, Where early life I sported; I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted: Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy may he be, That's dearest to thy bosom: My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain would be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang— Take pity on a sodger."

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it; That gallant badge—the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't."

She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose— Syne pale like only lily; She sank within my arms, and cried, "Art thou my ain dear Willie?" "By him who made yon sun and sky! By whom true love's regarded, I am the man; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded.

"The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted." Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!"

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodgerpppp's wealth is honor: The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger; Remember he's his country's stay, In day and hour of danger.



Versicles, A.D. 1793



The True Loyal Natives

Ye true "Loyal Natives" attend to my song In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From Envy and Hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of Contempt!



On Commissary Goldie's Brains

Lord, to account who dares thee call, Or e'er dispute thy pleasure? Else why, within so thick a wall, Enclose so poor a treasure?



Lines Inscribed In A Lady's Pocket Almanac

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live, To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till Slave and Despot be but things that were.



Thanksgiving For A National Victory

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks? To murder men and give God thanks! Desist, for shame!—proceed no further; God won't accept your thanks for Murther!



Lines On The Commemoration Of Rodney's Victory

Instead of a Song, boy's, I'll give you a Toast; Here's to the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!— That we lost, did I say?—nay, by Heav'n, that we found; For their fame it will last while the world goes round.

The next in succession I'll give you's the King! Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing! And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of our great Revolution! And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and Tyranny damn'd! And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman—and he his first trial!



The Raptures Of Folly

Thou greybeard, old Wisdom! may boast of thy treasures; Give me with young Folly to live; I grant thee thy calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give.



Kirk and State Excisemen

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen? Give the cause a hearing: What are your Landlord's rent-rolls? Taxing ledgers! What Premiers? What ev'n Monarchs? Mighty Gaugers! Nay, what are Priests? (those seeming godly wise-men,) What are they, pray, but Spiritual Excisemen!



Extempore Reply To An Invitation

The King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' you by an' by; Or else the Deil's be in it.



Grace After Meat

Lord, we thank, and thee adore, For temporal gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more— Let William Hislop give the spirit.



Grace Before And After Meat

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore, Do thou stand us in stead, And send us, from thy bounteous store, A tup or wether head! Amen.

O Lord, since we have feasted thus, Which we so little merit, Let Meg now take away the flesh, And Jock bring in the spirit! Amen.



Impromptu On General Dumourier's Desertion From The French Republican Army

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier: How does Dampiere do? Ay, and Bournonville too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, I will take my chance with you; By my soul, I'll dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till Freedom's spark be out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.



The Last Time I Came O'er The Moor

The last time I came o'er the moor, And left Maria's dwelling, What throes, what tortures passing cure, Were in my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to see my rival's reign, While I in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my crime would cover; Th' unweeting groan, the bursting sigh, Betray the guilty lover. I know my doom must be despair, Thou wilt nor canst relieve me; But oh, Maria, hear my prayer, For Pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy tongue I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, Till fear no more had sav'd me: The unwary sailor thus, aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing, 'Mid circling horrors yields at last To overwhelming ruin.



Logan Braes

Tune—"Logan Water."

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride, And years sin syne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun: But now thy flowery banks appear Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month of May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening's tears are tears o' joy: My soul, delightless a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile; But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O wae be to you, Men o' State, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tear, the orphan's cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan braes!



Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill

Tune—"The Quaker's Wife."

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me; Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb despairing! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod, Soon maun be my dwelling.



O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair

Air—"Hughie Graham."

O were my love yon Lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring, And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn when it was torn By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'; And I myself a drap o' dew, Into her bonie breast to fa'! O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!



Bonie Jean—A Ballad

To its ain tune.

There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk or market to be seen; When a' our fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And aye she sang sae merrilie; The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!

As in the bosom of the stream, The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast of bonie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark, And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad make her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her e'e, As Robie tauld a tale o' love Ae e'ening on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly laid, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:

"O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me, Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

"At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me."

Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na: At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was aye between them twa.



Lines On John M'Murdo, ESQ.

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle, furrow'd by the hand of care, Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! O may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!



Epitaph On A Lap-Dog

Named Echo

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now, half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now, half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.



Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway

What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts 'll were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave.

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire! So ran the far-famed Roman way, And ended in a mire.

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway! In quiet let me live: I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give.



Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan

When Morine, deceas'd, to the Devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; "Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, "that crown shall wear never, I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever."



Song—Phillis The Fair

Tune—"Robin Adair."

While larks, with little wing, Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing Spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song, Glad I did share; While yon wild-flowers among, Chance led me there! Sweet to the op'ning day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were; I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare: So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny, He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair.



Song—Had I A Cave

Tune—"Robin Adair."

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar: There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more!

Falsest of womankind, can'st thou declare All thy fond, plighted vows fleeting as air! To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury; Then in thy bosom try What peace is there!



Song—By Allan Stream

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, An' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang— "O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

"O, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my Dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, 'I'm thine for ever!' While mony a kiss the seal imprest— The sacred vow we ne'er should sever."

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose-brae, The Summer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her short'ning day, Is Autumn in her weeds o' yellow; But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?



Whistle, And I'll Come To You, My Lad

Chorus.—O Whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad, O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad, Tho' father an' mother an' a' should gae mad, O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad.

But warily tent when ye come to court me, And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me, And come as ye were na comin' to me. O whistle an' I'll come, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie; But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me, Yet look as ye were na lookin' to me. O whistle an' I'll come, &c.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a-wee; But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. O whistle an' I'll come, &c.



Phillis The Queen O' The Fair

Tune—"The Muckin o' Geordie's Byre."

Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

Chorus.—Awa' wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare, Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis— For she is Simplicity's child. Awa' wi' your belles, &c.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily! But fairer and purer her breast. Awa' wi' your belles, &c.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye. Awa' wi' your belles, &c.

Her voice is the song o' the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa' wi' your belles, &c.

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting! The bloom of a fine summer's day; While worth in the mind o' my Phillis, Will flourish without a decay. Awa' wi' your belles, &c.



Come, Let Me Take Thee To My Breast

Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The world's wealth and grandeur: And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone, That I may live to love her.

Thus, in my arms, wi' a' her charms, I clasp my countless treasure; I'll seek nae main o' Heav'n to share, Tha sic a moment's pleasure: And by thy e'en sae bonie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never.



Dainty Davie

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; And now comes in the happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie.

Chorus.—Meet me on the warlock knowe, Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie; There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear Dainty Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. Meet me on, &c.

As purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. Meet me on, &c.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, I flee to his arms I loe' the best, And that's my ain dear Davie. Meet me on, &c.



Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and Slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a Slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha, for Scotland's King and Law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', Let him on wi' me!

By Oppression's woes and pains! By your Sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud Usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!— Let us Do or Die!



Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, the darling of my heart; Sever'd from thee, can I survive, But Fate has will'd and we must part. I'll often greet the surging swell, Yon distant Isle will often hail: "E'en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye: "Happy thou Indian grove," I'll say, "Where now my Nancy's path may be! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me!"



Down The Burn, Davie

As down the burn they took their way, And thro' the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale:

With "Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew?" Quoth Mary—"Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you."



Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie

Tune—"Fee him, father, fee him."

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever; Thou has left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever: Aften hast thou vow'd that Death Only should us sever; Now thou'st left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou canst love another jo, While my heart is breaking; Soon my weary een I'll close, Never mair to waken, Jamie, Never mair to waken!



Where Are The Joys I have Met?

Tune—"Saw ye my father."

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild-woods among?

No more a winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flowerets so fair, No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure, But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.

Is it that Summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly Winter is near? No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Yet long, long, too well have I known; All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow: Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.



Deluded Swain, The Pleasure

Tune—"The Collier's Dochter."

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The cloud's uncertain motion, They are but types of Woman.

O art thou not asham'd To doat upon a feature? If Man thou wouldst be nam'd, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow, Good claret set before thee, Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory!



Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair

Tune—"The Quaker's Wife."

Thine am I, my faithful Fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish; Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish.

Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure! What is life when wanting Love? Night without a morning: Love's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.



On Mrs. Riddell's Birthday

4th November 1793.

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred: "What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning.

"Now Jove, for once be mighty civil. To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me." "'Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.



My Spouse Nancy

Tune—"My Jo Janet."

"Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir."

"One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it Man or Woman, say, My spouse Nancy?'

"If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance!"

"Sad shall I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I'll try to make a shift, My spouse Nancy."

"My poor heart, then break it must, My last hour I am near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think how you will bear it."

"I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy."

"Well, Sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!"

"I'll wed another like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy."



Address

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent—these are no laughing times: Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears— Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"

I could no more—askance the creature eyeing, "D'ye think," said I, "this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!"

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief: I also think—so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face—the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies—laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder—that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise.



Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell

"Praise Woman still," his lordship roars, "Deserv'd or not, no matter?" But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter:

Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.



1794



Remorseful Apology

The friend whom, wild from Wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah! why should I such scenes outlive? Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!— 'Tis thine to pity and forgive.



Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?

Tune—"The Sutor's Dochter."

Wilt thou be my Dearie? When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee! By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee: I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my Dearie! Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my Dearie!

Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, O say na thou'lt refuse me! If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo'es me! Lassie, let me quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo'es me!



A Fiddler In The North

Tune—"The King o' France he rade a race."

Amang the trees, where humming bees, At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O: 'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels, She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O: When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

Their capon craws an' queer "ha, ha's," They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and fyke, Till we were wae and weary, O: But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd, A prisoner, aughteen year awa', He fir'd a Fiddler in the North, That dang them tapsalteerie, O.



The Minstrel At Lincluden

Tune—"Cumnock Psalms."

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flow'r scents the dery air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

Chorus—A lassie all alone, was making her moan, Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: In the bluidy wars they fa', and our honour's gane an' a', And broken-hearted we maun die.

The winds were laid, the air was till, The stars they shot along the sky; The tod was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. A lassie all alone, &c.

The burn, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa', Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase roarings seem'd to rise and fa'. A lassie all alone, &c.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din, Athort the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune's favours, tint as win. A lassie all alone, &c.

Now, looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd, When lo! in form of Minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. A lassie all alone, &c.

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumbering Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear! A lassie all alone, &c.

He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture't in my rhymes. A lassie all alone, &c.



A Vision

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din; Athwart the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune's favors, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as Minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy—"Libertie!"

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumb'ring Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wailed his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture't in my rhymes.



A Red, Red Rose

[Hear Red, Red Rose]

O my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!



Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain

Tune—"The Carlin of the Glen."

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain, Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, And reign'd resistless King of Love.

But now, wi' sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and breirs; Or in the glens and rocky caves, His sad complaining dowie raves:—

"I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang'd with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear.

"The slighted maids my torments see, And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornful Fair, Forbids me e'er to see her mair."



The Flowery Banks Of Cree

Here is the glen, and here the bower All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear; So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little, faithful mate to cheer; At once 'tis music and 'tis love.

And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree.



Monody

On a lady famed for her Caprice.

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flatt'ry so listen'd!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.

We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.



The Epitaph

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem.



Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell's Carriage

If you rattle along like your Mistress' tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart; But a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road, If your stuff be as rotten's her heart.



Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell

Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev'n damn'd him when laid in his grave; "In his flesh there's a famine," a starved reptile cries, "And his heart is rank poison!" another replies.



Epistle From Esopus To Maria

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.

"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" 'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear! Prepare Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or, haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms In Highland Bonnet, woo Malvina's charms; While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria's prying eye. Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress, Now prouder still, Maria's temples press; I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, And call each coxcomb to the wordy war: I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan'd lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines: The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs, to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way: The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks: Though there, his heresies in Church and State Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns' venom, when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)— Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre-divine The idiot strum of Vanity bemus'd, And even the abuse of Poesy abus'd?— Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?

A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell? Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse; The Vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls— Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit! Who says that fool alone is not thy due, And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I? My periods that deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!



Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb

Capt. Wm. Roddirk, of Corbiston.

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His scull will prop it under.



On Capt. Lascelles

When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart, Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart; A bystander whispers—"Pray don't make so much o't, The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it."



On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe

"Stop thief!" dame Nature call'd to Death, As Willy drew his latest breath; How shall I make a fool again? My choicest model thou hast ta'en.



On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs

Here lies John Bushby—honest man, Cheat him, Devil—if you can!



Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell

Of Glenriddell and Friars' Carse.

No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more; Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier: The man of worth—and hath not left his peer! Is in his "narrow house," for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet.



The Lovely Lass O' Inverness

The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For, e'en to morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e.

"Drumossie moor, Drumossie day— A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

"Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growin' green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e!

"Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou has made sair, That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!"



Charlie, He's My Darling

'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie came to our town, The young Chevalier.

Chorus—An' Charlie, he's my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie, he's my darling, The young Chevalier.

As he was walking up the street, The city for to view, O there he spied a bonie lass The window looking through, An' Charlie, &c.

Sae light's he jumped up the stair, And tirl'd at the pin; And wha sae ready as hersel' To let the laddie in. An' Charlie, &c.

He set his Jenny on his knee, All in his Highland dress; For brawly weel he ken'd the way To please a bonie lass. An' Charlie, &c.

It's up yon heathery mountain, An' down yon scroggie glen, We daur na gang a milking, For Charlie and his men, An' Charlie, &c.



Bannocks O' Bear Meal

Chorus—Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley, Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o' barley!

Wha, in a brulyie, will First cry a parley? Never the lads wi' the Bannocks o' barley, Bannocks o' bear meal, &c.

Wha, in his wae days, Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi' the Bannocks o' barley! Bannocks o' bear meal, &c.



The Highland Balou

Hee balou, my sweet wee Donald, Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton Chief Wha gat my young Highland thief.

Leeze me on thy bonie craigie, An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie, Travel the country thro' and thro', And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the Border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder! Herry the louns o' the laigh Countrie, Syne to the Highlands hame to me.



The Highland Widow's Lament

Oh I am come to the low Countrie, Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me.

It was na sae in the Highland hills, Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Nae woman in the Country wide, Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o'kye, Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Feeding on you hill sae high, And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o'yowes, Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Skipping on yon bonie knowes, And casting woo' to me.

I was the happiest of a' the Clan, Sair, sair, may I repine; For Donald was the brawest man, And Donald he was mine.

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, Sae far to set us free; My Donald's arm was wanted then, For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell, Right to the wrang did yield; My Donald and his Country fell, Upon Culloden field.

Oh I am come to the low Countrie, Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Nae woman in the warld wide, Sae wretched now as me.



It Was A' For Our Rightfu' King

It was a' for our rightfu' King We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, my dear, We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My Love and Native Land fareweel, For I maun cross the main, my dear, For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about, Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, my dear, And adiue for evermore.

The soger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my Love, Never to meet again, my dear, Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa, The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.



Ode For General Washington's Birthday

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell, No lyre Aeolian I awake; 'Tis liberty's bold note I swell, Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! See gathering thousands, while I sing, A broken chain exulting bring, And dash it in a tyrant's face, And dare him to his very beard, And tell him he no more is feared— No more the despot of Columbia's race! A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd, They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved. Where is man's god-like form? Where is that brow erect and bold— That eye that can unmov'd behold The wildest rage, the loudest storm That e'er created fury dared to raise? Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base, That tremblest at a despot's nod, Yet, crouching under the iron rod, Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow! Art thou of man's Imperial line? Dost boast that countenance divine? Each skulking feature answers, No! But come, ye sons of Liberty, Columbia's offspring, brave as free, In danger's hour still flaming in the van, Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!

Alfred! on thy starry throne, Surrounded by the tuneful choir, The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre, And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire, No more thy England own! Dare injured nations form the great design, To make detested tyrants bleed? Thy England execrates the glorious deed! Beneath her hostile banners waving, Every pang of honour braving, England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!" That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice, That hour which saw the generous English name Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among, Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of Freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead, Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies Hear it not, Wallace! in thy bed of death. Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath! Is this the ancient Caledonian form, Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm? Show me that eye which shot immortal hate, Blasting the despot's proudest bearing; Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate, Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!— Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star, No more that glance lightens afar; That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.



Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, Accept the gift; though humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian-feeling in my breast, Discordant, jar thy bosom-chords among; But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song,

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious Virtue all the strains endears, And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals.



On The Seas And Far Away

Tune—"O'er the hills and far away."

How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad; How can I the thought forego— He's on the seas to meet the foe? Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are with him that's far away.

Chorus.—On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day, Are aye with him that's far away.

When in summer noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun, My sailor's thund'ring at his gun; Bullets, spare my only joy! Bullets, spare my darling boy! Fate, do with me what you may, Spare but him that's far away, On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Fate, do with me what you may, Spare but him that's far away.

At the starless, midnight hour When Winter rules with boundless power, As the storms the forests tear, And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, All I can—I weep and pray For his weal that's far away, On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; All I can—I weep and pray, For his weal that's far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wild War his ravage end, Man with brother Man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet; Then may heav'n with prosperous gales, Fill my sailor's welcome sails; To my arms their charge convey, My dear lad that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; To my arms their charge convey, My dear lad that's far away.



Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes—Second Version

Chorus.—Ca'the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rowes, My bonie Dearie.

Hark the mavis' e'ening sang, Sounding Clouden's woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonie Dearie. Ca' the yowes, &c.

We'll gae down by Clouden side, Thro' the hazels, spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide, To the moon sae clearly. Ca' the yowes, &c.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,^1 Where, at moonshine's midnight hours, O'er the dewy-bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery. Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear, Thou'rt to Love and Heav'n sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near; My bonie Dearie. Ca' the yowes, &c.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part, My bonie Dearie. Ca' the yowes, &c.

[Footnote 1: An old ruin in a sweet situation at the confluence of the Clouden and the Nith.—R. B.]



She Says She Loes Me Best Of A'

Tune—"Oonagh's Waterfall."

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughing e'en o' lovely blue; Her smiling, sae wyling. Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonie face, When first that bonie face I saw; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm— She says, she lo'es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion, Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky: Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature—auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering Beauty's sovereign law; And still my Chloris' dearest charm— She says, she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city, And gaudy show, at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve and rising moon, Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling; recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove, By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say, thou lo'es me best of a'.



To Dr. Maxwell

On Miss Jessy Staig's recovery.

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny; You save fair Jessie from the grave!— An Angel could not die!



To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J—N

On her Principles of Liberty and Equality.

How, Liberty! girl, can it be by thee nam'd? Equality too! hussey, art not asham'd? Free and Equal indeed, while mankind thou enchainest, And over their hearts a proud Despot so reignest.



On Chloris

Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.

From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloris requested A sprig, her fair breast to adorn: No, by Heavens! I exclaim'd, let me perish, if ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!



On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief For Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet nor of grief The rock with tears had flow'd.



Epigram On A Country Laird,

not quite so wise as Solomon.

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp, With grateful, lifted eyes, Who taught that not the soul alone, But body too shall rise; For had He said "the soul alone From death I will deliver," Alas, alas! O Cardoness, Then hadst thou lain for ever.



On Being Shewn A Beautiful Country Seat

Belonging to the same Laird.

We grant they're thine, those beauties all, So lovely in our eye; Keep them, thou eunuch, Cardoness, For others to enjoy!



On Hearing It Asserted Falsehood

is expressed in the Rev. Dr. Babington's very looks.

That there is a falsehood in his looks, I must and will deny: They tell their Master is a knave, And sure they do not lie.



On A Suicide

Earth'd up, here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble; Poor silly wretch, he's damned himsel', To save the Lord the trouble.



On A Swearing Coxcomb

Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, A buck, a beau, or "Dem my eyes!" Who in his life did little good, And his last words were "Dem my blood!"



On An Innkeeper Nicknamed "The Marquis"

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd, If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.



On Andrew Turner

In se'enteen hunder'n forty-nine, The deil gat stuff to mak a swine, An' coost it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, An' shap'd it something like a man, An' ca'd it Andrew Turner.



Pretty Peg

As I gaed up by yon gate-end, When day was waxin' weary, Wha did I meet come down the street, But pretty Peg, my dearie!

Her air sae sweet, an' shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting, The Queen of Love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting.

Wi' linked hands we took the sands, Adown yon winding river; Oh, that sweet hour and shady bower, Forget it shall I never!



Esteem For Chloris

As, Chloris, since it may not be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear.

Altho' I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne'er declare— I'll say, I wish thee well.

Tho' a' my daily care thou art, And a' my nightly dream, I'll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem.



Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly

Tune—"When she cam' ben she bobbit."

O saw ye my Dear, my Philly? O saw ye my Dear, my Philly, She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new Love, She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she my dear, my Philly? What says she my dear, my Philly? She lets thee to wit she has thee forgot, And forever disowns thee, her Willy.

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.



How Lang And Dreary Is The Night

How lang and dreary is the night When I am frae my Dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn Though I were ne'er sae weary.

Chorus.—For oh, her lanely nights are lang! And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her window'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her Dearie!

When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my Dearie; And now what seas between us roar, How can I be but eerie? For oh, &c.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how dreary: It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my Dearie! For oh, &c.



Inconstancy In Love

Tune—"Duncan Gray."

Let not Woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not Woman e'er complain Fickle Man is apt to rove: Look abroad thro' Nature's range, Nature's mighty Law is change, Ladies, would it not seem strange Man should then a monster prove!

Mark the winds, and mark the skies, Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow, Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go. Why then ask of silly Man To oppose great Nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can— You can be no more, you know.



The Lover's Morning Salute To His Mistress

Tune—"Deil tak the wars."

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy. Now, to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers, Its lay the linnet pours, The laverock to the sky Ascends, wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus gilding the brow of morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature, gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When frae my Chloris parted, Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky: But when she charms my sight, In pride of Beauty's light— When thro' my very heart Her burning glories dart; 'Tis then—'tis then I wake to life and joy!



The Winter Of Life

But lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoic'd the day, Thro' gentle showers, the laughing flowers In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa; Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of Age; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Sinks in Time's wintry rage. Oh, Age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain: Thou golden time, o' Youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again!



Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves

Tune—"My lodging is on the cold ground."

Behold, my love, how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair; The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flowing hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, And o'er the cottage sings: For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To Shepherds as to Kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string, In lordly lighted ha': The Shepherd stops his simple reed, Blythe in the birken shaw.

The Princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours, Beneath the milk-white thorn!

The shepherd, in the flowery glen; In shepherd's phrase, will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale, But is his heart as true!

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine: The courtiers' gems may witness love, But, 'tis na love like mine.



The Charming Month Of May

Tune—"Daintie Davie."

It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe— From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes— The youthful, charming Chloe.

Chorus.—Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feather'd people you might see Perch'd all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Outrival'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she, &c.



Lassie Wi' The Lint-White Locks

Tune—"Rothiemurchie's Rant."

Chorus.—Lassie wi'the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, Wilt thou be my Dearie, O?

Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee, O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, &c.

The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn, The wanton lambs at early morn, Shall welcome thee, my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, &c.

And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, At sultry noon, my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, &c.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, &c.

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my Lassie's midnight rest, Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my Dearie, O. Lassie wi' the, &c.



Dialogue song—Philly And Willy

Tune—"The Sow's tail to Geordie."

He. O Philly, happy be that day, When roving thro' the gather'd hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly.

She. O Willy, aye I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou did pledge the Powers above, To be my ain dear Willy.

Both. For a' the joys that gowd can gie, I dinna care a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, The lass I love's the lass for me, And that's my ain dear Willy. And that's my ain dear Philly.

He. As songsters of the early year, Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly.

She. As on the brier the budding rose, Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy.

Both. For a' the joys, &c.

He. The milder sun and bluer sky That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly.

She. The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery Spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my Willy. Both. For a' the joys, &c.

He. The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the op'ning flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly.

She. The woodbine in the dewy weet, When ev'ning shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willy.

Both. For a' the joys, &c.

He. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tine and knaves may win; My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly.

She. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? I dinna care a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy.

Both. For a' the joys, &c.



Contented Wi' Little And Cantie Wi' Mair

Tune—"Lumps o' Puddin'."

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care, I gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang, Wi' a cog o' gude swats and an auld Scottish sang. Chorus—Contented wi' little, &c.

I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught; My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, And my Freedom's my Lairdship nae monarch dare touch. Contented wi' little, &c.

A townmond o' trouble, should that be may fa', A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a': When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Contented wi' little, &c.

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain, My warst word is: "Welcome, and welcome again!" Contented wi' little, &c.



Farewell Thou Stream

Air—"Nansie's to the greenwood gane."

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling; O mem'ry! spare the cruel thoes Within my bosom swelling. Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain And yet in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover; The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, O Eliza, hear one prayer— For pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, Till fears no more had sav'd me: Th' unwary sailor thus, aghast The wheeling torrent viewing, 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last, In overwhelming ruin.



Canst Thou Leave Me Thus, My Katie

Tune—"Roy's Wife."

Chorus—Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie? Well thou know'st my aching heart, And canst thou leave me thus, for pity?

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katie? Is this thy faithful swain's reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katie! Canst thou leave me, &c.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear That finkle heart of thine, my Katie! Thou maysn find those will love thee dear, But not a love like mine, my Katie, Canst thou leave me, &c.



My Nanie's Awa

Tune—"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er her braes; While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw, But to me it's delightless—my Nanie's awa.

The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violetes bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nanie—and Nanie's awa.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity—my Nanie's awa.

Come Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay: The dark, dreary Winter, and wild-driving snaw Alane can delight me—now Nanie's awa.



The Tear-Drop

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e; Lang, lang has Joy been a stranger to me: Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, And the sweet voice o' Pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

Love thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I luv'd; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I pruv'd; But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel, by its throbbings, will soon be at rest.

Oh, if I were—where happy I hae been— Down by yon stream, and yon bonie castle-green; For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear-drop that clings to my e'e.



For The Sake O' Somebody

My heart is sair—I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake o' Somebody. O-hon! for Somebody! O-hey! for Somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on Somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my Somebody! O-hon! for Somebody! O-hey! for Somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o' Somebody.



1795



A Man's A Man For A' That

Tune—"For a' that."

Is there for honest Poverty That hings his head, an' a' that; The coward slave—we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that. Our toils obscure an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man's a Man for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an' a' that: The man o' independent mind He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's abon his might, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities an' a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a' that,) That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That Man to Man, the world o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.



Craigieburn Wood

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, And blythe awakes the morrow; But a' the pride o' Spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And Care his bosom wringing!

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