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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
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WHISTLE-BINKIE;
COLLECTION OF SONGS
SOCIAL CIRCLE.
GLASGOW :-D AVID HOEERTSON;
rDlNBURGH>-OLIVER Ik BOYD AXD JOHIT MENZIE3.
ONDON: — LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
AND SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, ^>c COMPANY;
DUBLIN-— JAMES M'GLASHAN,
ICDCCCHII.
w f 7
;^ PREFACE,
\ The Songs contained in Whistlebinkie Tvere published in
distinct Serieses tlirougliout a period of fifteen years, the
. first having been issued in 1832.
The Publisher has confidence in asserting, that so large a
body of original Songs has never before been offered to the
public in one volume.
Although, as might be expected, the Songs are of dif-
ferent degrees of merit — a few exhibiting taore marked fe-
licities than others — it will be found that most of them ex-
press some feeling or sentiment which the heart delights to
cherish.
Looking to the number of contributors, it will readily be
conceded, it is presumed, that the work, taken altogether,
presents a remarkable instance of the universality of that
peculiar talent for Song writing for which Scotland has al-
ways been distinguished, and that it will be considered a
favourable specimen of the national genius in that pleasing
department of literature.
Q
J
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
OF
JOHN DONAl^u v.x._^^
As the Editor of the First Series of " Whistle-Binkie," and
a literary man of considerable reputation, we think some
account of this amiable and lamented individual, will be
acceptable to our readers.
John Donald Carrick was a native of Glasgow, and was
born in April, 1787. His mother is reported to have been a
woman of superior powers of mind, and in particular, to
have possessed a fund of humour, with great acuteness of
observation, qualities for which her son John was very re-
markable. Carrick's education was necessarily limited,
from the narrow circumstances of his parents ; but in after
life, when he had raised himself into a respectable station
in society, the activity and vigour of his mind enabled him
to supply in a great degree the deficiencies of his early edu-
cation. When very young, he was placed in the office of
Mr. Nicholson, an architect of considerable eminence in
Glasgow; and he continued to feel a partiality for that
branch of art during his lifetime.
Young Carrick possessed great resolution of character, at
times amounting to obstinacy. This quality of mind ac-
companied him through life, and if it, now and then,
communicated a rather too unbending turn to his dispo-
sition, was undoubtedly the origin of that vigour and inde-
pendence of mind which never deserted him. Whether
influenced by this feeling, or impatient of the uncertain
and cheerless character of his youthful prospects, the rasli
lad determined on sallying forth alone into the world, to
push his fortune, as the phrase is. Accordingly, sometime
in the autumn of 1807, without informing any one of his
intentions, he set ofiF for London, full of adventurous hope
and courage. This, be it remembered, wag a innrr/iii- ,^f
four hunc^'--' -='- -- ' ' — -w-a 06 loot, for the few
-^.i.iiugs which constituted his worldly wealth, precluded
any more expensive conveyance; and whatever may be our
opinion of the prudence of such a step, we cannot but feel
respect for the stout-heartedness of the mere youth who
could undertake it. The first night, our youthful adven-
turer arrived at Irvine, in the county of Ayr, and pru-
dently economizing his limited means, instead of putting
himself to expense for a lodging, he took up his abode in
thecozie recess of a " whinny knowe," where he was awoke
in the morning bj' the roar of the ocean-tide, which was
rapidly advancing on his heathery couch. Strong in the
sanguine hopefulness of youth, he pursued his solitary
way, living on the poorest fare, and sleeping sometimes in
humble road-side hostels ; but more often encamping under
the kindly canopy of heaven, amid the sheaves, with which
an early harvest had covered the ground, or nestling snugly
in some green and leafy nook, on he went, we may be sure,
fatigue-worn, and perhaps heart-worn, until he reached
the town of Liverpool.
In afterlife he often reverted to his feelings on entering
that town, and meeting with a recruiting party, gay with
ribbons, and enlivened by the sound of fife and drum. The
animating sight suggested to him the idea of enlisting, and
so strong was the temptation, that, unable to decide for
himself, he threw up his stick in the air, to be guided in hia
decision by the direction in which it should fall. As hia
cudgel fell in the direction of London, he resolved to follow
its prudent dictates, and girding up his loins, manfully con-
tinued his journey to the metropolisj where he soon after
arrived, ifitli only half-a-crown in his pocket. Carrick
delighted in after j'ears to refer to this ambitious sally of
his wayward youth— his bivouac at night in the snuggest
retreat he could find, with the solemn quiet of the green
woods above and around him, and the gentle breeze of an
autumn evening to lull him to rest, — or sometimes, the
doubtful shelter that he found in humble alehouses and
bush-tavei-ns.
Arrived in London, the friendless youth offered his ser-
vices as a shopman. His Scottish accent, and rough appear-
ance after such a journej', with awkward, unformed man-
ners, would no doubt operate against him with the more
polished citizens of the capital. At length a shopkeeper,
himself a Scotsman, captivated by the music of his mother-
tongue, engaged him in his service. He appears to have
been employed in this way by various individuals until the
spring of 1809, when he obtained a respectable situation in
an extensive establishment, in the Staffordshire Pottery
business. His stay altogether in the metropolis appears to
have been about four years. He returned to Glasgow early
in the year 1811, and opened a large establishment in the
same line of business, which he understood thoroughly,
from having been employed for a considerable time in the
great house of Spodes & Co., of London. In this occupation
Jlr. Carrick continued for fourteen years, with various suc-
cess. His prospects at one period were of the most flattering
kind, but becoming unfortunately involved with a house in
the foreign trade, of which a near relative was a partner,
these promising hopes were blasted.
The leisure which his business afforded him had, for
some years, been diligently and profitably employed by
Mr. Carrick in mental culture, to supply the deficienciea
of his early education. The bias of his taste led him to
cultivate an acquaintance with our older Scottish literature,
and in liJ23 the fruit of these studies appeared in the " Life
of Sir William "Wallace," which was published as one of the
series of Constable's Miscellany. It has continued afavourite
with the public ever since, and has lately been reprinted in
a new edition. He began about the same time to throw
off some of those humorous songs and pieces which, when
sung or recited by himself, used to form the delight of his
private friends. In 1325, he commenced business as a
travelling agent, and his affairs leading him frequently into
the Highlands, he acquired that knowledge of the Gaelic cha-
racter, in its minuter shades and peculiarities, which over-
flowed so richly in the conversation of his later years, and
gives such a zest to many of his comic and graphic sketches.
This business not being so remunerative as he had expect-
ed, he finally abandoned mercantile pursuits, and devoted
himself to literary composition. He engaged about this
time as sub-editor of the Scots Times, at that period a jour-
nal of high standing in Glasgow. In 1832, a literary journal
called " TJie Bay" was published in Glasgow, to which
he contributed many admirable pieces. One of his co-
labourers in this pleasing and popular miscellany was the
highly-gifted "William Motherwell, a poet of no common
elevation, and a person of a genial and kindly tempera-
ment. The eccentric and well-known 3Ir. Andrew Hen-
derson was another intimate friend and associate of
Carriclv's; and these three richly-endowed individuals,
though of characters and habits of mind very opposite to
each other, lived in the wai-m enjoyment of mutual friend-
ship ; and, it is painful to add, followed each other to a pre-
mature and lamented grave within the brief space of two
years.
In 1832, the First Series of this work was published, which
was edited by Mr. Carrick, who also contributed several
excellent songs and humorous poetical pieces, as well as an
admirably written introduction, in which the etymology of
the term '• Whistle-Binkie " is pleasantly and humorously
sot forth. Early in 1833, he became the editor of the Perth
Advertiser t a newspaper of liberal principles. For this situa-
tion he was admirably fitted, not only from his acquired
experience in the Scots Times office, but still more from hi«
extensive general information, the soundness of his judg-
ment, and the calm, clear sense which his writings as a
politician always exhibited. He did not, however, long
retain this office, for, finding himself subjected to the in-
dignity of being superintended by a committee of manage-
ment, who interfered in the most summary and vexatious
manner with his independence as an editor, he indignantly
threw up his engagement, and bade adieu for ever to the
Fair City. During his brief soj ourn in Per th , Carr ick wrote
several humorous pieces of various kinds, his kindly and
joyous temperament finding always some congenial escape-
ment, notwithstanding the disagreeable circumstances in
which he was placed. Of these pieces, one of the best is
the well-known letter from " Bob," to his friend in Glas-
gow, which appears in the last edition of the " Laird of
Logan," at page 224. He does not seem to have thought
much of the citizens of St. Johnstoun, remarking, with
caustic severity, that •' the last thing a true man of Perth
would show you was the inside of his house."
At this critical period of his fortunes, some individuals
in Kilmarnock, of liberal opinions, had projected a news-
paper, and were looking out for an editor : immediate
application was made by Mr. Carrick's friends, the result
of which was successful. He was powerfully supported in
this object by his generous friend Motherwell, who, though
differing widely in politics, gave a strong, but honest recom-
mendation of his general talents, as well as fitness for the
situation, stating at the same time, " He (Motherwell) had
never concealed his most rooted hostility to what was called
Liberal or Reform principles."
Carrick left Perth in February, 1834, and immediately
sii
proceeded to Kilmarnock, to enter on his duties as editor
of the Kilmarnock Journal. It was fondly hoped by the
friends of this warm-hearted but ill-starred man of genius,
that here, at last, he might set up the staff of his rest ; but
a short period served to dispel these pleasing hopes, and to
cast a shadow over his prospects, which was never to pass
away till it darkened down into the gloom of the grave.
Here, too, Carrick was subjected to the annoyance and
torture of a committee of management, many of whom
were persons the most incompetent for such a delicate duty
as the superintendence of a public journal. The members of
this jimta were, moreover, divided into parties, in a state
of bitter hostility with each other, so that, when, urged by
some of them, he had written a few lively, satirical arti-
cles, of local application, which severely galled simdry in-
dividuals in the town, the parties who had suggested
them, alarmed for the consequences, withdrew theii- coun-
tenance equally from the editor and his journal.
Previous to his leaving Perth, there is reason to believe
that the disease which brought on his death, had evinced its
existence by slow and insidious approaches, at first in the
form of partial paralysis of the nerves and muscles of the
mouth, issuing finally in tic doloureux, one of the most ex-
cruciating diseases to which the human frame is liable.
The annoyance to which he was incessantly subjected, in-
duced a severe attack of this complaint, and obliged him to
apply for a temporary leave of absence, engaging to find a
substitute to do duty for him during its continuance. This
reasonable request was refused by the humane and enlight-
ened committee of management, and the wretched state of
his health, leaving Iiim no alternative, he resigned his situa-
tion, and returned to Glasgow in the month of January,
1835. During his stay in"Auld Killie," notwithstand-
ing the painful visitations of disease, and the annoj'ances to
which he was subjected in the exercise of his editorial duties.
he never exhibited more affluence of mind, or a more per-
fect command over his rich and Tarious powers. Besides
various literary compositions, he exercised the duty of
editor to the first edition of the "Laird of Logan," wlueh
appeared in June, 1835. After this, Carrick went to Rothe-
say for the benefit of his health, but found it declinmg so
rapidly, that he had given up all hopes of continued ac-
tivity, and actually had fixed upon a spot in which to lay
his weary and worn-out frame. Recovering, however, he
returned to Glasgow, and resumed his literary pursuits. He
contributed, about this time, some admirable papers to the
Scottish Magazine, rich in humour and in happy traits of
Scottish habits and peculiarities, entitled, " Nights at Kil-
comrie Castle, or the days of Queen IMa^y." Occupied with
these and various other compositions, some of v.hich are
still in manuscript, and at times suffering acutely from the
attacks of the painful disease, which now seldom, for any
length of time, intermitted its visitations, and which, from
its effect on his power of speech, was peculiarly obnoxiou-i
to a person of his social habits and character, Carrick con-
tinued to mix occasionally in society, and enjoy the fellov.'-
ship of his friends. But a severe attack of inflammation
coming on, aggravated by the weakening effects of a recent
course of depletion, suggested by his medical attendant,
proved too much for his enfeebled frame to resist, and, after
a few days' suffering, he expired on the 17th of Augu&t, lo35.
As a literary man, Carrick's peculiar forte lay in the rich
and humorous resources of a lively and salient mind and
imagination. In broad hmnour ho was singularly effec-
tive, and the edge of his satire was keen and biting. He had
a quick perception of the ridiculous, coupled with much
observation and knowledge of mankind. As a describer of
old manners and customs, he is remarkably happy ; and
there is a graphic truth and beauty, enchased in a line vein
of drollery, in his descriptive sketches. Tho excess of his
xvv
humour was ever ready to overflow in a stream of pleasant
waggery, which the kindness of his nature, with his gen-
tlemanly habits and self-respect, prevented from degenerat-
ing into broad or ofifensivo caricature. As the editor, and
a principal writer in the first series of the " Laird of Logan,"
he will long be remembered. Of this admired collection of
Scottish and Gaelic stories, Carrick was the original projec-
tor, and healHO contributed the excellent biographical sketch
of " the Laird," with the greater part of the anecdotes of
that celebrated humourist.
In concluding this brief memoir, we may observe, gene-
rally, that as a descriptive painter of the comic and ludi-
crous aspects of man and society, and as equally skilful in
the analysis of human character, combined with a rare
and never-failing humour, a pungent but not malicious
irony, and great ease and perspicuity of expression, few
writers have surpassed John Donald Carrick.
ALEXANDER RODGER.
Alexander Rodger wasbomin the village of East-Calder,
Mid-Lothian, on the IGth July, 1784. His father occupied
the farm of Haggs, close by the small village of Dalmahoy
The weak he:ilth of his mother, for several years, con-
signed him to the care of two maiden sisters, of the name of
Lonie ; and it was not till he had attained the age of seven
years that he returned to the parental roof. His father ap-
pears at this time to have given up farming, and to have
kept an inn in Mid-Calder. L'p to that period, the young
bard had not received any regular education, but now he
was put to school in the village. And this, as far as we
have learned, was the only education he received, except
what he may have acquired for himself, in after life, during
the few hours he could steal from laborious employment.
Shortly after this, the father removed to Edinburgh,
where Alexander was sent to learn the trade of a silversmith,
with a Mr. Mathie. He continued a year in this employment,
when his unfortunate father became embarrassed in his af-
fairs, and, in consequence, emigrated to Hamburgh, whence
he sent for his son ; but his relations by the mother's side
being strongly attached to the boy, persuaded him to accom-
pany them to Glasgow, where, in 1797, he was apprenticed .
to a respectable weaver of the name of Dunn, who resided
at the Drygate Toll, in the near neighbourhood of the an-
cient Cathedral of Glasgow. We may be sure so venerable
a relic of antiquity would be often visited by the youth-
ful poet, and contribute, by its solemn magnificence and
historical interest, to fan the flame of his poetic genius.
In 1803, the lojal fever, imiversally prevalent, infected our
friend Sandie, who celebrated his connexion with the Glas-
gow Highland Volunteers, in a satu'ical poem of consider-
able merit, in which he employed the powers of his iluse
in what became afterwards a favom-ite amusement with
him, hitting off the peculiarities of his Celtic brethren.
The corps, being principally composed of Highlanders, fur-
nished ample scope for the keen edge of the poet's wit, and
he seems then to have imbibed that attachment to the
mountaineers which has led him so often to embalm their
colloquial humours and foibles in his poetic effusions.
Rodger continued in this volunteer regiment, and in ano-
ther which rose out of it after its dissolution, called the
Glasgow Highland Locals, for no less than nine years.
In 1806, the poet, then only twenty-two years of age,
married Agnes Turner, and has had a large and respectable
family by this connexion. After his marriage, Rodger re-
moved to Bridgeton, a suburb of Glasgow, where he con-
XVI
tinued to solace himself, from time to time, in poetical
composition, and the exercise of his musical talents, ilia
knowledge of the science of music enabled him to compose
for his own amusement, and qualified him for imparting a
knowledge of its principles to others, which he prosecuted
for some time, the emolument of which assisted him con-
Kiderably in maintaining his yovmg and growing family.
Amongst the earliest efforts of his poetic vein, is a poem
entitlid "Bolivar," written on the occasion of seeing in
the Glasgow Chronicle, in September, 1816, that this dis-
tinguished patriot and soldier had emancipated the negro
slaves in the districts of Caraccas, Venezuela, and Cu-
mana, to the number of seventy thousand.
The peaceful tenor of the poet's life continued unbroken
by any material event, until the year 1819, when local and
general politics ran so high, and the fever of radicalism, at
times so endemic among the working population of this
country, was at its height. In that year, a weekly news-
paper, called The Spirit of the Union, was started in Glas-
gow, by a person of the name of GUbert M'Leod, which
•wag conducted with some considerable ability, but with
very little discretion. The political and satirical propensities
of Rodger, having found in its columns a frequent and eon-
genial vent, the editor took him into his service. Thus,
the poet, somewhat rashly, in our opinion, exchanged the
calm obscurity of a peaceful and then not unprofitable oc-
cupation, for the more conspicuous, but more doubtful and
hazardous theatre of political warfare. lie did not, how-
ever, remain long in this situation, for within a few weelcs,
owing to his indiscreet violence, and that of the pai-ty with
which he was concerned, the editor was apprehended on a
charge of sedition, and soon after tried, found guilty, and
sentenced to transportation for life. The establishment being
broken up, Kodger returned to his loom ; but having become,
from hi3 connexion with this journal, considered as a disaf-
fected person, lie was apprehended, on the 8th of April fol-
lowing, with many other individuals, on the alarm occasion-
ed by the publication of the famous "treasonable Address,"
purporting to be issued by '* a Provisional Government."
Into the political history of these melancholy times, we do
not feel called upon any farther to enter. Rodger was con-
fined in the city bridewell, and used with most reprehensible
harshness, being treated like a common felon, and placed in
_ solitaj-y confinement. The spirit of the indignant poet rose,
however, superior to the petty malice of the small-soul'd
officials of the day ; and he used to solace himself in his
seclusion, by singing, at the top of his lungs, his own politi-
cal compositions; some of which were undoubtedly sufB-
ciently well spiced, and could not therefore be very grateful
to the ears of his jailors. To silence the obstreperous indig-
nation of the bard, he was removed to a back cell, where he
gave vent to his lacerated feelings in the indignant *' Song
written in bridewell." The poet often used to relate
many entertaining anecdotes of this stormy and eventful
period of his life. Amongst others, when his house was
searched for seditious publications, (terrible bugbears at
that time to the local authorities of Glasgow), Sandie
handed the Family Bible to the sheriff's ofi&cer who was
making search, it being, as he said, the only treasonable
book in his possession ; and for proof of this, he referred
the aghast official to the chapter on kings, in the first Book
of Samuel.
In 1821 , the late amiable Mr George Rodger, manager of
Barrowfield works, and whose eminent skill and scientific
acquirements may be said to have laid the foundation of
the prosperity of that extensive establishment, got him em-
plowed as an inspector of the cloths used for printing and
dyeing. In that situation he continued eleven years. Hare,
his employment being less severe, and more remunerative,
Rodger produced bome of his best pieces. In 1822, when
George IV. visited Scotland, the poet indited bis celebrated
lyric of " Sawney, noir tbe King's come," wbich, ba-ving
been publisbed in tbe London Examiner, made its appear-
ance in Auld Eeekie just as bis Majesty bad enricbed bis
'subjects tbere witb tbe sight of bis royal person. From that
sarcastic effusion having appeared simultaneously frith Sir
Walter Scotfs well-known piece, " Carle, now the King's
come," no little speculation was created as to tbe author,
and, in particular, it was said, by its unlucky apposition, to
have much annoyed tbe sensitive loyalty of Sir Walter. It
is not to be denied that the humour of this political and
social satire is rather too broad for general circulation.
About this time, Kodger exhibited his public spirit in a
form more generally popular. Thomas Harvie of West-
Thorn, having blocked up a public foot-path, on bis pro-
perty by the river side, which had been long in use by the
inhabitants of Glasgow and its vicinity, Eodger, by extra-
ordinary exertion, organised and directed a public opposi-
tion, which ultimately proved successful.
In 1832, a new phase of Rodger's many-coloured life opens
upon us. A friend, who bad recently commenced business
as a pawnbroker, requested tbe poet to take the manage-
ment of it for him, to which be unfortunately agreed, and
thus lost an excellent situation, with tbe prospect of further
advancement, under tbe kindly auspices of bis fi-iend, Mr.
George Rodger. Little was such an employment adapted for
tbe heart of a poet like Rodger, overflowing with human
sympathy, and sensitively shrinking from tbe scenes of
misery and want with which it necessarily brought him in-
to contact. In a few months he felt compelled to abandon
it, and was soon after engaged by the late Mr. Prentice,
Editor of tbe Glasgow Chronicle, as a reader and reporter of
local news. He remained there about a year, when tbe late
xix
John Tait, an intimate friend of his, having started a •weekly
newspaper, on Radical principles, he was employed by him
as general assistant. The premature death of Tait, with
the pecuniary embarrassments in which the establishment
had become involved, led to the dissolution of this con-
nexion. Rodger was again thrown upon the world ; but in
a few months after he obtained a situation in the Me-
formers" Gazette office, in which he continued till his death,
highly esteemed by his employer, and respected by a wide
range of friends and admirers. In 1836, he received a pub-
lic dinner in the Tontine Hotel, when above two hundred
gentlemen, of all varieties of political complexion, assem-
bled to testify their respect for the poet and the man ; and
he was presented with a silver box filled with sovereigns —
a fruit not found in much profusion on the barren though
sunny sides and slopes of Parnassus.
Mr. Rodger's first appearance as an avowed author was in
1827, when a small volume of his pieces was published by
David Allan & Co., of Glasgow ; but, although this publica-
tion contributed to make him more generally known, it
did not improve, in an equal degree, his pecuniary and pri-
vate comforts. In 1838, Mr. David Robertson, Glasgow,
published a volume containing a new and complete col-
lection of our poet's compositions. This seasonable and
agreeable publication has had an extensive sale, and con-
tributed to difiuse the reputation of the author. Another
small volume of his pieces was also unwisely published
in Glasgow, entitled ' ' Stray leaves from the Portfolios of
Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Hen-
keckle." The poems in the latter are almost entirely poli-
tical, and had previously appeared in various Glasgow
journals, under the cognomens above-noted. Some of these
pieces are of great merit, but the unalloyed zeal and warmth
of the author's feelings, occasionally break out into rather
too much acerbity and rigour of expression, thereby -weak-
ening the trutli and force of their general effect
Of Eodger's poetry, we may observe, that liis forte is un-
doubtedly a mixture of humour with satire, finely com-
pounded, and powerfally and gracefully expressed. Even
in those poems in 'which the humour is most kindly and
gentle, and devoid of all political malice, there is a lurk-
ing vein of satirical truth and feeling flashing up at every
turn. The two pieces, entitled " Colin Dulap," and " Jamie
M'Nab," are full of a delicate and racy hamour, — finely de-
scriptive of the parties, and warm with genuine feeling and
truth. " Peter Cornclips " is Mr. Eodger's longest and most
ambitious poem, but we do not think it by any means the
best. It is deficient in dramatic truth and interest — in
character and incident ; but it contains many vigorous
lines. Some of his songs have become very popular, in par-
ticular that of " Behave yoursel' before folk," which had the
rare distinction of being quoted in the " Noctes Ambrosi-
ana3 " of Blacku;ood^s Magazine.
Rodger cannot be called a descriptive poet : it is with
living man, and not with inanimate nature, that he chiefly
deals. Even in his lighter pieces, he seldom indulges in
mere description, but gaily touching the material world, his
yearning sympathies bear him away to the haunts of men,
kindly to survey and ponder over the panoramic succession
of life's weary round, — now revelling in the enjoyment of
the pleasing and hearty aspects of our common nature, and
now rising up in honest indignation, tempered by his ha-
bitual kindness of nature, to expose in biting, sarcastic
verse, the meanness of the great, the poverty of soul of the
proud, and the many oppressions and " ills that flesh is heir
to," Modest and assuming in manner, but observant in ha-
bit, with a fine hearty humour floating ahout him like an
atmosphere, under the correction, however, of strong com-
mon sense and self respect, none ever left his company
without delight, and a warm wish for the prosperity of the
favourite lyric hard of the west country.
Mr, Rodger's health began to give way in the Summer of
1846. Unable to discharge the duties of his situation in
the Gazette office, he went to the country, to try whether a
change of air would brace his relaxed frame; but he re-
turned to Glasgow unimproved by the change. He gradu-
ally sunk, and passed away from this shifting scene, 26th
September, 1846.
Some of Mr. Rodger's friends exerted themselves in pro-
curing from the Merchants' House a burying place for Mrt
Rodger's remains in our own Necropolis. Mr. Leadbetter
the then Dean of Guild, was so obliging as to go and select
the spot where the post's ashes were to unite with the soil
from which they came. A sweeter or more picturesque
spot could not have been selected to receive a poet's re-
mains. It constitutes a portion of the steep bank of Mnema,
and behind it the ground rises abruptly to the top of the tall
cliff, crowned with a circular mausoleum, which forms so
, conspicuous an object from difierent points of view. A
stately tree, blasted in its upper extremities, but otherwise
still leafy and vigorous, flingij its long shadow over the
poet's grave when the sun is declining in the west ; and a
little above, on a green and sloping bank, is a venerable
double thorn, with other trees and shrubs, diffusing a syl-
' van atmosphere around the spot.
, A very tasteful monument has been erected over his
grave, executed by the late Mr, Mossman, sculptor, on
which is the following inscription, written by William
Kennedy, author of " Fitful Fancies," &c., &c., and a quo-
tation from one of Mr. Rodger's own poems : —
xxii
To the Memory of
ALEXANDER RODGER,
A Poet
Gifted -vritli feeling, humour, and fancy;
A Man
Animated by generous,
Cordial, and comprehensive sympathies,
Which adversity could not repress,
Nor popularity enfeeble ;
This Monument
Is erected in testimony of public esteem.
Born
At Mid Calder, 16th July, 1784;
Died
At GlasgOTT, 26th September, 1846.
What though \rith Bums thou could'st not vie.
In diving deep or soaring high,
What though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to dra'sr the public gaze ;
Yet thy sweet numbers, free from art,
Like his, can touch— can melt the heart.— Rodgek.
Mr. Rodger regretted publishing the volume entitled
" Stray Leaves." The parties who advised the pub-
lication of this collection wished, while the poet was on his
death-bed, to get posession of some other MSS. pieces which
had been composed for the purpose of enlivening some of
their convivial club meetings. As soon as the party in
quest of these compositions left the house, Sandy rose from
his sick-bed, and searched the drawer where they had been
deposited, and, gathering them together, committed them to
the flames.
It must not be concealed that the generous, facile dis-
position of the poet exposed him to the solicitation of parties
too convivial in their habits, and that he had not the forti-
tude to say " No." This often led him to keep late hours,
and, consequently, the children had not the father's presence
at night, when the family, relieved from the labours of the
day, are collected around the domestic hearth, where, above
all places, the parental advice and sympathy in joy and sor-
row has such a happy influence.
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
William Motheravell was a native of Glasgow, where he
was bom on the 13th October, 1797. He was of a Stirling-
Bhire family, possessed of a small property in that coimty,
called Muirmill, and which had been in their possession
for some generations. At an early age he was sent to live
with an uncle in Paisley, where he recaived a respectable
education, and was bred to the profession of a lawyer, or,
as they are generally termed in Scotland, " a writer." His
abilities, as well as his diligence, must have early attracted
notice, as he was appointed, when only twenty years of age,
Sheriff-Clerk Depute in Paisley, an ofl&ce equally honour-
able and responsible, though not of great emolument. His
literary tastes and habits had previously been exhibited in
various anonymous pieces of considerable merit ; and in
1828, he undertook the editorship of the Paisley Advert
tiser, and launched out fearlessly into the heaving sea of
party politics. At an early period of his life his political
principles and tendencies are Baid to have been liberal ; but
they soon hardened down into a determinate Toryism, in
which they continued during his whole life. In 1828, he
also assumed the management of the Paisley Magazine, a
periodical, as -we have been informed, of considerable merit,
and which various of his own lyrical effusions, as well
as sundry compositions in prose, contributed to adorn and eii-
rich. In the following year, he resigned the office of Sheriff-
Clerk Depute, and confined his attention to his literary pur-
suits, and the editorship of the Paisley Advertiser.
In the early part of 1830, he was engaged as editor of the
Glasgow Courier, a newspaper of considerable local influence
and repute, and conducted on principles of a high church-
and-king Toryism ; and thus, the poet-politician was in-
troduced into a new and wider field of interest and com-
petition. In the hands of Motherwell, the Courier fully sus-
tained its character as a fierce and uncompromising champion
of ultra Tory opinions ; and, during the excitement of the
struggle for Parliamentary Reform in 1831-2,it was especially
fierce and violent in its political denunciations. We believe,
however, that Motherwell was not much of a politician him-
self, and that the enthusiasm of his party politics was derived
more from his fancy than his judgment— the product, in fact,
of his poetical and indiscriminate admiration of everything
connected mth a chivalrous antiquity. He held this situa-
tion for about five years, and notwithstanding the occasional
effervescence of his strongly expressed political opinions, re-
tained to the last the general respect of society, with the
hearty good will and esteem of his many friends.
In person, Motherwell was short in stature, but uncom-
monly muscular and vigorous, with a large head, and short
neck and throat, a conformation fatally inadequate to resist
the character of the apoplectic seizure which finally carried
him off. On the first of November, 1S35, in company with
his friena, the late Mr. PhUip Ramsay, lie had been diniu-
in the environs of the city, and after his return to town,
feeling oppressed and unwell, he went to bed. Sleep, how-
ever, did not diminish the onnrp.s«ion. and i" a shorf, time
he lost the power of speech. Medical assistance was imme-
diately obtained, but unfortunately too late to be of any avail,
and this sweet singer, and genial and kindly hearted Scotch-
man, was blotted out of the ranks of the living, by a blow
equally sudden and unexpected. Deep and general were the
regrets and sympathies of his friends, and of society at large,
when this premature and unlocked for event became known,
and the general esteem in which he was held, was mani-
fested by a public funeral, which was attended by many
persons of opposite political opinions, and by mors than one
of his most determined political opponents. He was buried
in the Necropolis of Glasgow, in the Fir Park, supposed to
have been in very remote times, a Druidical grove, a
fit resting place for the remains of a poet, whose soul sought ,
and found its highest consolations in the glowing memoiiea
of the dim and shadowy past With a becoming liberality,
the merchants' house of Glasgow, the proprietors of the
ground, bestowed a site, in a beautiful situation, for the
poet's grave, near to the spot where reposes his life-long and
congenial friend Andrew Henderson, author of a collection
of Scottish Proverbs. An elegant monument has recently
been erected to his memory, by some of his literary and
personal friends, from a design by his friend, the late James
Fillans ; and, from within a screen, the bust of the poet, by
the same tasteful artist, and which is an admirable likeness
looks forth upon one of the most impressive and unique
scenes to be met with in any place of sepulture in the world.
The following exquisite lines, from a Monody on his death,
by "William Kennedy, an intimate friend and congenial
spirit, are inscribed on the Monument ;—
" Not as a record, he lacketla a stone !
'Tis a light debt to the singer -sre've knoTni—
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown,
With the frame Derishiug —
That we are cherishing
Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own."
Such is a brief outline of the personal history of William
Motherwell, the incidents of which are few, and in them-
selves unimportant. It is in their works, and in the pro-
gressive developement of their genius, that the true histor v
of literaiy men is to be found. We shall now proceed
shortly, to sketch out the more salient points of Mother-
well's literary career, of which the incidences are compara-
tively brief and meagre. In 1827, whilst residing in Pais-
ley, he published his "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern," a
work of great merit and research, and which gave him per-
manent rank and influence as a literary antiquarian. In the
introduction to this publication, the writer has exhibited a
thorough acquaintance with the ballad and romantic litera-
ture of Scotland, as well as great powers of research and an-
tiquarian discrimination. Besides its merits as a historical
and critical disquisition, it is apiece of a chaste and vigorous
character, as well as eloquent composition. It is now very
scarce, and much sought after by the lovers of our olden
literature and poetry. Whilst he was Editor of the Paisley
Magazine, he enriched its pages with various of his poetical
compositions, the pathos, grace, and beauty of which at«
tracted public attention to the rising poet. In 1S32, a volume
of liis poetical pieces was published by Mr. David Robertson
of Glasgow, whose shop, for many years, was the resort of
the poet and a select circle of congenial spirits, " the keen
encounter of whose wits " rendered it classic ground, and
Btill enrich it with memories alike mournful and pleasant.
With the publication of this volume, the name and fame of
Motherwell will be chiefly connected. Many of the pieces
are of exquisite beauty ; and the lyrics, " Jeauie Morison,"
** My held is like to rend, Willie," and " Wearie's Well," will
take rank with any similar compositions in the English
language. In a soft melancholy, and touching tenderness
of expression, they have never been excelled. We are happy
at finding our opinion of these beautiful lyrics supported by
so competent a judge as Miss Mitford, who, in a recent pub-
lication by her, comments thus gracefully and discriminat-
ingly upon them : — " Burns is the only poet with whom, for
tenderness and pathos, Motherwell can be compared. The
elder bard has written much more largely, is more various,
more fiery, more abundant ; but I doubt if there be in the
whole of his collection anything so exquisitely finished, so free
from a line too many, or a word out of place, as the two great
ballads of Motherwell. And let young writers observe, that
this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of
the nicest elaboration. By touching and re-touching, dur-
ing many years, did * Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection,
and yet how completely has art concealed art ! How en-
tirely does that charming song appear like an inexpressible
gush of feeling that would find vent. In ' My held is like
to rend, Willie,' the appearance of spontaneity is still more
striking, as the passion is more intense — intense, indeed,
almost to painfulness." About the same time, his friend,
Andrew Henderson, published his well-known collection of
Scottish Proverbs, to which Motherwell contributed an in-
troductory treatise, which showed him to be extensively
read in Scottish proverbial antiquities, and is, besides, a
piece of eloquent and vigorous compostion. In the year
1835, in conjunction with the Ettrick Shepherd, he edited
an edition of the works of Barns, to wliicli he contribnted
the principal part of the biography, with copious notes.
The edition, however, never became popular, chiefly owing
to the absence of good taste and sound judgment in his
brother editor. Motherwell was, about this tiuie, connected
with a literary periodical published in Glasgow, with the
euphonious title of The Day. To this publication, he con-
tributed various excellent papers, and some rich poetical
pieces. His Adventures of Bailie Pirnie, a Paisley digni-
tary, exhibit great power of humour and playful fancy.
In 1S46, a second edition of his poems was published by
Mr. Kobertsou, with a memoir of his life by Dr. M'Conochy of
Glasgow, containing twenty additional poems ; and in 1849,
a third edition was issued, and which contained no less than
sixty-eight pieces never before published. So it may now
be considered, that the best fruits of Motherwell's genius
have been carefully selected and set before the public. The
selection of these additional pieces, was intrusted chiefly to
the poet's personal friends. Dr. il'Conochy and Mr. "William
Kennedy. In the third edition, the following beautiful and
touching poetical tribute to his memory, by Mr. Kennedy,
most appropriately closes the volume : —
Place we a stone at his head and his feet;
Sprinkle his sward with the smaU flowers sweet ;
Piously hallow the poet's retreat 1
Ever approvingly.
Ever most lovingly,
Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.
Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ;
Odorous honours its blossoms will shed,
Grateful to him — early summoned — who sped
Hence not unwillingly —
For he felt thrilliugly—
To rest his poor heart 'moug the low-lying dead.
Dearer to him than the deep Minster bell,
"Winds of sad cadence at midnight trill swell,
Vocal -with sorrows he knoweth too well,
Who— for the early day —
Plaining this roundelay.
Might his o-vv$i fate from a brother's foretell.
Worldly oi^es, treading this terrace of graves,
Grudge noi the minstrel the little he crayes,
When o'er the snow-mound the winter blast raves-
Tears — which devotedly,
Though all unnotedly,
Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves.
Dreamers of noble thoughts raise him a shrine,
Graced with the beauty which glows in his line ;
Strew with pale flowrets, when pensive moons shine,
His grassy covering.
Where spirits hovering,
Chaunt, for his requiem, music divine.
Not as a record he lacketh a stone ! —
Pay a light debt to the singer we've known —
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown,
With the frame perishing — •
That we are cherishing
Feelings akin to our lost poet's own.
As a poet, Motherwell was perhaps deficient in that robust
vigour of pinion, necessary for long and sustained flights.
His muse had not the majestic pace, or " the long-resound-
ing line," of the higher class of poets. But in the utter-
ances of the heart, borne up and sustained by a sweet-toned
fiiucy — in natural gushes of feeling — and in a rich men-
tal and poetical sympathy with the sights and sounds of
living nature, few Lave risen to an equal pathos, and a de-
Bcriptive beauty more touching and telling. - Such pieces as,
"In the quiet and solemn night," "The midnight wind, "
" The water, the water, " " The solemn song of a righteous
heart," "A solemn conceit," &c., possess a generic charac-
ter, and are especially embued with a pensive and querulous
melancholy, and a pathetic quaintness of expression, strik-
ingly original. It is as if the shadow of his early fate had
fallen at times on the soul of the poet, and touched a chord in
his muse, attuned to finer issues and higher inspirations than
ordinary. In another and very different style of composi-
tion, he has produced various pieces of great beauty and
elegance of thought and expression. In light and graceful
vers de societs, sparkling with sentiment, and richly inlaid
with the gems of a playful fancy, such pieces as " The ser-
enade," "Could love impart," "Love's diet," are perfect
bijoux of their kind, and dazzle the imagination with their
brilliant aflfluence and concentrated elegance of thought.
His Norse songs of war and chivalry, possess a wild, bold
bearing and character, which have made them much admired.
Various of his imitations, too, of the olden ballad, are beau-
tifully executed, and breathe the free, wild spirit of the
greenwood, and tell pathetically of the agonies of young
hearts that " loved not wisely, but too well."
Such was the poet — let us briefly consider the man. In
general society, Motherwell was reserved; but with his in-
timate friends he let himself out freely into the whim or
enjoyment of the hour. Amongst his intimate associates, '
were John Carrick, Andrew Henderson, and Mr. John
Howie, all of whom have passed away, like himself, from
this mortal scene. In company with these and other select
friends, his natural reserve gave place to a rich enjoyment
of the sly quips and drolleriea of the first of these, or the
more boisterous and explosive humours of the second ; and
we have enjoyed ourself, more than once, the company oi
these three rich-minded, but oddly-paired men, in a well
knoTm tavern in the Trongate— the Swan with two necks —
which was their favourite resort. In this cosie howf we
have listened with delight to the delicious chirping of these
congenial souls, when they had washed their eyes in a tum-
bler or two, and were hitting right and left in the imre-
strained glee and social abandonment of mirth and good
fellowship. They are all gone, and so are some others who
were members of that brilliant brotherhood which once
graced and enriched our city ; but there still linger in many
a heart, pleasing though mournful reminiscences, which
clustre around their rich memories, associated, as they now
are, with the name and fame of AVilliam Motherwell.
EDWAED PINKERTON.
Edttaed Pixkebton was a son of the Eev, Mr. Pinkerton,
minister of what was then called the Relief Church, in
Campbelton, Argyleshire, and dates his birth December,
1798. He was sent, in due time, to the High School, Edin-
burgh, to receive the elements of a classical education ; and
he afterwards matriculated in the Glasgow University.
The celebrated Professor Sandford, of the Glasgow Uni-
versity, was a fellow-student with Mr. Pinkerton, and their
standing in the class, under Dr. Pillans, was nearly on a par.
He afterwards joined the medical classes, and obtained his
diploma in 1817. His youthful appearance, it was con-
sidered, might militate against his obtaining that confi-
flence so necessary in the treatment of the varied maladies to
which frail man is subjected ; and he did not consider it pru-
dent to enter into public practice, but took charge, meantime,
of a subscription school in his native toTm, Campbelton.
He afterward taught the classical department of a boarding
school at Galashiels. He obtained the appointment of
assistant surgeon in the royal navy, in 1S25, in H.M.S.
" The Warspite," under command of Commodore Brisbane.
The " Warspite " was ordered to India, and returned to this
country in 1827, after performing a voyage round the world.
Mr. Pinkerton had suffered a severe shock of paralysis, and
was laid up in Chelsea Hospital ; but his intellect was unim-
paired by the attack, though his frame was so shaken, that
he was unable to return to public duty, and he retired on
government allowance. Mr. Pinkerton came to reside in
Glasgow amongst his friends, and was almost a daily
visitor, as long as he was able, at the levees of wit and hu-
mour in the shop of our publisher. He died in 1844.
The pieces contributed by him to this work have
his name attached. No one at all competent to judge of
lyric compositions, wiU fail to see in them no ordinary
ability.
He published, in 1332, a small volume of poetry, entitlod
" The Propontis,-' which was well received by the public.
Mr. Pinkerton occupied his time between literary pur-
suits and giving instructions in Greek to students attending
the University. He was considered a very excellent
scholar — few, indeed, surpassed him in the knowledge of
this elegant laiiguage, and he appeared sometimes a little
vaiu of this aciuisitiovi.
xxxiii
JOHN GRiExME.
J"0Hx G:R/B,yiz, whose numerous uaackuowledged coatribu.
tions to this ^rork, will be aftarwarJs noticed, was born
in the city of Glasgow, on the 19th of 'hia.y, 1797. Hia
father, after whom he was named, was by profession a
hair-dresser. The miideu name of his mother, was Janet
Williamson. Tho relations of John Grajme were in very
respectable circumstances — his uncle, Robert G-raeme, soma
of whose family still survive ("1852), wa'j sheriff substitute in
Glasgow: his name appeara as one of the witnesses at
the record of Graeme's birth.
The subject of our memoir was sent by his parents
to learn Aveaving, the practical knowledge of which waa
considered indispensable to fit him for a manafactaring
establishment.
His parents died while ha was young, and the pro-
perty left by them, or to which they expected to succeed,
became the subject of a law suit, aai went against Grame,
which fell with a crus'iiiu^ blow on the family. This cala-
mity left on the mind of John an impression which was
never erased— melancholy, to which he wa4 very subject, it
was feared would have settled down ou hli mind, and his
friends sent him for part of the Summer to the neighbour-
hood of Bucklyvie, so as to change the scene, and break off
the train of thought which was coursing through his mind
with the greater danger as it was confined to one chan-
nel, disappointment. The change had the desired effect,
and he returned to Glasgow renewed in bodily health, and
a new and healthy tone imparted to his mind.
He obtained employment in a warping room in St. An-
drevz-'s Siuare for some time ; afterward he pursued the same
mode of obtaining a living with Mr. Lawsoii, at that time
aa extensive raanufactiirei- in Gl.isgo-.v, afterward the
honored manager of the Glasgow Provident Bank. Crroeme
always spoke of Mr Lawsou with almost the affection of a
son. While turning the warping reel, &c., Grsme formed
the idea of qualifying himself for the profession of medicine,
and afcer labour hours, studied Latin with Mr. James Stir-
ling, now Rev, Mr. Stirling, United Presbyterian Church,
Kirriemuir, to enable him to understand the mysteries of
the art, whose vo-jabulai-y is expressti in that noble lan-
guage. He also had a private class, in which he taught his
pupils the elements of geography.
It is said, that he accepted the office of tutor in the family
of a farmer, in thj upper ward of Lanarkshire, the very
farm house to which, as the story goes, Morton was carried
prisoner by the covenanters, after their disastrous defeat
at Bathwell Brig. AVe never heard Mr. Graeme allude to
this tutorship, his stay must have been but short there,
and we should think the coarse modes of living in these
sequestered places, would ba^ill accord with the sensitive
mind of Groeme. In struggling to get on with his medical
classes, he had much privation, but honorably and credita-
bly obtaiUi^d his diploma in 1823. His knowledge of phar-
macy was aciuired under Mr. John Wallace, a surgcoa
in Glasgow of amiable memory.
He opened a small shop in Trongate of Glasgow, which
had been previously occupied by a medical gentleman. The
young lancet-bearer expecting that a certain amount of hia
predecessor's practice would fall into him, for which he paid
more, perhaps, than the intrinsic ralue of medicines, &c., &c,
•were worth. This turned out an unprofitable beginning — he
then removed to the Gallowgate, where he remained but a
sliort time. His next place lor administering medicina
and advice was the High Street, where he continued till
he died, which melancholy event took place 11th Feb., 1852,
Grame was one of the origiual stafif of Whirftlebinkians,
aad whose humorous contributioas, at ita first publication-
assisted to give the work tha popularity it very soou ac-
quired.
Graeme would never allois- his name to be attached to his
compositious ; but, now tliat his rabuke need not be feared,
we give a list of his contributions to this work : — " The
Fruitof old Ireland," " Kate M'Lusky," " Irish Love Soug,"
" Kilroony's visit to Loudon," " Young Paddy's Tutor,"
" The Herring-head Club," " Pat Mulligan's Courtship," and
" Kitty O'Carrol."
We quote a notice of John Graeme, contributed by an in-
timate friend, and which appeared in the G-lasgow Oitizen : —
" Few men were better kiowa, or held in higher respect,
not leas for his gviniiil aad loveable qualities a^ a private
friend, his rich and racy humour, strong sense, and general
information, than for the active benevolence and enlightened
philanthropy which formed tlie basis of his character. Wo
believe that in early life liis circumstances were not pro-
mising ; but the vigour of his mind enabled him to acquire,
almost self-taught, th3 elements of a medical education, to
which profession he finally devoted himself, and in which
his practice, though limited, was respectable. The educa-
tional deficiences of his opening years, although remedied
to a considerable extent by an astute and manly intellect,
and by varied and general reading aad inquiry, were never
sufficiently repaired to place him in a high literary position.
The rich natural resources of his mind found a vent, how-
ever, in various pr:)^e and metrical compositions, which he
contributed to those well-know-n collections of Scottish song
and social /aceiice, 'Whistle Binkie ' and 'The Laird i>f
Logan," and also, we have reason to believe, in other chau-
'ueis of which M-e have no personal knowledge.
" It •was in the society of private friends, however, of wliom
he had many who continued their attachment to him
through life, and whose kindness soothed and ministered to
liim in the lingering hours of mortal sickness, that the
kindly and genial qualities of his nature broke forth in their
full lustre and perfection. A rich flow of humour, never
degenerating into mere bufinniry or vulgar personalities,
rendered him the soul and centre of the social circle, and
his sudden bursts of impromptu drollery, happily conceived
and felicitously expressed, naver failed to set the table in a
roar. Those who, like the writer, have often listened to
his songs (generally of his own composition^, or witnessed
hit! dramatic and imitative powers in his extemporaneous
exhibitions, will not soon forget the man any more than the
genial humourist and friend. His memory will long be
cherished by many surviving friends, associated as it will
be with other rich and pleasant memories floating around
the congenial names of Motherwell, Carrick, and Hender-
Bon, of which bright, though narrow circle, he was long a
member."
His remains are deposited in the paternal burying place,
north-east corner of the Cathedral, the footpath only between
his grave and the abutments of its walls. There in peace
rest his ashes, mixing with those of his mother and a be-
loved Bister, who pre-deceased him. How often has he set
the table on a roar 1 We have seen him put gentlemen into
nervous fits with his imitations both of the rational aud
the irrational portions of creation.
Poor CaiTick, when unable to take any part in the amuse-
ments of the social party — " Never mind," said he, when
sympathised with that he could not aid as he was wont in
keeping up the hilarity, " you have Graeme with you :
you should learn to appreciate him."
CAPTAIN CHARLES GRAY, E.M.
Amokg the many who, in Scotland, have piped sweetly in
the sunny nooks of poesy, without attaining any very daz-
zling height, was Captain Charles Gray, R.M. The Captain
was a native of Anstruther, in Fifesliire, renowned like-
wise as the birtli-place of Dr. Chalmers, the glory of the
Scottish pulpit, and of Professor Tennant, who immortalised
in verse the hilarities of " Anster Fair." For thirty-six
years he had served in the Royal Marines, hut of flood or of
field he appeared to have scarcely a tale to tell. With his
soldier's uniform he contrived to lay aside the soldier. His
talk v/as of Scottish song. Scottish song was the one un-
changeable hobby of his life. While yet a lieutenant ho
Bung of Scotland in the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
He was engaged for several years iu the blockade of Ve-
nice, but his heart, in the midst of every excitement, con-
tinued true to Auster, aud Fife, and Scotland. Many of his
pieces bear foreign dates, but their theme is almost uni-
formly Scotch. His admiration of Burns, and indeed of all
the great lyrists of his home-land, partook of the familiar
fondness of a love, arid the engrossing enthusiasm of a
worship ; and his soul gave out echoes as sleepless as those
which dAvell near mighty cataracts, of the wondrous music
with which it was filled unceasingly as with an inspira-
tion.
Some dozen or fourteen years have now passed since we
numbered Captain Charles Gray among our close friends.
At first we saw him only during his occasional visits to
Scotland ; but latterly he had retired on full pay, and taken
up his permanent residence in a quiet suburb of Edinburglj,
lying to the south of Hcriot's Hospital. We enjoyed bio
toclety from the simplicity, good faith, and heart-warmth
which Avere his unvaiying characteristics. Like a veterau
tree-trunk sprouting, the old man exhibited the verdurous
freshness of boyhood. He had long been a widower, and
his only son was, as ho had himself been, a lieutenant in
tlie Eoyal Marines. But he had companions in his books ;
i'.nd, GO long as he had a genuine old ballad to rehearse, he
could never feel weary or alone. At the sound of ancient
melody, he would break through any conceivable forti-
fication of cobwebs ; and ramble in a very rapture of en-
chantment, in the midst of old-world haunts — wherever,
indeed, human hearts had, in times long lapsed, either
bounded with uproarious humour, or molted with mellifiuoua
pathos.
There was not, perhaps, in all broad Scotland, a man, id
all respects, more happily constituted than Captain Charles
Gray. In his case, the spirit of the poet seemed, like the
person of the soldier, to have passed through all perils with-
out receiving a single wound or leaving a single scar. Like
Autolycus — to whom, however, he bore no other resemblance
— he went on his way singing, as it were, —
" Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily bent the stUe-a;
A cheery heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
Several of his " Lays and Lyrics " his friend Sir. Peter
M'Leod had winged with appropriate music, and the sccrot
feeling lay cosy at his heart that these, at least, would go
down the sunny slopes of posterity ; and tliis gracious fancy
cheered him through years which knew neither eves nor
winters, with darling glimpses of a bright poetic immorta-
lity. Among his intimate literary friends, were Professor
Tennaut. whom he describes .is
'• reserved and ahy,
With humour lurking ir^ his eye,"
-'"1 Professor Thomas Gillespie of St. Andrews, with whom
he was wont to correspouu m ir.j o^ ^„, likewise on
terms of friendship with Mr. Kobeit Chambers, whos^.larger
range of faculties did not carry him beyond the enjoyment'
of kindred pursuits. Mr. Patrick Maxwell, the biographer
of the sweet poetess Miss Blamire,— a man after his own
heart, and with all his time on his hands, was his daily
companion. Poor GilSUan, with his plaintive " Why left I
myhame?" and satiric " Peter MCraw;" Mr. David Ved-
der, with his many miiuly lyrics, like gusts from his oatu
native Orkneys ; Mr. James Ballantine, with his graphic
and sturdy vigour of expression and sentiment; and Mr.
Thomas Smibert, whose polished and eloquent strains have
long enriched our periodical literature, and been recently
given to the world in a collected shape, were among his con-
genial associates. AVho among his friends can forgot the
gusto with which he used to sing, in spite of a somewhat
croaky voice, his own excellent ditty of " When Autumn hag
laid her sickle by," or Tannahill's fine roystering burlesque
of " Barochan Jean?" A fish -dinner at Newhaven mth a
select party of such spirits, and with Donaldson — wel^
known in Edinburgh circles — to sing " Caller Herring,"
as no other man can, and Peter M'Leod to rise in his en-
thusiasm to the full height of " I am a son of Mars," is a re-
miniscence " to dream of, not to tell."
The closing decade of the last half-century has stolen
away since the days of which we speak ; but Edinburgli
sociabilities still come back upon us, from time to time, if
only in intimations of change. Robert Gilfillan has "left
his hame," and gone to rest underneath the flowers of which
it was his joy to sing ; and our warm-hearted friend Captain
Gr&j no longer enlivens, witli his radiant good-humour, the
social circles of the heautifnl city of his adoption. Some
years before his death, he was a zealrin<5 f.^r-*-:*— <-» «■«
«ix^i^i-tiG-jj±uKie,' in which he took a lirely interest He
likewise published in the columns of the Glasgow Citizen
newspaper, an elaborate series of " Notes on Scottish Song,"
displaying much careful research, and acute and curious
criticism. "With such love-labours, relieved by an occa-
sional attendance at a "Bums Anniversary" at Irvine, or
" Mcht in Glasgow " -n-ith his west-country cronies, glided
away the latter days of Captain Charles Gray, like a stream
singing its way cheerily to the sea. The last time we saw
him, he vv-as an invalid indulging in daily carriage airings.
Lunch was laid out in anticipation of our visit, and we found
his faithful friend Mr. Patrick Maxwell, enlivening the pale
valetudinarian with his good company. He looked thin and
shaken, but the old embers glowed within him, and his
kindly blue eyes brightened with their wonted lustre as he
descanted on his favourite theme. His end, it would appear,
was rapidly approaching ; and on the morning of Sunday,
April 13, ISol, the good Captain closed his eyes on thia
world at the age of sixty-nine.
Captain Gray was not gifted with high genius. He had,
nevertheless, amassed such wealth of genial and harmonious
fellowship in his life, as to enable him to bequeath to his
friends a memorj' which none of them will willingly let
die. As a poet he lacked imaginative brilliancy, nor was he
master of any profound strain of pathos. The characteristics
of his muse was exuberance of animal spirits. Had he
been a musician, his forte would have been reels, strath-
speys, and polkas. His verses were poured out, not from a
torn heart, but from a buoyant and healthy nature. The
stream of his song has neither breadth nor depth, richness
xli
nor magnificence, but it has a pleasant warble, and a brighl
sparkle of its own, and its course is through meadows graced
with all flowei-y embroider^', and under skies which wear
their clouds only for adornings. The passing of such a man
from the festive circle and the busy street into the unseen
world, leaves a strange gap in the dread unlifted veil, through
which we seem, for a moment, to catch a wild wide glimpse
of the BEYOND.
ALEXANDER FISHER.
O.vLY a few days have elapsed (8th Nov., 1852,) since we re-
turned from the grave of another contributor to our pages.
Alexander Fisher was Ijorn in Glasgow, in 178S. His father
was a tobacconist, to wliich profession he also bred his son.
His father gave him an excellent education, which Alexan-
der afterward improved, by very diligent and extensive
reading.
He married, in 1811, Helen Campbell, sister to /.lessi's.
Campbells of Candleriggs Street, Glasgow, justly celebrated
for the large extent of their private and public charities,
and an extended business connection which would i-ender
many heads giddy, but their hands have always been able
to carry steadily a full cup. Several of Mr. Fisher's fa.-nily
predeceased their father, others of them, with his partner
in life, survive to lament his loss, the eldest of Ayhom, Dr.
A. Fisher, enjoys an extensive and vei-y x'espectable medical
practice in Glasgow.
Mr. Fisher's contributions are all of a humorous descrip-
tion, and his muse never seemed so much in her element as
In describing the awkward misplacings of the adjimcts
xlii
of nouns, which Highlanders beginning to speak Kngiish
always exhibit The pieces of his in this work are almost
all of this description. They are, " The Twal o' August ; "
" Ta offish in ta moinin'," or " Duncan Grant her Cousin's
son;" "Ta praise o' Ouskie ; " " Ta gran Highland bag-
pipe ;" " Shean MNab ;" " I'se red ye tak' tent ;" " I never
will get fu' agin." For a fe'.v years preceding his death, hu,
and Mrs. Fisher and the youngest unmaiTied daughter,
lived in a cottage on the sea side at Ardrossan.
JOHN S P I E II S .
JoHy Spiers, our most endeared and intimate friend, re-
quires a notice, however brief, at our hand. He was born
at Alexandria, Dumbartonshire, in 179S. His father was
cmutfcted with the excise. Mr. Spiers came to Glasgow
when a young lad, and entered the warehouse of Messrs.
James and Morris Pollock. He was partner with Mr. James
Pollock, after the partnership of the two biothers had been
lissolved. When Mr, Pollock died, Mr. Spiers continued
the business on his own accoimt. in 1836, he married
Amelia Baxtei-, fourth daughter of the late Isaac Baxter,
Italian warehouse, Buchanan Street
His early death was occasioned by his connection with
those speculations in railways, &c., which have sent so many
to premature graves, and involved families in irretrievable
ruin. Mr. Spiers' sensitive frame could not bear up under
the prospective ruin which stared him in the face. He Lad
a very severe attack of British cholera, fi-om which the medi-
cal gentleman had at fir.-^t no fe.^rs of danger ; butliis mental
anxiety induced convulsive attacks, which carried him
away to happier and better scenes, in the hope of which he
even triumphed while in the last grasp of the Terrible
King. He was withdrawn from the conllict, 21st July, 1846.
His amiable partner followed him about four years after-
ward, leaving a family of four children, three daughters and
one son. The care of these orphans devolved on their uncle,
Mr. Walter Baxter, who, with his partner in life, are (1852)
with the most exemplary diligence, acting the part of
parents to them.
Mr. Spiers only contributed one piece to this collection,
though he was a large contributor to the Laird of Logau,
He was possessed of a very superior taste and sound judg-
ment, to which we very generally deferred, lie was always
one of the gi-oup who assembled in our publisher's, and
whose laugh, fresh from the heart, made all joyous about
him. Peace to his memory, which will be cherished by the
writer while the hand-breadth of his days are continued to
the limit — "Hitherto shalt thou come and no farther."
JOHN HOWIE.
Joiiv Howie, though not a contributor to this work, deserves
a niche. His name is associated with those of the Mother-
well coterie. He was from Eaglesham, his father was ai\
extensive farmer in that parish, and the family is descended
from an ancestry celebrated in the annals of those con-
scientious sufferers who were prosecuted for their adherence
to the Presbyterian cause, in opposition to Prelacy.
xliv
Mr. Home received a liberal education — he attended the
Glasgow College for some years^ but did not prosecute any
of the learned professions ; he devoted himself to mercan-
tile pursuits. His senior brother, James, studied with him.
who is now (lSo2) one of our most respectable members in
the Faculty of Procurators. It ought not to be concealed
that Mr. James Howie raised amongst his friends, after
Motherwell's demise, four-fifths of the sum then subscribed
to assist in defraying his debts, and aiding Motherwell's
only remaining sister, who died, at Rothesay, in 1850. We
do not over-state the matter when we say that Mr. Howie
raised above a thousand pounds.
John Howie was connected with the house of Dennistoun,
Buchanan, & Co., of Glasgow. A predisposition to pul-
monary complaint, rendered it necessary for Mr. Howie to
seek a milder clime, and he left this country in 1S35, and
resided principally in Jamaica till his death, in 1847.
Mr. Howie made a journey home in 1846, his medical ad-
viser thinking that his native air might brace up his sadly
relaxed and debilitated frame. He reached London, but
was ordered back to Jamaica, as his life, it was thought,
could not be preserved any time in this northern climate.
AVhen the writer called for him, on a Wednesday, at Fur-
nival's Inn, High Holborn, in August, 1846, expecting to
see his old and endeared friend, he was told that he had
left on the previous Saturday for Jamaica.
Mr. Howie was possessed of a very vigorous, clear, cool
philosophical judgment, and of a fine literary taste; we
thought sometimes others got the credit for compositions
which were written by Mr. Howie. Motherwell uniformly
deferred to his taste and judgment. The following is an
extract from a letter addressed to the writer on the melan-
choly occasion of Motherwell's death, which, for taste and
feeling, is not often surpassed : —
" You need not, I daresay, be told with what distressing
astonishment the announcement of our cherished friend,
Motherwell's, death came upon me. The bitterness of
my own regret was, in my own case, gi'eatly aggi'avated in
reflecting upon the number of sympathetic souls in your
own circle, who would be equally heart-stricken by his
xmtimely doom. His career has been mournfully brief,
though, happily, not barren ; and I cannot doubt that his
works will yet rise to a far more estimable popularity than
they have hitherto done, and chiefly with that portion of
his kind for whom he had ever the heartiest regard — song-
loving and simple hearts. To the rugged mass he was, as
you are aware, but half known ; and some there are who
will pet his memory, who cared but coldly for the living
man. But the brief fever is over, and his life I know was
not unhappy, although it was rather a fit than a term —
more a passion than an existence. But, was it ever other-
wise with true genius ! The crust that covers it is almost
always prematurely cracked by the very intensity of tho
flame that glows within."
JAMES SCOTT.
James Scott was bom at Lanark. November, ISOl. Hia
parents removed to Glasgow when their son was little
more than four years of agj. He was sent back again to
Lanark, to reside with his maternal grandmother, who
taught hira to read. At the age of seven years, he en-
tered the Grammar School, where he remained about four
years. On leaving Lanark, he came to Glasgow, and en-
xlvi
tered the Olaegow Chronicle Office, for whicli Journal he
reported for some considerable time.
In June, 1826, lie left for Canada, to edit the MontrecX
Herald, and returned to this country in September, 1831.
While in Canada, he established the Montreal Weekly 0a-
sette. Early in 1832 Mr. Scott joined the Greenock Adver-
tiser, a connection that continued till his death, on 1st De-
cember, 1849.
Mr. Scott was much esteemed in Greenock, and took
a patriotic lead in all public movements. He had a me-
mory of extTaordinary tenacity, and could have reported
from memory, almost verbatim, speeches of any ordinary
length. He suffered, for a considerable time before his death,
by that malady fatal to physical and mental efifort-softeoing
of the brain. His amiable partner watched over him, and
nursed him with the most pious care, during his painful and
protracted illness. A large family pre-deceased him. Mr.
Scott contributed one piece to Whistlebinkie.
R O B E II T CLARK
Robert Clark, author of " Kate Macvean,'" and "Rhymin'
Rab o' our Toun," was born in Paisley, in 1810. He was
early apprenticed to the trade of weaving, at which he be-
came a proficient workman. From his youth he was re-
markably fond of reading, especially poetry. He had a taste
for the sister art, music, the study of which he pursued, and
became a tolerable performer on the flute and the clarionet
A small collection of Scottish Songs, Ac, was published,
with his name, entitled " The Thistle." He was married in
A'.-.guiit. mS2.
xlvii
Having a strong incliuation to try his fortune in America,
Kobcrt sailed from Liverpool for Philadelphia in 1844, and
resided there for above two yoars. His principal employ-
ment was at his own trade, with occasional engagements at
the theatre as a performer on flute and clarionet. In Phil-
adelphia, Clark rallied around him a number of young
men from his native town, and formed them into a society
for instrumental music, under the name of the Paisley Band,
He was attacked by a severe fever and ague, and, for the
recovery of his health, he re-visited his native country
in 1846, and entered into business, on his own account,
as a broker; but such a profession did not suit his dis-
position, and he resolved to return to America, He em-
barked for New York in the ship Merlin, on the 23d of
April, 1847. The Merlin is supposed to have been lost on
her voyage, and Robert to have perished, with the whole
passengers and ci'ew, as no tidings of them ever reached
this country.
ROBERT G I L F I L L zV N.
Soi/iE half dozen of years have scarcely elapsed, since the
former complete edition of " VVhistlebinkie" was issued;
yet, during that comparatively brief interval, death ha:i
removed several of the sweet singers to whose combined
genius its pages are indebted for their choicest effusions.
Among others by whose contributions the present work
has been enriched, was Robert Gilfillan, a brief outline of
v/hoss humble and somewhat uneventful life, compiled from
various authentic soui'ces, is here given.
xlviii
Robert Gilfillan was born on the 7th of July, 1798, at
Dunfermline, in the county, or, as it is sometimes called,
the " Kingdom," of Fife. His parents, who were persons of
humble rank in society, were generally respected in their
own sphere, for their industry, intelligence, and moral worth.
The poet's mother, especially, is represented as having been
a woman of more than ordinary endowments. For several
years during the boyhood of the future hard, his father was
rendered unable, by ill health, to provide in an adequate
manner for the necessities of his young and helpless family.
In this period of trial, the mother, from whom her gifted
son inherited a considerable portion of his intellectual
vigour and strong love of independence, exerted herself in
the most praiseworthy manner to give her children " a de-
cent upbringing." Hardships and privations there must
have been in that lowly home; yet, under that admirablc3
mother, they never ceased to form
" A virtuous household, though exceeding poor."
Of the first twelve years of the poet's life, little is
known. "When a mere child, we are told by one who knew
him well in aftev-days, Robert toiled manfully to assist
his mother. His aid was needed to swell the family store,
and the boy rendered it ungrudgingly. While other chil-
dren of his age were at school, or sporting themselves over
the sunny braes, he was already engaged in the serious
struggle of existence ; yet was he not a stranger to the en-
joyments which, happily, even under the most adverse cir-
cumstances, are incident to the morning of life. At a very
early age, ho began to practise the art of song-writing; and
it is related, that when engaged on one occasion during the
Christmas holidays, in a guizing excur;,ion, he sung some
verses which he had written on the death of Abercromby
xlix
•with BO much effect, as to win unprecedented supplies of
" bawbees and blauds o' bread and cheese " from the guda-
■ffives of Dunfermline.
In 1811, -when only thirteen years of age, Robert Gilfillan
left his native toH^n to serve an apprenticeship in Leith,
as a cooper. To this handicraft, however, he seems never
to have taken kindly; yet he faithfully fulfilled his en-
gagement, punctually giving his earnings from "week to
week to his beloved mother, and enlivening his leisure
hours by the composition of poetry, and the practice of
music on a " one-keyed flute," which he purchased with a
small sum of money which he found one morning while pass-
ing along an obscure street in Leith. The song of " Again
let's hail the cheering Spring," according to u manuscript
journal of the poet, was one of the early effusions of this
period; while "The yellow-haired laddie," as we learn from
a passage in one of his letters, was among the first airs that
he learned upon the flute, " under his own tuition."
At the termination of his apprenticeship, Mr. Gilfillan,
then in his twentieth year, returned to Dunfermline, where
he was engaged for nearly three years, as shopman in a
grocery establishment. During this period, he formed the
acquaintance of a number of young men, possessed, like
himself, of literary tastes, who held occasional meetings for
mutual improvement in literature, science, and art. At
the sederunts of this congenial society, the productions of
the poet were either read or chanted ; while they were, at
the same time, subjected to a friendly criticism. This
period, the poet frequently remarked, was the happiest in
his life.
Mr. Gilfillan afterwards returned to Leith, where he filled,
for many years, the responsible situation of clerk to Mr.
M'Ritchie, an extensive wine merchant While fulfilling
the duties of this office, to the satisfaction of his em-
ployer, he found time also to keep up an intimate corres-
pondence with the muses. His songs, through the medium
of newspapers and magazines, gradually attracted public
attention and admiration. At leugth, in the year 18-31, he
was induced by the solicitations of his friends, and his now-
numerous admirers, to publish a collection of his produc-
tions. The volume, which was entitled " Original Songs,"
contained about a hundred and fifty pages. It was dedi-
cated to Allan Cunniugham, and was received by the public
in an exceedingly favourable manner. Encouraged by the
success of this, his first literary venture, Mr Gilfillau sub-
sequenth' published, in 1835, another and enlarged editwn,
containing fifry addicional songs. Soon after this volume
saw the light, he was entertained at a public dinner in
Edinburgh, at which Mr. Peter M'Leod, who had composed
the music to some of his finest songs, presided as chairman.
la the year 18.37, Mr. GilfiUan vras appointed collector of
police rates at Leith, an office which he continued to occupy
until the period of his death. In the same year, on the mo-
tion of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, he was installed as Grand
Bard to the Grand Lodge of Free Masons in Scotland.
He also contributed a number of poetical pieces to the
pages of the Dublin Universiti; Magazine, and other periodical
works ; while, for the lengthened period of twenty yeans, he
wrote the principal portion of the Leith news for the Scots-
man, besides enriching the columns of that and other jour-
nals with original communications in prose and verse.
In 1S50, Ml". Giifillan and others, who regretted to sec the
dilapidated condition into which the monument had fallen
whicli was ert;cted to the poet Fergusson in the Cannongate
churchyard, by R(,)bert Burns, originated a subscription for
the purpose of having it placed in a proper state of repair
li
The appeal wsls liberally responded to, and the monn«
ment was effectually repaired. On Monday, the 2d ot
December, 1850, he attended a dinner of the " Grand Lodge
of Scotland," where he sung several of his own songs, and
appeared in hia ordinary health and spirits. Next day he
was slightly unwell, but was able to take a walk in the open
air. On Wednesday morning, however, shortly after he had
risen from bed, he was seized with a violent fit of apoplexy.
Medical aid was immediately called, and he subsequently
rallied so far, as to be able to converse. A second fit then
supervened, and in the forenoon of that day the poet was no
more. He died in the fifty-second year of his age. His
remains were accompanied by a numerous and highly re-
spectable company to the place of sepulture, in the church-
yard of South Leith, where an appropriate monument,
erected by public subscription, has since been placed, to
mark the spot where his earthly remains are deposited.
His own songs, although neither gifted with a voice of
great compass or power, !ie always sung with a degi-ee of
feeling and taste which seldom failed to charm, and which
caused his society to be courted on convivial occasions to an
extent far beyond what the dictates of prudence would jus-
tify. The mistaken, or it may be selfish, hospitalities of
those who call themselves friends and admirers, have too
often been the medium Of destruction to the poet, who might
well exclaim, in answer to the courtesies of such parties,
with the frog in the fable, " AVhat is sport to you, is death
to us."
Among the song-writers of his country, Robert Gilfillan
is undoubtedly entitled to an honourable position. His
etfusions are uniformly pervaded by tenderness of feeling,
appropriateness of imagery, and that genuine simplicity of
expression, which forms one of tlie principal elements of
Hi f,
lyrical success. He has not the vigorous passion and
manly energy of a Bums, nor the descriptive truthfulness
and freshness of feeling which are so sweetly combined in
a Tannahill, but his verses are ever musical and soft, while
he has touched, in various instances, on chords which had
escaped the ken of his great predecessors in the art of
song. "Why left I my hame," a strain which is indeed
full of pathos, at once found its way to the popular heart ;
while the " Happy days of youth," " Fare-thee-well, for I
must leave thee, " "Peter M'Craw," and many other pro-
ductions of his genius, are characterised by merits of a high
order, and have already attained a place among the lays
which the world " will not willingly let die."
LAMENT FOR PwOBERT GILFILLAN.
O MOURN, Scotland, mourn, for thy swcot poet gane ;
Thy children, far distant, shall swell the sad strain ;
By hearth and by homestead, in cottage and ha',
Are lorn hearts deploring poor Robin awa'.
Where glen-burnies wimple, where hill-torrents flow,
Where gowden whins blossom, and strong thistles grow,
Where merles grept the gloamiu', and larks hail the daw'.
They've lost their fond lover, poor Robin awa',
Old age totters feebly, and youth paces slow,
They linger, to mourn o'er their bard lying low,
While angel tears hallow the turf, as they fa'
Frae beauty's eyes streaming, for Robin awa'.
O genial the feeling his mem'ry imparts.
For deeply his lyrics are shrined in our hearts,
And rich as the fragrance when southlan' winds blav,
The flower posie left us by Robin awa'.
JAME3 BALI.ASTINE.
liii
JOHN I JM L A H .
John Imlah was born ia North Street, Aberdeen, about the
end of the year 1799. He was the youngest of seven suc-
cessive sons — a circumstance which he used jocularly to
boast of, as conferring on him, according to the old freet,
supernatural poAvers of some sort or other; although what
they were " he could not undertake to say." His parent-
age was respectable— the Imlahs having been farmers for
several generations in the Parish of Fy vie ; and the poet's
father, although only a publican, or rather a country inn-
keeper, must have been a man of some standing and influ-
ence, as he enjoyed the title, and exercised the authority, of
Baillie of Cuminestone, a populous village, where his
house long continued to be known as " the baillie's house."
Nor after his removal to Aberdeen, which took place at
Whitsunday, 1798, could the Baillie have been in straitened
circumstances, for he brought up the four of his seven sons
who lived to manhood, in a comfortable way ; and John, at
least, had the advantage of a pretty fair^education, includ-
ing attendance for a year or two at the grammar school.
Ultimately, hov.rever, he had to abandon his literary studies,
for which he evinced both liking and capacity, and betake
himself, as his brothers had done before, to a trade. He
was apprenticed to Mr. Allan, a piano-forte maker, to learn
the higher, or finishing branches of the business ; but he
was soon removed from the bench altogether. Having given
evidence of the possession of a good musical ear, his master
initiated him into the mysteries of tuning, at which he
speedily became an adept. On leaving Mr. Allan, he pro-
cecded to London, where his qualifications procured hirq
almost immediate employment ; and in the course of a few
years he entered into an engagement with the leading iirm,
Broadwood & Co., which lasted till he left this country to
visit his brothers, and would probably hav'e been renewed
again had he lived to return. His connection with the
Broadwoods was on the whole a very agreeable one, and
suited well his character and tastes. During the season, or
rather, from the beginning of the year to the middle of
June, he performed the duties of a regular town and house
tuner, on a fixed salary ; and from June to December, he was
allowed to travel in the north-east of Scotland, working ou
his own account, and eking out his income by an occasional
commission on the sale of a piano.
Mr. Imlah spent his five or six months in Scotland in a
pleasant roving manner. There is hardly a town between
Edinburgh and Inverness, where he had not a circle of at-
tached friend?, who were always delighted to see him ; then,
he was a welcome guest when he appeared professionally at
the mansions of the nobility and gentry ; and, to crown all,
he had a host of cousins and second cousins in the parish
of Methlic, neir Aberdeen, on who?n he delighted to lavish
the strong natural feelings which he had no other outlet for —
being an orphan and a bachelor, and the only two of his bro-
thers who were in life having emigrated to distant climes so
long before that ho had but a faint impression of having
ever seen them.
Mr. Imlah was porliaps better known and more generally
liked than any other person in the same sphere of life. His
lively and social disposition, based on intelligence, upright-
ness, a nice sense of honour, a real goodness of heart, made
him a general favourite with all classes. His claims as a
pcet can be judged of by the specimens in this work. Ufa
Iv
published two volumes, and was a regular coutrlbutor to the
newspapers of his native town. Some of his sweet and
simple lyrics have been set to music by eminent composers,
and have been sung occasionally by our most distinguished
Scottish vocalists.
Mr. Imlah possessed a great deal of nationality— nation-
ality of the right kind : not the ignorant assumption of un-
due superioiity, but a rational apprehension of the real ex-
'^ellencies of the character and position of the people to
whom he belonged. In England he was ever foremost to
defend Scotland and Scottish habits from prejudiced as-
sailants; while in Scotland, on the other hand, he was
equally ready to point out our shortcomings, and wherein
we might advantageously take lessons from our southerji
neighbours. To all the metropolitan associations established
for the benefit of his poorer countrymen, he was, according
to his means, a cheerful and liberal contributor ; and, in his
private capacity, he was never found wanting when the
claims of the needy, the unfortunate, or unrequited merit,
came before him.
Mr, Imlah was cut off prematurely, in the vigour of life,
while performing a duty of affection which he had long
looked forward to with a mixture of melancholy and plea-
surable anticipations. His two remaining brothers — the
one resident in Nova Scotia, the other in the West Indies
^had been separated from him for a period of thirty yeans.
At length an opportunity occurred of meeting them to-
gether at Halifax. After a joyful, and, to him, most compli-
mentary, parting with his friends in London, he set sail,
and had a delightful meeting with his relations. He spent
some time in Nova Scotia, and then accompanied one of his
brothers and a nephew to Jamaica, where, after a brief pe-
riod of enjoyment, he fell a victim to the fatal disease of
Ivi
the island. He died on the 9th of January, 1846, having
just entered his forty-eighth year. The Cornwall (Jamaica)
Chronicle paid a just tribute to his memory; and we think
we cannot better conclude our brief notice, than by quoting
the opinion which only a short intimacy enabled our Co-
lonial brethren to form of Mr. Imlah. The Chronicle says,
" He is deeply lamented by his relations and friends, and
sincerely regretted by a numerous circle of acquaintances.
He was a man of unaffected manners and great singleness
of heart, who, to a lively imagination and versatile talent,
added a ready store of general knowledge, which rendered
his society very acceptable to those whose congeniality of
mind led them to similar pursuits. He died in Christian
hope and resignation, and, we trust, in an odour of mind
which dictated, in one of his sacred poems, the following
lines:—
'" 0, dark would be this vale of tears — more dark this vale
of death-
Had we no hope through Godward thoughts — no saving
trust through faith ;
Where tear shall never dim the eye, nor sob disturb the
heart,
■Where meet the holy and the just, and never more to part' "
Itrii
WILLIAM EINLAY.
William Finlay was born at Paisley, in the year 1792.
At an early age he attended Bell's school, at that time a
well known seminary in the town, and, subsequently, the
Grammar School, where, under Mr. Peddie, he made such
progress, that at nine years of age he could read and trans-
late Csesar with facility. Bred to the loom, he was for
twenty years a Paisley weaver. Leaving that trade, he
wrought for some time afterwards as a pattern setter, or
" flower lasher," as it is locally termed. About the year
1840, he obtained employment in the office of Mr. Neilson,
Printer, Paisley. Henextremoved to Duntocher, where he
resided and filled a situation for a short period. Finally, he
was employed by Mr. Stirrat, Bleacher, Nethercraigs, at
the base of Gleniffer Braes, about two miles to the south of
Paisley. He died of fever on the 5th of November, 1&17,
and was interred in the Paisley Cemetery on the 0th of the
same month.
Such are the leading facts in the outer history of William
Finlay. The character of the inner man may be gathei-ed
from his -svi-itings ; at least, it is very correctly and intel-
ligibly indicated there.
While yet a young man, working at the loom, he became
known among circles of his townsmen as a writer of verses.
Some of his productions of this era, about 1812 or 1813, are
lively and humorous pictures of scenes which came under
his notice, with, here and there, graphic sketches of char-
acter and strokes of satire indicative of the powers which
his after life developed. A few years later, about 1819 and
1820, dui-ing what is known in Paisley as the " radical time,"
he published some political verses, which, having a leaning
IviiL
to tha popular side, caused hini to be regarded with sus-
picion by those whose sympathies wore all ou the side of
arbitrary pDwer. Finlay, however, was no rabid or aau-
gerous radical ia politics at any time, and as he advanced
in life, he became rather conservative in his views.
In course of time, Finlay became generally known as a
pretty successful writer of humorous and satirical verses.
A.S a satirist, he possessed considerable abilities ; and, al-
though this was only one of the phases of his character,
and, perhaps, not the most important, it was the one in
which, from his frequent appearances in it, he was most
familiar to his townsmen during his lifetime.
Numerous efforts of our author, made with little study,
and u:ider m.v.iy disadvantages, indicate that, had he been
in a position to cultivate his natural abilities, and to look
abroad for themes of more general interest, he might have
taken high rank as a satirist. It says much for the good-
ness of his heart and the soundness of his judgment, that,
although he frequoutly and freely wielded the satiric pan,
and set the whole community a laughing, he seldom, if
ever, incurred the enmity of those of whom he wrote. His
satire was never savage : it was always tempered with hu-
manity; an 1 thiire was a drollery about it which even ita
victims could scarcely resist.
Some of the most agreeable of his productions are those
in which there is a mixture of the descriptive, the humor-
ous, arid the kindly, mellowed here and there with the pa-
thetic, and delicately spiced with the satirical. "The
Widow's Excuse," '' My Auld Uncle John,"' and other spe-
cimens of this union, will occur to the reader.
In reality, it was in pathos, more than in satire or hu-
mour, that William Finlay's true strength lay. Calls were
constantly made on him by friends of one kind and another
Ill
to bo satirical and humorous, and to these calls his good
nature, his ever ready perception of the ludicrous, and other
reasons, induced him to respond. His soul, left to its own
breathings, however, like an ^olian harp to commune with
the wind, gave utterance to tender, melancholy strains, de-
scriptive of the blight of sickness, sorrow, and misfortune,
or of the ever recurring visits of the angel of death to the
straggling sons of clay. His mind, although by no means
gloomy, was always sensitive, and tenderly appreciated the
griefs and sufferings to which mortality is subject. On
looking over his collected works, one cannot help being
struck by the many sorrowful vicissitudes which have pre-
sented themselves'to him, a.id which he has recorded. The
Destroyer, in stern reality, visited him. He was practically
"acquainted with grief." It devolved on him to lay his
wife and four of his children in their graves ; and, in the
course of his life, he was called 0!i to mourn the melancholy
departure of m iriy relatives and esteemed friends. Every
Btanza which he composed on such a subject may be re-
garded as a veritable inscription over tha grave of a lost one,
little known to the world, perhaps, but known, and loved,
and lamented, by him. In these grave productions of his,
there is much simple and true pathos, calculated to surprise
those who hare only known him in his humorous and sa-
tirical eSfusions. What may equally surprise such people,
IS his intimate acquaintance with, and strikingly appropri-
ate employment of, the solemn language of scripture. Few
could employ Bible Language so effectively. Sometimes he
uses little else, just connecting scripture phrases by a few
words of his own, and yet avoiding all appearance of forcing
quotations into his service. Partly from temperament, and
partly from early education, whatever superficial observers
might think, strata of religious principle, feeling, and know-
ledge, formed no inconsiderable portions of Ms strangelj
mixed character.
It can scarcely liave escaped the notice of any one who
has looked into his writings, that these, in many instances,
especially among his songs, are characterised by the most
comical association of incongruities, producing very ludi-
crous effects. A glance at " Joseph Tuck," " Bankrupt and
Creditors," &c., will illustrate this remark. This paculi-
arity is suggestive of his own character, which was, to some
extent, a contradictory mixture, not only of grave and gay,
of lively and severe, but of strength and weakness, of wis-
dom and folly. Like many other men of intellectual
abilities and genial disposition, he wanted inflexibility of
purpose, and that "prudent, cautious self-coatrol," which,
according to Burns, "is wisdom's root." Yielding to the
fascinations of conviviality, he sometimes fell into excesses
which no one deplored more sincerely than himself. In
taking remorseful retrospects of his conduct, as he al-
ways did on such occasions, he sometimes described the ex-
ercise as looking down his own throat. Frefjuent and
touching allusions to the sin which most easily beset him,
occur in his writings. Unfortunately, the reflections which
the glass produced were almost as readily effaced from his
memory as in the case of the apostle James' man, who, it
will be remembered, after beholding himself in a glass,
went away and straightway forgot what manner of man he
was.
For the last year of Finlay's life, however — during his
residence at Nethercraigs, amidst the fresh breezes, the
dewy fields, the waving foliage, and the gusliing streams of
the country, he had completely abandoned the bottle, with
all its associations, and had become temperate and cheerful
as a skylark. Poor fellow ! cold water was, in one respect,
Ixi
the death of him ; for, during a quiet nocturnal walk, ho
accidentally fell into a pond or reservoir, where he was
thoroughly drenched, and, neglecting to change his clothes
immeaiately afterward, a fever was induced, which carried
him oflf.
In his demeanour, William Finlay was very modest and
unassuming, and without a particle of affectation. "With
a generally well-informed mind, a lively and playful fancy,
a sharp and ready Avit, a productive vein of Iiumour, imper-
turable good nature, and great warmth of heart, he was a
decided favourite with all who knew him. His time and
talents were perhaps too freely drawn on by his friends ;
and, although he employed them in what he found to be
agreeable occupations, these occupations must have inter-
fered, to some extent, with the other and necessary pursuits
of a working man. That he sometimes felt this to be the
case, is evident from what he has left on record : —
•' While others have been busy, bustling
After wealth and fame,
A.nd, wisely, adding house to house,
And Baillie to their name,
I, like a thoughtless prodigal.
Have wasted precious time,
And followed lying vanities
To string them up in rhyme."
He contributed to the poet's corner of the Paisley Adver-
tiser for a series of years, and a great variety of his effusions
reached the public through other channels. About the be-
ginning of 1846, a good many of his best pieces were col-
lected and published at Paisley, in a volume* dedicated to
his friend Mr. Matthew Barr.
* Poems, Htimorons and Sentimental, by WiDiam Finlay. Paisley,
Mur'ay ft Stewart aod Vv'illiam WotherspooDj 1840,
ixii
GEORGE DONALD
Gkoegr Donaxd, author of nearly a dozen Songs in the
Nursery portion of Whistlebinkie, was born in Caltnn of
Glasgow, in January, 1800. His parental ancestors be-
longed to the "Western Highlands. At the period of the
birth of the subject of this memoir, his father was what is
called a tenter in one of the power-loom factories in the
Calton.
Alex, Crum, Esq., father of the highly respected family
of that name, so justly esteemed in Glasgow, engaged the
poet's father, on the recommendation of the late Mr. Bar-
tholomew, to whom he had woven for twenty years, to go to
Thornlie Bank, in 180S.
The factory act was not then in existence, and he would
have been thought a visionary enthusiast who would have
attempted to limit the hours of laboui-, or the age at which
young persons should be allowed to enter public factories.
It is painful to contemplate a youth possessed of those ten-
der sensibilities which distinguish those of a poetic tem-
perament — often, also, not the most robust constitution —
subjected as George was, at the early age of eight years, to
th 3 long hours v,'hich regulated these works, from six mor-
ning till eight evening six days of the week, with an inter-
val of an hour and a-half for both meals.
Having observed the eager desire which our poet began
to manifest for reading, the manager of the factory very
kindly allon'ed him to attend school for two hours each day,
!io had only received, previously, some elementary instruc-
tion al a school 'n v.Uasgow, taught by an old woman. By
dint of close application to his favourite pursuits, he suc-
ceeded in gaining a knowledge of English and Geography .
he also attained a knowledge of the rudiments of the Latin
language, under the tuition of Mr. Robert Lochtie, who
taught a. school in the village, and who, besides, assisted
and directed the studies of his young pupil.
During the period of what may well be remembered, and
called the Radical rebellion, George Donald found ample
scope for his poetic talent. He was an ardent advocate for
civil and religious liberty. Many of his pieces, contributed
to the liberal political journals of the day, show how ear-
nestly he advocated the divine origin of liberty as the cora-
nion birthright of man. His contributions to these journals
were the means of introducing him to some of the leaders
among the political circles of Glasgow. This acquaintance-
ship may be said to have been the first step tliat led to those
consequences which were the source of his subsequent mis-
fortunes.
In 1825, George married Mary Wallace, who was cm-
ployed at Thornlie Bank with himself. In consequence of
the exti-erae depression of trade in 1826 — a year well rei-
membered by those then engaged in commercial pursuits
during their after days — the works at Thornlie Bank were
closed, and those who had been engaged at them were
obliged to seek employment elsewhere.
The subject of our memoir was engaged to act as man-
ager of a factory in the neighbourhood of Belfast; but his
stay there did not much exceed a twelvemonth. He re.
turned to Scotland in 1831, and rented a small house at the
Townhead of Glasgow, and fi'om this period, George Dun
aid's moral descent, forgetfulness of what he owed to him
self and to his family, was irremediable and rapid.
His literary and political .acquaintfvnceships were renewed.
■■^^^
Lxiv
He became a member cf a political club ; and tbc important
discussions, as its members considered them, Mere con-
tinued till late hours, and deep libations from the inebriating
bowl wound up the proceedings. For a time he attended hia
work and his family, but the moral poison had infected him,
and very soon occasioned his ruin. His family became com-
pletely neglected ; and, though his helpmate struggled night
and day to maintain herself and family — which consisted of
a son and two daughters — and employed all those means
which a dutiful and affectionate wife never fails to do, to
Avin back the partner of her life from dissipation, it was all
in vain.
We quote, from a popular work of the day, a case similar
to that of Mrs. Donald : — " She paced the floor of her lonely
apartment with painful anxiety. Her children asleep — no
living to share her woes, or sound to break the midnight
silence, save the melancholy click of the old wooden clock,
which might have made the lonely woman imagine that
she held her finger on the wrist of old Time, and felt the
pulsations which denoted his rapid progicss towards the
limits ' No longer ; ' and as each large division in the circle
of his steps had been passed over, the rusty machinery gave
an alai-m, as if shuddering at its own progress, and sounded
the knell, delivering over another passage of Time ' To the
years beyond the flood.' One struck — two followed — and
still the death-like silence prevailed within the huniblo
dwelling. Oh ! ye riotous drunkards, whose throats are as
if they were pai-ched by blasts from hell ! how many hearts
are withering to death under your cold neglect ? how many
tender shoots, introduced by you into this bleak world, are
thus left to sicken and die ?"
He became, like his brother and contemporary, Sandy
Rodger, counccted with a radical newspaper started at this
Ixv
time, entitled the Liberator, which had a brief existence of
some eighteen months. In this office, Donald's habits may
Lc said to have been thoroughly ruined, and those of Rod-
ger far from being improved, beside losing a considerable
snm of money, the contributions of his friends, in this
Blough of despond.
Our poet returned to work at his usual employment, but
that had lost all its charms for him. Not though a weeping
wife and helpless children mouraed, could the hapless son
of the muses be restrained from carousing with his boon
companions. After using every endeavour to reclaim him,
despair took hold of Mrs. Donald's heart, and, in 1836, she
abandoned him, taking her family with her to Thomlie
Bank, where, under her mother's roof, she found shelter.
Some have considered this as a hasty step, and that she
ought to have continued with her husband, and persevered
in her efforts to reclaim him ; but it is far easier to blame
than to bear. Had she been alone, the case would have been
different, but these childrea had to be cared for, and that by
the mother alone. The arm on which she and her children
looked to under Providence for support, had become mor-
ally paralysed. The result, we think, showed the course she
took was the right one, for, instead of being struck with
sorrow and shame for the cause of this abandonment, and
endeavour to retrace his steps, ho plunged deeper and
deeper in the vice that had become his master, and, as the
Proverbs say, " He was holdeu in the cords of his own sin.'
No doubt he had, as all drunkards have, repentant fits, and
abstained from indulgence for a time, but these passed
away, verifying- the passage of sacred writ above quoted.
Donald, after this crisis, was driven hither and thither
Uke stubble in the whirlwind, the march downwards doubly
accelerated. He made a journey to America, but soon re-
Ixvi
turned to his natire country not much improved by his
travels. Up to the period of Lis last illness, he continued
to write both prose and verse for the journals of the day.
He published '• The Lays of the Covenanters," a -work
woithy of his name, but from which he derived very little
pecuniary return. One of these Lays appeared in the Ban-
ner of Ulster. ^Yhen Dr. Chalmers happened to be in Belfast,
and " The Lays " came under his eye, he was much pleased
with them, and sent, by the hand of a friend, a guinea to the
aathor — a great boon to him at the time.
Some of Donald's happiest efforts may be seen in the
pieces he contributed to the little popular work, " Songs for
the Nursery." There are ten songs of his in that collection,
and the reader of critical taste for the felicitous expression
of our Scottish idiom, and domestic sjTnpathies and feelings,
will not fail to say that George Donald is entitled, with
Miller, Ballantine, Smart, Rodger, &c. &c., to the compli-
ment paid to them by Lord Jeffrey.
Pai-t of the last days of Donald was in the office of the
Glasgow Examiner, under Mr. Smith, who was very kind to
him. A cold he caught in 1850 settled down on his chest,
and, in 1851, it assumed such a serious aspect that he was
advised to go into the Royal Infirmary ; but his family,
whose eye watched, though unobserved, his melancholy
career, took him home to Thomlie Bank, and had medical
skill and nursing applied to his disease, but in vain. His
lips were sealed by death, 7th December, 1851.
Thus passed away a hapless gifted child of song, the last
passages of whose melancholy life give a fearful admon-
• ition to the tuneful tribe who come after him. In one of his
notes to a gentleman who gave him assistance sometimes,
he says, " ily thoughts at times are fearful : may God for-
give and protect me." In another. "I am ehoeless and
Ixvii
shirtless, and cannot write for the cold." "We consider it
necessary to quote these distressing passages from his cor-
respondence, to serve as a warning to others to beware of
the Poet's Slaughter-house— the Tavern.
ROBERT L. M ALONE.
Robert L. Malone was horn in Anstruther, Fife, ahout
the year 1812, and was a younger member of a family of
seven daughters and six sons, most of whom died in infancy.
His father was a captain in the Royal Navy, and latterly
held a command in the Coast Guard Service. His mother
was a Rothesay lady, in which town the father ultimately
settled down on half-pay, but died when Robert was a child
of five years of age. At fourteen, after acquiring a mere
rudiraental education, Robert entered the navy, and served
for the first three years on board the gun-brig Marshal, Lieu-
tenant M'Kirdy, long known in the west as attending the
Fisheries department He then served some time in
the Mediterranean, and also in South America, on board
the well-known ship Rattlesnake. At the end of ten years,
declining health forced him to quit the service, and join his
family at Rothesay. The fine air of that salubrious locality
had a beneficial effect on him, and he rallied, but, being na-
turally of a delicate "constitution, he never attained to any-
thing like vigour. He had all his life been a lover of
poetry, and especially that of his native land; but it
was during the solitary hours which a delicate state of
Ixviii
health imposed on him, that he was led to give his thoughts
an embodiment in song. His mode of life hitherto had
given a turn to his mind and his musings, and the latter
found vent in his principal poem of " The Sailor's Dream,"
which is full of rich imagery. " The Sailor's Funeral " is
another eflfusion in which his early associations are evoked.
In 1836, he came along with his family to reside in Green-
ock, where he passed his time in quiet and unobtrusive
wanderings among the fine sceneiy of Inverkip Vale, no
doubt maturing his poetical aspirations, and husbanding
the portion of health which he yet retained. In 1845, he
published his volume, which was largely patronised, and
justly appreciated, gaining him many friends. Before this
time, however, he had contributed some good songs to this
work. About the end of the same year he obtained a situa-
tion as a clerk in the Long-room of her Majesty's Customs
at Greenock ; and here he remained, highly esteemed, till
about the middle of June, 1850, when he was compelled to
abandon his duties ; and on the 6th of July, three weeks
afterwards, he died, in his thirty-eighth year, regretted by
all who knew him, and admired and esteemed, not more for
his writings than for his extreme modesty, and quiet, agree-
able, retiring, and obliging disposition. His remains rest
in the Cemetery, a locality around which he so often de-
lighted to wander. Though so long a period of his short
life was spent on shipboard, he ever delighted to dweU
" 'Mid nature's g7iUeless joys."
Every line he has written, is the emanation of a mind im-
bued with a keen and careful perception of all that is lofty
and pure. His predilection for the muse did not lead him
to neglect the more austere duties of his office — he wrote
little and published less from the date of his appointment.
INDEX
TO
SEEIES FIRST, SECOND, AND THIRD.
CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME.
Page.
BIOGRAPHY.
Carrick, John Donald, . .
Tii
Clark, Robert, . .
xlvi
Donald, George,
Ixii
Finlay, William,
iTii
Fisher, Alexander,
xli
Gilfillan, Robert,
xlvii
Gray, Charles, . .
XXX vii
Grasme, John, . .
xxxiii
Howie, John, . .
xliii
Imlah, John, . .
liii
Malone, Robert L.,
Ixvii
Motherwell, William, .
xxiii
Pinkerton, Edward,
xxxi
Rodger, Alex.,
xiv
Scott, James, . .
xlv
Speirs, John, , .
xlii
Author. Series. Page.
A Bailie's Morning Adventure
.. Crawfurd 3d 84
A British Sailor's Song,
.. Pinkerton 1st 20
A Cook's Legacy
.. Ca
rrick
1st 113
Ixx
Author. Series. Page.
Adam Glen, Laing, 1st 59
A Highland Garland, . . . . Vedder, 3d 80
A Lullaby Ritchie Ist 110
A Mother's Advice Anon, 1st 28
A Mother's Dauty Rodger 1st 75
Ans-n-er to ' Behave yoursel' before folk ' Rodger 1st 42
Answer to ' I shall return again ' .. Kennedy 1st 65
As I wend through the wild wood . . Ferguson 3d 20
Auld Elspa's Soliloquy . . . . Park 3d 63
Auld John Nicol Buchan 2d 16
Bankrupt and Creditors . , . . Finlay 2d 94
Bauld Braxy Tom Ballantlne 2d 26
Beacon Song Carrick 2d 107
Behave yoursel' before folk, & Answer Rodger 1st 40, 42
Betsy's Wooing Ballantine 2d 50
Betsy Bawn M'Laggan 2d 51
Blythe are we set wi' ither . . . . Picken 1st 58
Bonny Flory Carrick 1st 37
Brandy versus Beauty . . . . Carrick 1st 51
Brightly is the streamlet flowing . . Ballantine 2d 72
Britain's Queen Victoria . . . . Paterson 1st 107
Come, affwi' your bonnets, huzza, huzza Brown 2d 47
Come, a Song, a glad Soug . . . . M'Laggan 2d 74
Come, then, Eliza dear . . . . Rodger 1st 93
Come to the Banks o' Clyde . . Rodger 2d 57
Courting and caught . . . . Carrick 1st 14
Cow Kate Ballantine 2d 114
Down the water Buchan 2d 39
Drinkin' body M'Laggan 3d 13
Drinking Song M'Laggan 3d 11
Farewell to Scotia Foster 3d 49
First Love Kennedy 2d 108
Friends around the Table set . , Scott 2d 112
Glasgow Patriots M'Donald 1st 61
Halkerston's Calf . . . . . . Laing 3d 40
He is gone, he is gone . . . . Motherwell 1st 105
Here's to you again . . . . Rodger 3d 110
Highland Courtship . . . . . . Anon 2d 91
Ixxi
Highland Politicians
Hout, awa', Johnny, lad
Hurrah for the Thistle
Author. Series. Page.
Eodger 1st 77
Kodger 1st 76
M'Laggan 2d 115
I had a hat, I had nae raair . . Rodger 2d
I ken a fair wee Flower . . . . M'Laggan 3d
I'll live a single life . . . . Park 3d
I lo'ed you when life's early dew . . Brumley 3d
I'll tend thy bower, my bonny May Ferguson 2d
I met twa Cronies Anon 1st
I'm living yet Ainslie 3d
Irish Insti-uction Anon 1st
Irish Love Song Anon 1st
I seek to wed no other love . . Carrick 1st
I shall return again, and Answer . . Kennedy 1st
It's dowie in the bin' o' hairst . . Ainslie 3d
It's no that thourt bonnie . . . . Rodger 1st
It was not for the diamond ring, . . Kennedy 2d
I've aya been fou sin' the year cam' in GilfiUau 3d
I've sought in lands ayont the sea Thom 3d
I will think of thee, my love . . Gray 3d
I wouldna', O ! I couldna' look . . Thom 3d
17
118
85
108
11
107
92
47
65
115
109
41
89
116
78
117
Jamie M'Nab .. » Rodger 1st
Jeanie Morrison Motherwell 1st
Jessie Maclean Rodger 1st
Jock, Rab, and Tarn . . . . Laing 2d
John Frost Miller 3d
John Gun Laing 2d
Joseph Tuck Fiulay 2d
Jane and January Rodger 1st
Kate M'Lusky Graeme 1st
Kilrooney's visit to London . . . . Graeme 1st
Kitty O' Carrol Grseme 2d
Lady's Pocket Adonis . . . . Maginn 1st
Lament for Captain Paton . . . . Lockhart 3d
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me . . . . Laing 2d
Lauchie Fraser's Promotions, . . Rodger 3d
Laugh and be thankfu', . . . . Anon 1st
Lo'e me little an' lo'e me lang . . Rodger 2d
Lovely Maiden Rodger 1st
Love's Diet Motherwell 1st
Love's First Quarrel . . . . Carrick 1st
24
44
47
59
107
98
44
114
104
111
Ixxii
Author. Serie». Page.
Maggie and Willie Ballantine 1st 83
Maiy Beaton Rodger 1st 70
Mary Draper Lever 3d 87
Marm- for love, and work for siller Rodger 1st 109
Mary M 'Neil Conolly 3d 55
Mary's gane Carrick 1st 117
Matthe-ft' M'Farlane Cross .3d 37
May Morn Song Mothenrell 1st 103
May, sweet May Ferguson 3d 14
Meams Muir Maggie . . . . Ballantine 2d 90
Meg Meiklejohn Webster 2d 100
Minister Tam Laing 2d 71
Mister Peter Paterson . . . . Carrick 1st 122
Mouldybrugh Hall 3d 45
Mo Laogh Geal Carrick 1st 16
My ain Countrie M'Laggan 2d 118
My ain Jessie Nevay 3d 73
My Auld Breeks Rodger 3d 64
My Auld Luckie Dad . . . . Buchan 3d 71
My Auld Uncle John . . . . Finlay 3d 59
My beautiful Ship Buchanan 3d 91
My Cousin Jean SI'Laggan 2d 6
My Guidman Rodger 1st 115
My head is like to rend, Willie . . Motherwell 1st 100
My last Sang to Kate Keid . . Ainslie 3d 93
Ned Bolton Kennedy 1st 66
O Charlie is my darling, new version Gray 3d 67
Och! while I live I'll ne'er forget . . Kennedy 2d 22
O dinna bid me gaug wi' vou . . Scott 1st 80
Oh ! and No ! Hall 3d 10
Oh ! princely is the Baron's Hall . . Kennedy 1st 91
Oh ! wae be to the orders . . , . Motherwell 1st 106
O, Mary, when you think of me . . Thom 3d 79
O, mither, ony body Rodger 1st 57
O Peter M'Kay Rodger 1st 116 -
O think it not strange .. .. Kennedy 2d 56
Our ain gude Town Dick 2d 33
Our braw Uncle Ballantine 3d 5
Oui- Fair Young Queen . . , . Murray 3d 3
Our John Highlandman .. .. Carrick 1st 118
Our puir Cousin Ballantine 3d 27
Ixxiii
Author.
Pat Mulligan's Courtship . . , . Anon
Paton, Captain, Lament for . . Lockhart
Peter and Mary Cai-rick
Petticoat Wooing Laing
Phoebe Grseme M 'Laggan
Push round the bicker . . . . Fiulay
Randy Nanny Ballantino
Rhyming Rab o' our Tovra . . . . Clark
Rhyming Rab the Ranter . • . . Macindoe
Roll, fair Clutha Rodger
Ronald Macgiech . . . . . . Dick
Sanct Mungo Rodger
Scottish Tea Party Carrick
Scotland's guid auld Channel-stane Hogg
She comes in a dream of the night Smart
Shon M'Nab Rodger
Simmer's days are come again . . Murray
Simon Brodie Anon
Since Fate has decreed it . . . . Rodger
Sir Benjamin Buffstrap . . . . Rodger
Some Passages from the Private Life
of Lang Kate Dalrymple . . Ballantine
Street Oratory Finlay
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen . . . . Rodger
Sweet May 1 SAveetMay! .. .. Maxwell
Tak it, man, tak it Webster
Ta kran Highlan' Bagpipe . . Fisher
Ta Offish in ta Morning . . . . Fisher
Ta Praise o' Ouskie Fisher
The absent Father Ainslie
The Admonition Laing
The Auld Beggar Maa . . . . Ballantine
The auld Gude wife an' her four gude
kye Laing
The Auld School Ballantine
The auld Scottish Brugh . . . . Anon
The Black Sheep Carrick
The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary Motherwell Ist
The Borristoun Laing
The Borough Bailie Vedder
The British Hero Pinkerton
Series.
Page.
2d
18
3d
99
1st
71
3d
29
3d
120
2d
97
3d
52
3d
25
2d
110
2d
84
2d
10
1st
60
1st
7
3d
33
3d
106
1st
29
3d
43
2d
75
2d
38
2d
120
2d
30
2d
61
1st
54
3d
26
2d
«
3d
18
2d
82
2d
37
3d»
95
3d
69
2d
73
3d
9
2d
4
1st
120
2d
122
list
102
3d
28
3d
21
2d
81
Ixxiv
Author. Series. Page.
The Buikin' o' Robin and Mirren Buchan 2d 117
The Bumper Carrick 1st 27
The Buru-side Ferguson 3d 109
The Cavalier's Song Motherwell Ist 94
The Curler's Garland . . . . Anon 3d 39
The Dainty bit Plan . . , . Cross 3d 16
The Deacon's Day , Finlay 2d 76
The Deil o' Backlyvie . . . . Carrick 1st 74
The Deuks dang owxe my Daddie Anon 1st 83
The Doctors Anon 1st 111
The Dream of Life's young day . , Finlay 3d 66
The E'ening Drappie . . . . Foster 3d 7
The Evil Ee M'La-gan 2d 31
The En-e Milker's Song .. .. Nichol' 2d 47
The Fa' o' the Year Smibert 3d 103
The Flitting o' the Cow . . . . Smart 2d 42
The Forsaken Rodger 1st 90
The Fruit of Old Ireland .. .. Anon 1st 21
The Gossips Ritchie Sd 68
The Guidraan's Prophecy . . . . Carrick 1st 85
The Happy Meeting Rodger 2d 55
The Happy Fair Buchan 3d 48
The Harp and the Haggis . . . . Carrick 1st 52
The Herring-Head Club .. .. Anon 1st 119
The Highland Drill Vedder 3d 122
The Highland Maid Anon 2d 119
The Howdie Ferguson 2d 88
The Indian Cottager's Song . . Rodger 3d 97
The Iron Despot of the North ., Kennedy 3d 112
The Kail Brose of Auld Scotland (old
version) Watson 2d 34
The Kail Brose of Auld Scotland {7iew
version) Inglis 3d 114
The Kiss ahint the Door . . . . Latto 3d 30
The Lake is at rest . . . . . Anon 2d 60
The Last Laird o' the Auld Mint . . Ballantine 3d 76
The Lonely Dwelling . . . . Gray 3d 20
The Loss of the Roebuck . . . . Blamire 3d 35
Tlie Mermayden Motherwell 2d 12
The Midnight Wind .. .. Motherwell 3d 57
The Nailer's Wife Rodger 1st 55
The Muirland Cottars . . . . Carrick 1st 38
The Pang o' Love ]Murray 3d 74
Tho Parting Motherwell 1st 13
Ixxv
Aiitlior. Series. Page.
The Peasant's Fireside . . . . Rodger 2d 7
The Peerless Rose of Kent . . Rodger 2d 23
The Pirate's Serenade . . . . Kennedy 2d 99
The Poets, what fools they're to deave
us Gilfillan 3d 34
The Pridefu' Taid Carmichael 3d 47
The Queen's Anthem . . . . Rodger 1st 89
The Rose of the Canongate . . Carrick 1st 15
The Royal Union Rodger 3d 8
The Sailor's Rest Buchanan 2d 54
The Sea ! the Sea ! — a Parody . . Eraser's mag.2d 53
The Serenade Motherwell 1st 43
The Smiddie M'Laggan 2d 27
The Social Cup Gray 3d 42
The Song of the Slave .. .. Carrick 2d 24
The Tinkler's Song Rodger 2d 113
The Toom .Aleal Pock , . . . Robertson 1st 63
The Town Piper's Lay . . . » Vedder 3d 22
The Tree of Liberty Anon '2d 101
The Twal' o' August . . . . Fisher 1st 35
The Uninvited Ghaist . . . . Carrick 1st 50
The Voice of Merriment . . . . Buchanan 3d 90
The Wary Chiel Jaap 3d 62
The Widow Malone Lever 3d 50
The Widow's Kxcuse . . . - Finlay 2d 14
The Widow's Wonders . . . . Finlay 2d 46
The wee Ragged Laddie . . . . Ballantine 1st 86
There's a thrill of emotion . . . . Conolly 3d 32
They come, the merry Summer Mouths Motherwell 2d 20
Thou cauld gloomy Februar . . Buchan 2d 96
Though Bacchus may boast . . Blamire 3d 61
Thou know'st it not, Love ! . . Kennedy 3d 58
Thou Zephyr, as thou flitt'st away Pinkerton 2d 20
'Twas Morn Rodger 2d 105
Wearie's Well Motherwell 1st 98
Wee Rabbie Anon 1st 91
We sat beneath the Trysting Tree Conolly 3d 56
Wee Tammy Twenty . . , . Ballantine 1st 18
Wha daur meddle wi' me Ballantine 2d 116
What the body wanted wi' me .. M'Indoe 2d 58
When Autumn has laid her sickle by Grav 3d 41
When the Butterfly Anon 3d 31
Whether or no Rodger 2d 13
Why do I seek the Gloaming Hour
Witie come hame
Willie Winkie
Author. Series.
Page.
J. S. 3d
Ballantine 3d
MiUer 3d
97
121
6
Young Paddy's Tutor
BIOGBAPHICAL NOTES.
Ainslie. Hew 3d
Aleck, Blind, the Glasgow Homer . . . . 1st
Blamire, Miss 3d
Blue Jamie, alias Blue Thumbs 2d
Hawkie. or William Cameron, street orator and wit 2d
Paton, Captain 3d
Watson, Ales., author of the Kail Brose of Auld
Scotland 2d
34
WlMlOgTLl^gQQ^KOl
8TBEET DU£T.
FIBST SERIES.
E)A"^OIE) K©ISIS!^'irS® K!o (giuAseo^v.
DISSERTATION ON WHISTLE-BINKIES.
Dr. Jamieson , in defining ' 'Whistle-binkie, " thus ill ustrate 9
the term in its application : ' ' One who attends a penny wed •
ding, but without paying any thing, and therefore has no
right to take any share of the entertainment ; a mere spec-
tator, who is, as it were, left to sit on a bench by himself,
and who, if he pleases, may whistle for his own amusement."
If the Doctor's explanation were correct, the race of
Whistle-binkies would long ere this have become extinct ia
the country, as we cannot suppose the treatment he des-
cribes, much calculated to encourage their growth ; but, as
we observe the meaning of the term is only given as un
derstood in Aberdeenshire, we presume he means to avail
himself of the County privilege, and retract it when he
finds it convenient.
As names in Scotland are held in estimation according -to
their antiquity and respectable standing, it may not be amiss
to inform our readers, that the Whistle-binkies in the pre-
sent day, can vie with most names in Europe, not only in a
numerical point of view, but also in heraldic importance.
It has however been alleged, that the Whistle-binkies of the
North arose, at first, from what some consider to be rather
a low origin ; this, were it true even to the fullest extent, is
no disparagement, since the acorn must mingle with the
earth before the oak is produced. According to the most
pains-taking among our etymologists, tlie name was first
conferred upon one who, in his attendance upon weddings
and other convivial occasions, rendered himself so agi eeable
to the company by his skill in whistling, that he waral-
lowed to sit at the Bink or board, and partake of the good
things free of all expense ; an honour, in the early ages of
ur history, which was only conferred on the highest degree
of merit. In process of time, the cognomen of Whistle-
binkie which arose in a rude age, came to be applied to men
whose intellectual powers were either put forth in whistling,
singing, story-telling, or any other source of amusement that
caught the fancy and received the encouragement of their
fellow-men, while engaged in their convivial orgies. In
the present times, the profession is divided into so many
castes, that we find it no easy task to assign them their
proper places. In our endeavour to effect this, Jiowever,
we shall begin with the sons of the "sock and buskin,"
with the celebrated jMr. Matthews at their head, whom
we take to have been the most renowned Whistle-
binkie of his age. In the next rank to the votaries of
Thespis, we Avould place all professional singers who ap-
pear at public dinners, and receive the run of their teeth ,
and a per contra inair attour for their attendance. After
them, comes a class of a more modest description, to whom
a dinner-ticket is considered a remuneration sufiBcientlj
liberal, and whose powers of song, like the captive tenantry
of the grove, is poured forth for the slender consideration of
seed and water. Though, in these three classes, may be com-
prised a great proportion of those who are justly entitled to
belong to the fraternity of AVhistle-binkies, yet there are
fractions of the great body-politic which we cannot properly
assign to any of the above castes; some of these we xvould
arrange under the head of amateur Whistle-binkies — this
description, though not so numerous, perhaps, as any of
the others, are much inclined to consider themselves supe-
rior in point of personal respectability, to any we have men-
tioned : this, however, is a point which does not lie with
us to decide; suffice it to say, that an amateur Whistle-
binkie is one whose acquaintance is courted on account of
his possessing the talents we have described, and whose tiro©
is occupied in fulfilling an eternal round of dinner and tea-
party engagements, not that his entertainers have any per-
sonal regard for his character, but merely because they can
make him a useful auxiliary in amusing their friends-
Those men who relish this mark of distinction, can easily
be known by their perpetual attempts to divert, and the
delectable expression of conviviality which iseverandanon
1 ghting up their countenances, where may be seen, traced
in the legible hand of joyous dame nature herself, " Dinner,
Tea, or Supper parties, attended in town or country, on the
6hortest notice." There is also another description of the
same genus, which may be called hooded Whistle-binkies ;
these gents, are invited out for the same purpose as the
former, but perhnps, from the delicate management of their
host, or the obtuseness of their own perceptions, they are
prevented from discovering that they are present for a mo-
tive. All lions, in our opinion, whether they belong to
science, literature, or the arts, if they accept an invitation
for the purpose of allowing themselves to be stirred up with
the long pole, and-shown off for the amusement or gratifi-
cation of old la<lies, young ladies, little masters or misses,
come under the denomination we have so often referred to.
Even the clergyman who attends a public dinner, and saya
grace as an equivalent for his ticket, may be con.-.idered
(with reverence be it spoken) as coming under the designa-
tion of a respectable, WCll-disposed, tinae-serving Whiotle-
Toinkie.
As we do not wish however, to draw too largely on the
patience of our readers, we shall conclude by noticing an-
other set of men, which we h ive not yet enumerated : these
we shall term s:uicy Whistle-binkies, and to the conduct of
two of this class, we may eafe'.y aver, the present little pub-
lication owes its existence. The case was this: — a much
respected friend of ours, whom we shall call ISIrs. Petticraw,
had a large party about a month ago, to which we, amony
many others, were invited. The good lady had no resources
within herself, and afraid to trust to chance for the amuse-
ment of her companj', had very considerately invited two
noted Whistle-binkies to attend ; the one celebrated for the
sweet, chaste, and melodious style in which he warbled
forth the sentimental minstrelsy of the day ; and the other
equally famed for the tine vein of rich, racy, laugh-exciting
humour, which he threw into his songs, wtiich were all as
comic in conception, as if they had been genuine casts taksn
from the interior of the hams-pan of jMomus himself. In
the prospect of meeting two such worthies, curiosity stood,
most lady-like, on tiptoe. She might as well, however,
have kept her seat ; neither of the gentlemen made their
appearance, and their absence formed an ever -recurring topic
of sorrowful remark ; seeing the disappointment which the
conduct of these popular favourites occasioned to our kind
hostess and her fair friends, the thought struck us, that it
would be doing a service to a number of our female ac-
quaintances, and perhaps to the public at the same time, if
we could manage to get up a sort of substitute for such saucy
Whistle-binkies, in order that — v.hen they happened to be
taken ill with the whippertooties or muUj'grubs, two com-
plaints to which they, above all other men, are particularly
exposed — their absence in any party where they had been
invited, might not be quite so severely regretted as in the
instance we have just noticed. With this view, therefore,
and in order to enable every gentleaian and lady to become,
to a certain degree, their own Whistle-binkies, we have se-
lected, chiefly- from unpublished manuscripts, the following
collection of Comic and Sentimental Songs, which, as we
have been particularly careful in excluding all pieces of an
indelicate or immoial description, we respectfully present
to the notice of the public, confident if it docs not excite the
smiles of the fair, that the most fastidious among them will
never find herself a blush out of pocket, by a careful perusal
of its pages.
J. D. CA.HaiCK.
WHISTLE-BINKIE, &c.
SCOTTISH TEA-PARTY.
Now let's sing how Misa M'^Vha^ty,
T'other evening had a party.
To have a cup of tea ;
And how she had collected
All the friends that she respected.
All as merry as men-y could be.
Dames and damsels came in dozens.
With two-three country cousins,
In their lily-whites so gay .•
Just to sit and chitter-chatter,
O'er a cup of scalding water.
In the fashion of the day.
(Spoken in different female voices,) ' Dear me, how hae ye been thla
lang time, mem ?' • Pretty weel, I thank ye, mem. How hae ye been
yoursel ?' ' O mem, I've been vera ill wi' the rheumatisms, and though
I were your tippet, I couldna be fu'er o' stitches than I am ; but
■whan did ye see Mrs. Pinkerton ?' ' O mem, I haena seen her this
lang time. Did ye no hear that Mrs. Pinkerton and 1 hae had a dif-
ference ?' ♦ No, mem, I didna hear. VVliat was't about, mem ?' ' I'll
tell you what it was about, mem. I gaed o'er to ca' upon her ae
day, and when I gaed in, ye see, she's sitting feeding the parrot, and I
says to her, ' Mrs. Pinkerton, how d'ye do, mem ?' and she never let
on she heard me ; and I says again, ■ Mrs. Pinkerton, how d'ye do ?' I
says, and wi' that she turns about, and says she, ' Mrs. M'Saunter, I'm
really astonished you should come and ask me how I do, considering
tha mannar you've ridiculed me and my husband in pul-lis companies'.'
Mrt. Pinkerton," quo' 1, • -wlial's that ye mean, mem ?' and then sh*
began and gied me a' the ill-mannered ahuse you can poss.bly conceive.
And I just says to her, quo' I, ' IMrs. Tinkerton,' quo' 1, that's no what
1 cam to hear, and if that's the Tray ye intend to gae on, quo' I, I wish
ye gude morning ; so I comes awa. Nov I'll tell ye what a' this was about.
Ve see, it was just about the term time, ye ken, they flitted aboon us.
and I gaed up on the term morning to see if they wanted a kettle boiled
or anj-thing o' that kind ; and when I gaed in, Mr. Tinkerton, he's sit-
ting in the middle o' the floor, and the barber's shavin;^ him, and the
barber had laid a' his face round wi' the white saip, and Mr. Pinkerton,
ye ken, has a very red nose, and the red nose sticking through the white
saip, just put me in mind o' a carrot sticking through a coUyflorver ; and
I very innocently happened to mention this in a party where I had been
dining, and some otiicious body's gane and tell't Mrs. Pinkerton, and
Mrs. Pinkerton's t;i'en this n'onderfiilhj amiss. 'What d'ye think o' Mrs.
Pinks?' • Deed, mom- slie's no worth your while; but did you hear
•what liappencd to Mrs. Clapperton the itlier day ?' • No, mem. 'VS "hat's
happened to hei. poor body ?' ' I'll tell you that, mem. Vou see, she
was coming down .Montrose Street, and she had on a red pelisse and a
white muflf, and there's a bubbly-jock* coming out o' the brcweree —
and whether the -ed pelisse had ta'en i^e beast's eye or no, I dinna
ken, but the bubbly-jock rins after Mrs. Clapperton, and Mrs. Clapper-
ton ran, jwor body, and the biibbly-jock after her, and in crossing the
causey, ye see, her fit slippet, and the muff flew frae her, and there't
a cart coming past, and the wlieel o' the cart gaes o'er the muff, and ae
gentleman rins and lifts .Mrs. Clapperton, and anither lifts the muff,
and when he looks into the muff, what's there, but a wee bit broken
bottle, wi' a wee soup brandy in't; and tlie gentlemen fell a looking
and laughing to ane anither, and they're g.iun about to their dinner
parties and their supper parties, and telling about Mrs. Clapperton
wi' the bubbly-jock and the bottle o' brandy. Now it's vera ill
done o' the gentlemen to do any thing o' the kind, for Afrs. Clapperton
was just like to drap down wi' perfect vexation, for she's a body o' that
kind o' laithfu' kind o' disposition, she would just as soon take aqoa
Itortis as she would take brandy in ony clandestine kind o' manner '
• Turkey-cook.
Each gemman at his post now.
In handing tea or toast now.
Is striving to outshine ;
"VNTaile keen to find a handle
To tip a little scandal,
The ladies all combine ; ■
Of this one's dress or carriage,
Or t'other's death or marriage.
The dear chit chat's kept up ;
Wliile the lady from the table,
Is calling ^vhile she's able^
•' Will you have another cup ?"
Dear me, you're no done, mem — you'll take another cup, mem — ^tak«
cut your spoon.' • Oh no, mem, I never take mair than aecup upon ony
occasion.' ' Toots, sic nonsense. ' Vou may toots awa, but it's true
sense, mem. And whan did ye see Mrs. Petticraw, mem ?' • 'Deed, I
haena seen her tliis lang time, and I'm no -wanting to see her; she's a
body o' that kind, that just gangs frae house to house gathering clashes,
and gets her tea here and her tea there, and tells in your house what
she hears in mine, and when she begins, she claver clavers on and on,
and the claver just comes frae her as if it cam' affa clctv, and there's
nae end o' her.' ' O you maun excuse her, poor body, ye ken she's
lost a' her teeth, and her tongue wearies in her mouth wantin' cotnpany,'
"Deed they may excuse her that wants her, for it's no me. Oh! ladies,
did ye hear what's happened in Mr. M'Farlane's family? there's an
ftwfu' circumstance happened in th.at family, Mr. and Mrs. M'Farlane
haevna spoken to ane anither for this fortnight, and I'll tell you the rea-
son o't. Mrs. M'P'arl.ane, poor body, had lost ane o' her teeth, and
she gaed awa to the dentist to get a tooth put in, and the dentist showed
her twa-three kinds o* them, and aniang the rest he showed her a Wa-
terloo ane, and she thought she would hae a 'Waterloo ane, poor body.
\Veel the dentist puts in ane to her, .and the tooth's running in her
head a' day, and when she gangs to her bed at nicht, as she tells me—
but I'm certain she must have been dreaming— just about ane or twa
o'clock o' the saoming, mem, just about ane or twa o'clock in th«
TOorning, when alio looks out o' her bed, there'* a grtai lang tocl£er
10
itanding at the bedside, and quo' she, ' Man, what are ye wanting ?' «he
Bays. Quo' he, 'Mrs. M'Farlane, that's my tooth that ye've got in your
mouth.' ' Your tooth ! quo' she, ' the very tooth that I bought the day at
the dentist's !' ' It does na matter for that,' quo' he, ' I lost it at Water-
loo.' ' Ye lost it at Waterloo, sic nonsense !' Weel, wi' that he comes
forret to pit his finger into Jlrs. M'Farlane's mouth to tak' the teeth out
o' her mouth, and she gies a snap, and catch'd liim by the finger, and
he gied a great screich and took her a gowf i' the side o' the head, and that
waukened her, and when she waukens, what has she gotten but Mr.
M'Farlane's finger atween her teeth, and him roaring like to gang out
o' his judgment ! ! Noo, Mr. M'Farlane has been gaun about wi' hit
thumb in a clout, and looking as surly as a bear, for he tliinks Mrs.
M'Farlane had done it onto' spite, because he wadna let her buy a
sofa at a sale the other day; noo it's vera ill-done o' Mr. M'Farlane to
think ony thing o' that kind, as if ony woman would gang and Inie her
aia JUth and blood if she kent o't.'
Miss M'Wbarty, with a smile,
Asks the ladies to beguile
An hour -with whist or loo ;
"VSTiile old uncle cries " Don't plague us ;
Bring the toddy and tlie negus—
We'll have a song or two."
" Oh dear me, uncle Joseph !
Pray do not snap one's nose oflF;
You'll have toddy when your dry,
With a little ham and chicken.
An' some other dainty pickin*
For the ladies, by-and-by."
' Weel, mem, how's your frien' Mrs. Howdyson coming on in thae
times, when there is sae muckle inSuenza gaun about amang families ?'
« Jlrs. Howdyson ! na, ye maun ask somebody that kens better about
her than I do. I h.ie na seen Mrs. Howdyson for three mantlis.' • Dear
me ! do ye tell me sae ? you tliat used to be like twa sisters ! how did
»ic a wonderfu' change as that come about ?' * 'Dv^d, mem, it was &
very silly matter did it »'• Some five months since, ye see, mem (bat
II
ye maunna be speaking about it), Mrs. Howdyson called on me aefore*
noon, and after sitting awhile she drew a paper parcel out o' her muff;
— ' Ve'll no ten what this is ?' said she. ' No,' quo' Ij ' It's no very
Bkely. Weel, it's my worthy husband's satin breeks, that he had on
the day we were married ; and I'm gaun awa to Uliss Gushat to get her
to mak them into a bonnet for mysel, for I hae a great respect forthem
on accoimt of him tliat's awa'. Respect ! thinks I to mysel (for about
this time she was spoke o' wi' Deacon Purdie), queer kind o' respect ! —
trying to catch a new giiidman wi' a bonnet made out o' the auld ane's
breeks ! — but I said naetliing. Weel, twa fir three weeks after this, I
was taking a walk wi' anither lady, and wha should we meet but Mrs.
Howdyson, wi' a fine, flashy, black satin bonnet on ! So, we stopped,
and chatted about the weather, and the great mortality tliat was in the
town, and when shaking hands wi' her at parting, I, without meaning
ony ill, gae a nod at her bonnet, and happened to say, in my thoughtless
kind o' way. Is that the breeks ? never minclin' at the time that there
was a stranger lady wi' me. Now, this was maybe wrang in me, but
considering our intimacy, I never dreamed she had ta'en't amiss — till
twa three Sundays after, I met her gaun to the kirk alang wi' Miss
purdie, and I happened to hae onane o' thae new fashionable bonnets —
really, it was an elegant-shaped bonnet! and trimmed in the most
tasteful and becoming manner — it was, in short, such a bonnet as ony
lady might have been proud to be seen in. Weel, for a' that, mem,
we hadna stood lang before she began on my poor bonnet, and called
it a' the ugly-iooking things she could think o', and advised me to gang
hame and change it, for I looked so vulgar and daftlike in't. At length,
I got nettled at her abuse, for I kent it was a' out o' spite ; Mrs.
Howdyson, says I, the bonnet may be baith vulgar and daftlike, as you
sa7,butI'mnohalfsaevulgavorsaedaftlikeas I wad be, if, \i\ie some folkt,
I were gaun to the kirk wi' a iicir o' auld breeks on my head! So, I turn*
on my heel and left them; but though it was the Sabbath-day, I
could not help thinking to mysel — my lady, I trow I've gi'en you &
lozenge to sook that'll keep you frae sleeping, better than ony confec-
tionary you've ta'en to the kirk wi' ye this while.'
' Weel, ladies, there are some strange kind o' folks to be met with af-
ter ft'. I've just been Ustenins to your crack, and it puts me in mind
12
cf a new-married lady I was visiting the ither day. Before she wa«
married, she -was one of the dressiest belles we had about the
town ; and as for changing bonnets, you would seldom meet her
twjee wi' the same ane on. But now, though she has been little
mair than tliree months married, she has become one of the most idle
tawjiie drabs that ever was seen, and has so many romantic fancies and
stupid conceits about her, that I often canna help pitying the poor hus-
band. Besides, she kens nae mair about house matters, than if she had
never heard o" sic tilings. She was an only dochter, you see, and,
like the ewe's pet lamb, slie got mair tickini; than leamiiif^. Just to
gie ye an instance o' her management, — she told me she was making
preparations for a dinner that her husband was going to give in a day
or twa. and, amang itlier things, she said that he wanted a turkey in
rufBes.' ' Turkey in ruffles I quo' I, tliat's aqueer kind o'a dish!' 'Queer
as it is. I'll manage it.' ' I would like to see it, quo' I. So wi' tliat, she
rings the bell and orders the servant to bring it ben. Weel, what's
this b"t. % turkey ; the feathers were aff, to be sure, wliich showed
come sma giimniering o* sense, but the neck o' the beast was a' done
upwi' fine cambric ruffles; these were to be ta'en aff, it seems, till it
was roasted, and then it was to get on a' its finery again, so as to appear
in full pnfi bcfiire the comjiany, and tliis w.is what she called a turkey
in ruffles! Dear me! quo' I, this is a way o' itreiaini; a turkey I never
saw before — I'm thinking the guidnian must have meant turkey and
tnifflles.'—' Truffles!' cried she, looking like a bewildered goose, and
•what's truffles, in a' the world ?' 'Just look your c(Hikery-book, quo' I,
and youll find that truffles are no ma<!e o' cambric muslin. Now,
ladies, did you ever hear such i.^Tiorance ? but, better than that, sh»>
went on to tell me liow she h.-id sent the servant to tlie market to buy
a hare, to mak soup o" ; but, says slie, ' wiiat do you tliink the stupid
creature did? instead of a hare, she brought me twa rabbits; now,
ye ken, mem, rabbits dinna mak guid hare-soup." « No, quo" I ; hare-
toiip made o' rahlnti niay1>e arare dish, but it's no to mytaste.' 'That's
just my opinion ; so, as they're gayand wliite in the flesh, I'm thinking
just to make a bit veal-pie o' them ; — what do yoti think o" that for
economy?' ' Excellent, quo' I, if you can »nan-7tfe it.' ' But,' said she,
'I'm to hae a ba^^gis too, as a novelty to some English gentlemen that
13
•re to be of the party; now, I'm thJpklng of having the bag of the
haggis died turkey-red; it's a fancy o' my ain, and I think it woiiIJ
astonish them ; besides, it would cut such a dash on the tahle.' ' Dash on
the table ! quo' I, nae doubt it vrouid cut a dash on the table ; — but
wha ever heard o' a turkey-red haggis before ? Now, I think, ladies,
if my friea' can either make hare-toup or a veal-pye out of a pair of rabbits,
ihe'll be even a greater genius than ]\Irs. Howdyson, wi' her new
bonnet made out o' a pair of auld breeks ;
So thus to sit and chitter chatter
O'er a cup c' scalding water.
Is the fashion o' the day. Ctrrrick.
THE PARTING.
Oh ! is it thus we part,
And thus we say farewell.
As if in neither heart
Atfection e'er did dwell ?
And is it thus we sunder.
Without or sigh or tear.
As if it were a wonder
We e'er held other dear ?
"We part upon the spot,
With cold and clouded brow,
AMiere first it was our lot
To breath clove's fondest vow !
The vow both then did tender,
"Within this hallow'd shade-
That vow, wc now sui-render ;
Heait-bankrupts both arc made I
Thy liand is cold as mine.
As lustreless thine eye ;
Thy bosom gives no sign
That it could ever Bigh i
14
Well, well ! adieu's soon spoken,
'Tis but a parting phrase —
Yet said, I fear heart-broken
We'll live our after-days !
Thine eye no tear will shed,
IMine is as proudly dry ;
But many an aching head
Is oiu-s, before we die .'
From pride we both can bon'ow—
To part, we both may dare —
But the heart-break of to-morrow,
Nor you nor I can bear ! MothericeR,
COXTRTIXG AND CAUGHT.
My heart was joyous as a summer mead
AU clad in clover,
When first I felt tliat swimming in my head
That marks the lover.
The wildest waste, a Canaan was to me
Of milk and honey ;
Farther, I had not leam'd to sipple tea,
Or count my money.
The future lay before my longing eyes
In warm perspective,
When str.iight I set about to exercise
The right elective.
Sweet Sarah Tims, a killing, cuttin^j thing,
("\\1io now my lot is,)
With eye-lid drooping like tlie turtle's winsf.
Soon caught my notice.
At first, I felt it was a cramping task
To pop the question ;
I fear'd the answer I might wish to ask
Would need digestion.
15
But, no Indeed — my dove was on the wing ;
I said, " Wilt doit?"
" I care not," quoth she; " 'tis a pleasant thing.
Though one shoiild rue it I"
THE ROSE OF THE CANONGATK
There liv'd a maid in Canongate—
So say they who have seen her ;
For me, 'tis by report I know
For I liave seldom been there.
But so report goes on, and says.
Her father was a Baker ;
And she was courted by a swain
Who was a Candle-maker.
'Tis said she long had lov'd the youth,
And lov'd him passing weU ;
Till all at once her love grew cold.
But why, no one could tell !
At first he whin'd, then rav'd and blam'd
The fair one's ficlde fancies ;
For miss's heart was led astray
By reading of romances.
She dream 'd of lords, of knights, and squires,
And men of high degree ;
But lords were scarce, and knights were shy,
So ne'er a joe had she !
Alarm'd at last, to see old age
Was like to overtake her,
She -wrote a loving valentine
Unto the Candle-maker.
*• She hoped," she said, " for her disdat|i'?-
He did not mean to slight her ;
As she but meant to snuff his JIame,
To make it burn the brighter I
You know Love's taper must be trimm'd.
To keep it brightlj' blazing ;
A.nd how can that be better done,
Than by a little teazing ?"
He o^^^l'd " her arguments were good.
And weighty as a feather ;
But, while in snuffing, she had snuff'd
The Jlame out altogether .'
And, what was worse, 'twas very plain.
Her charms were sadly blighted ;
And there was little hope that now
Love's taper could be lighted."
With grief this billet-doux slie read.
And, while her heart was bleeding.
Took thrje-and-ninepence from the till,
And paid her quartef's reading.
The stings of hiuubled female pride.
Embittered every feeling
And, next day, pour Miss Rose was found
Suspended from the ceiling !
Now, ladies all, of every grade,
I hope you'U here take warning ,
And when you meet with lovers true,
Please show some more discerning.
You're not aware how much by scorn,
The Jlame of true love sufiers ;
Yet, should you think it fit to snuff,
Be gentle with the snuffers. Car; ick.
■\rO LAOCn GEAL!*
Wilt thou go, mo laogh geal,
^lo laogh geal, mo laogh gcal !
• Mo I.toirh Geiil, liter^y-mean'i, My WT.ite Calf. Q his expression,
ho>vpver ludicrous it may seem to tlie mere En,::lish reader, U to the
•w of a Highlander replete ■with the tonderett aJiectioa.
J7
Oh, wilt thou go, mo laogh geal !
And roam the llielan' mountaina ?
I'll be kind as kind can be,
I will daiit tliee tenderlie.
In my plaid or on my knee,
Amang the Hielan' mountains.
Oh, mlt thou go, mo laogh geal, &c.
Heather-beds are saft and sweet.
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal !
Love and ling will be our meat,
Amang the Hielan' mountains.
And when the sim goes out o' view
O' kisses there will be nae few,
Wi' usqueba and bonnaeh dhu,
Amang the ITielan' mountains.
Oh, wilt thou go, &c.
Neither house nor ha' hae I,
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal !
But heather bed and starry sky,
Amang the Hielan' mountains.
Yet in my lee j'ou'll lye fu snug.
While there is neither flae nor bug,
Shall dare to nip your bonny lug,
Amang the Hielan' mountains.
Oh, wilt thou go, &c.
Berries, now by bum and brae.
Mo laogh goal, mo lannh geal !
Are sweet'ning in the sinnnerray,
Amang the llielan' mountains.
For thee the blackest I will pu'.
And if they stain your bonny mou',
I'll bring it to its rosy hue,
Wi' kisses 'mang the moimtain
Oh, wilt thou go. &o.
18
Your mither's do::in* at her wheel,
5Io laogh geal, mo laogh geal !
The boatie waits, then let us steal
Awa to the Hielan' mountains.
Look cross the sea to Brodick Bay,
The moon with silver paves the way.
Let's keep her path, we canna stray,
'TwiU lead us to the mountains.
Oh, wilt thou go, &c. Garrick.
WEfi TA.MjIIE twenty.
TCNE— Gfe iVo, KriUU).
There's Wee Tammie Twenty, the auld tinkler bodie.
Comes here twice a-year wi' his creels and his cuddy,
AYi' Nanny his wifie, siiei gudgy an' duddy.
It's hard t.) say whilk is the queerest auld bodie.
C'Houcb — Sing gee wo, Neddy,
Ileigh ho, Neddy,
Gee wo, Nt'ildy,
Gee hup an' gee wo.
He works brass and copper, an' a' sic like mettles,
Walds broken brass pans, southera auld copper kettles ;
Wi' ilka auld wifie he gossips and tattles.
An' ilka young lassie he coaxes an' pettles.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
Fou stievely he clouts up auld broken-\\'ind bellows.
Or mends, wi' brass clasps, broken-ribb'd lun^rellas ;
An sic sangs he can sing, an' sic stories can teU us, —
I trow but Wee Tainmie's the king o' guid fellows.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
Auld Nan's second-sighted, she sees far and clearly,
Foreiel'is ilka waddin' a to\\nnond or nearly ;
Can tell Uka lad the bit lass he lo'ee dearly.
An ' gin the bit lassie lo'es him is sincerely.
Siiiijgee wo, Neddy, tJ^rc.
19
She tells ilka auld maid she yet may recover ;
She tells ilka gillflirt some slee chiel will move her ;
Ilka dark black-e'ed beauty she spaes a wild rover.
An' ilka blue-e'ed ane, a true-hearted lover.
,Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
Ilka wanton young widow she spaes a brave sodger.
Ilka .thrifty landlady her best paying lodger.
Ilka fat-leji:;it hen-wife an auld dodgin' cadger.
An' ilka yilUiouse wife an' auld half-pay gaudger.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
At night they get fou in auld Watty IMacfluster's,
\Miaui- a' the young belles sparkle roimd them like lustres.
An* a' the young beaux gather round them in clusters.
An' mony braw waddin's made up at their musters.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
They'd a humph-backit laddie, they ne'er had anither,
Could coax like the faither, an' spae like the mither ;
He'd the craft o' the tane, an' the wit o' the tither,
There ne'er was sic mettle e'er souther'd thegither.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
He could spout a' last speeches, could sing a' new ballants.
Could mimic a' tongues, frae the Ilighlants or Lawlants,
Grew grit wi' the lasses, an' great wi' the cullants.
An' a' bodie laiigh'd at tlie wee deilie's talents.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &c.
But what think ye the gillie did here the last simmer ?
He ran aff wi' 3Iaggy, the young gluikit limmer.
Syne stole a bit pursie to deck out the kimmer.
An" vas sent ower the seas to the felling o' timmer.
Stcsgee wo, Neddy, &c.
lSl?iv and ic'dh feeling.']
Nae mair the aul' bodies look hcai-ty an' cheerie,
For the loss o' their callant they're dowrie and eeria j
•20
They canna last lanq, for their hearts are sae weary.
An' their lang day o' life closes dai-ksome and dreary.
Sing gee wo, Neddy, &;c.
James Ballantine, Edinburgh
A BRITISH: SAILOR'S SONG.
A SHIP ! a ship ! a gallant ship ! the foe is on the main !
A ship ! a gallant ship ! to bear our thunder forth again 1
Bhall the stripes, and stars, or tricolor, in triumph sweep
the sea,
\^^lile the flag of Britain waves aloft, the fearless and the
free?
Nobly slie comes in warlike trim, careering through tlie
wave.
The ho;)o, the home, the citadel of Britain and the brave
■^^'oll may the sailor's heart exult, as he gazes on the sight,
To muriniT forth his comitry's name, and think upon her
niig^it.
How proudly does the footstep rise upon the welcome deck.
As if at every pace we trod upon a foeman's neck !
HmTah ! aurrali .' let mast and yard before the tempest bend.
The sce2'tr'j of the deep finm us, nor storm nor foe shall rend.
Our country's standard flouts abive, the ocean breeze to
greet.
And her tli under sleeps in awtui qiiiet beneath our tramp-
ling feet ;
But let a foeman fling abroad the banner of his wTath,
And a moment will awake its roar to sweep him from our
path !
No foreign tyrant ever through our wooden bulwarks broke,
No British bosom ever quailed within our walls of oak ;
Let handed foes and angry seas around our ship conspire,
To tro.d our glorious aecks, would tm-n the coward's blood
toGro!
ei
Out every reef ! let plank, and spar, and rig:ging crack again
Let a broad belt of snow surround our pathway tbrough the
main ;
High to tlie straining top-mast nail the British ensign fast —
We may go down, but never yield, and it shall sink the last.
Our country's cause is in onr arms, but her love is in our
souls,
And by the deep that underneath our bounding vessel roUs^
By heaven above, and earth below, to the death for her
Ave 11 fight ; —
Our Queen and country is the word ! — and Go d defend the
right ! E. Finkcrton.
THE FRUIT OF OLD IRELAND.
Some sing of roast beef, and some sing of kail brose,
And some praise plum pudding, the Englislmian's dose;
Such poets, we think, should be counted our foes
When they name not the fruit of old Ireland — the beauti-
ful nice Irisii fruit.
This sweet little plant is the choicest of fruit,
It grows not on branches, but lies at tlie root,
So modest and humble, its just at your foot^
The elegant fruit of old Ireland — the beautiful sweet Irish
fruit.
When evening sets in Paddy puts on the pot.
To boil tlie dour praties and serve them u]) hot ;
His sweet little hearth-stone is then the dear spot
Wliere you meet with the fruit of old Ireland — the beauti-
tul nice Irish fruit.
Arid then he sets out full of praties and love.
To court his OAvn Judy the sweet turtle dove ;
One would think him inspired by young Cupid above,
But its nought but the fruit of old Ireland— the beautiful
nice Irish fruit.
22
For do\m by her side he so bouldly \^-ill sit.
And tell how his heart has been bothered and emit.
Peace or quiet in this -world he can ne'er get a bit,
For she's loved like the fruit of old Ii-eland— the beautiful
nice Irish fruit.
So the heart of poor Judj* is melted like fat.
When thus its besieged by young flattering Pat,
Och ! he s'.vears that his life is not worth an old hat,
For she's dear as the fruit of old Ireland— the beautiful
nice Irish fruit.
Have ye e'er been in Ireland, at Dublin or Clare,
Or passed half a night at a wake or a fair ?
Oh ! the beautiful fruit that we often see there,
Is the pride and the glory of Ireland — the elegant nice Irish
fruit.
If e'er in that country you go to a feast.
Or sit do\vn to dinner with bishop or priest,
Be assured, that at table there's one dish at least.
Containing the fruit of old Ii'eland — the elegant nice Irish
fruit.
But to .sing all the wonders produced by this root.
How it's prized by each man, woman, child, and poor brute,
Would require Homer's powers ; then, hurra, for the fruit,
The beautiful fruit of old Irelahd — the elegant nice Irish
fruit!
KATE M'LUSKY.
Air- " St. Pulrick tvas a Gentleman."
Talk not of Venus, or the love of any heathen creature,
Of nightingales, or turtle-doves, that bother liuman natui:e ;
But talk to me, and don't depart from morning till it's
dusky,
Concerning her who stole ray heart, the charming Ivate
M'Lusky.
23
She's never absent night or day,
As through the world I wander ;
And thus I pine my time away,
Like any gooseless gandei.
Jh! Kitty's eyes are black as jet, her cheeks are red an
roses,
Her lips with pearls round are set, her ringlets are like
posies ;
ITer praises I could sit and sing, till roaring make nie husky.
I never, never shall forget, the darling Kate M*Lusky !
She's never absent night or day, &c.
Sweet Kitty dear ! v»'iien first we met, ye were so young and
simple.
You had a most bewitching step, and on each cheek a
dimple ;
And then the fragrance of your breath, it was so sweet and
musky,
Oh, murder! but she'll be my death, the jewel Kate
M'Lusky.
She's never absent night or day, &e.
I've wander'd many a wearj' mile, around the Irish nation.
And hundreds I have made to smile, of the female genei-a-
tion ;
But Kitty sho has made me wc«p, in sorrow's Aveeds I'H
busk me —
My heart is broken most complete, with cruel Kate
M'Lusky.
She's never absent niglit or day, &c.
O Kitt}' ! if ye wont relent, ye will commit a murder.
My ghost v.ill make the jade repent, at midnight I'll dis-
turb her ;
I'll search me out a great big tree, and hang on't till I'm
fusty.
That all the gaping world may see I'm kill'd with Kate
M' Lusky.
She's never absent night or dav, tVc.
24
Good people all, both great and small, behold my situation.
Just kick'd about like some foot-ball, for Kitty's recreation ;
Oh ! may the kicked heartless jade, be single till she's
musty,
And at fourscore be still a maid, the unmarried Miw
M'Lusky.
Then should she haunt me night and day.
As through the world I wander ;
If I be gooseless, folks will say,
Ould Kate has got no gander.
JAMIE M'NAB.*
Gae find me a match for blythe Jamie 31'Xab ;
Ay, find me a match for blythe Jamie M'Nab ;
The best piece o' stuff cut frae Nature's ain icab.
Is that Prince o' gi:de fallows — blythe Jamie M'Nab.
In her kindliest mond 3Iadam Nature had been,
\Mien first on this wiirld Jamie open'd his eer
For he ne'er gied a whimper, nor utter'd a sab
But hame he cam' laughin' — blythe Jamie M'Nab.
In process o' time Jamie grew up apace,
And still play'd the smile on his round honest face.
Except when a tear, like a piu-o hinny-blab.
Was shed o'er the \\Tetchod by Jamie M'Nab.
And Jamie is still just the best o'gude chiels—
Wi' the cheerfu' he laughs, wi' the waefu' he feels ;
And the very last shilling that's left in his fab,
Ee'Il share wi' the ncedfu'— blythe Jamie BI-Nab.
Blythe Jamie M'Nab is sae furthy and free,
While he's cracking wi' you, while he's joking vri' me,
• Connected with the Glasgow Herald N'e-wspaper, and well entitle'^.
«c the high praise awarded to him by the Poet.
25
That I ne'er wad wish better than twa hotir's confab
Owre a horn o' giitle yill wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab.
Rlythe Jamie M'Nab is nae thin airy ghaist,
For he measures an ell-and-twa-thirds round the waist ;
Yet a wittier wag never trod on a slab,
Than that kind-hearted billie — biythe Jamie M'Nab.
Yes, Jamie has hulk, yet it damps not his glee,
But his flashes o' fancy come fervid and free ;
As bright frae his bi-ain, as if lively " Queen Mab"
Held nightly communings wi' Janrie M'Nab.
He tells sic queer stories, and rum funny jokes.
And mak's sic remarks upon a' public folks,
That Time rattles by like a beau in a cab,
While sitting and list'ning to Jamie M'Nab.
I carena for Tory— I carona for Whig^
I mindna your Radical raver a fig ;
But gie me the man that is staunch as a stab
For the rights o' his Cj\stk, like biythe Jamie M'Nab.
Amang the soft sex, too, he shows a fine taste.
By admiring what's handsome, and lovely and chaste ;
But the lewd tawdry trollop, tlietawpie, and drab,
Can never find favour wi' Jamie IM'Nab.
Some folks, when they meet j'ou, are wonderfu' fair.
And wad hug you as keen as an auld Norway bear ;
The next time they see you, they're sour as a crab—
That's never the gate wi' biythe Jamie M'Nab.
No ! — Jamie is ever the same open wight.
Aye easy, aj'e pleasant, frae morning till night ;
While ilk man, frae my Lord down to plain simple Hab,
Gets the same salutation fr.ie Jamie 31* Nab.
Had mankind at large but the tithe o* his worth.
We then might expect a pure heaven on eartli ;
Nae rogues then would fash us wi' grij) and yvVgrab,
But a' wad be neebours— like Jamie M'Nab.
96
-'■<aiig, lang liae blythe Jamie and Samuel* the sage,
Together sped on to the ripeness of age ;
But " live by the luay" — (we must needs pick and dab)
Is the motto of Samuel and Jamie M'Nab.
And on may they speeii as they've hitherto done.
And lang rin the conrst tliey have hitherto run ;
Wi' a pound in their pouch and a vatch in their fab.
Sage Samuel the soncy — blythe Jamie M'Nab.
Yes — ^lang may the soxcy gudeman o' the Herald,
Wi' Jamie M'Nab, wauchle on through this warld :
And when, on life's e'ening, cauld death steeks his gab.
May he mount up on high — wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab,
Alex. Rodgei
LOVE'S DIET.
Tkll me, fair maid, tell me truly,
How should infant Love be fed ;
If with dew-drops, shed so newly
On the bright green clover blade ;
Or, with roses pluck'd in July,
And -N^-ith honey liquored ?
Oh, no! oh, no!
Let roses blow,
And dew-stars to green blade cling :
Other fare,
]\Iore light and rare.
Befits that gentlest nursling.
Feed him with the sigh tl-at rushes
'Twixt sw».<>t lips, whose muteness speaks
With the eloquence that flushes
All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks ;
• Samuel Hunter, Esq., late Bditor.
27
Feed him with a world of blushes,
And the glance that shuns, yet seeks :
For, 'tis ^^ith food,
So light and good.
That the Spirit-child is led ;
And with the tear
Of joyous fear
That the small elf s liquored. Motherwell.
THE Br^lPER.
Some rail against drinking, and say 'tis a sin"
To tipple the juice of the vine ;
But as 'tis allow'd that we all have our faults,
I wish no other fault may he mine.
But mark me good fellows, I don't mean to say,
Tliat always to tipple is right ;
But 'tis wisdom to drowai the dull cares of the day,
In a bowl witli old cronies at night.
See yon husbandman labours with care on the pin in.
Yet his face is lit up with a smile,
For the whisp'rings of hope tell again and again,
That harvest rewards all his toil.
Just so 'tis with us, tho' we labour with pain,
Yet we hear with unmingled delight,
The whisperings of hope tell again and again,
Of a harvest of pleasure at night.
How soothing it is, when we bumper it up.
To a friend on a far distant shore,
Or how sweetly it tastes, when we flavour the cup,
With the name of the maid we adore !
Th3n here's to the maid, then, and here's to the friend,
I^Tay tlicy always prove true to their plight,
M ay their days glide as smooth and as m.errily round,
As the bumpers we pledge them to-night. Carrick.
28
A MOTHER'S ADVICE.
Donal's her pairn, no more sons vdil she had,
He'll pe laird o' the stirk whan her's gane.
An' that -svill he soon, for her's doitet and done,
And the preath in her throat made her grane ;
Deed, ay, my good lad !
The preath in her throat made her grane.
My poor p-iy ! there's a lump in her tliroat, that she's sure will
turn't out a presumption I — an" all the doctors in the college canna
tak' it out.
Now Do:aal, poor lad ! you'll never pe blate,
But teuk your auld mither's advice ;
Slark weel what ye say, her commands weel obey.
An' I'll warrant I'll got her a wifes J
Deei will I, my good lad !
An' I'll warrant I'll got her a wife.
Her pra'iv' new hose she'll maun be surely put on,
She'll sure tey're no tatter nor torn ;.
Her braw new ho:je, will suit her new clothes,
An' they'll thoc;ht her a sheutlemans bom '
Deed will they, mj' bonnie pairn.
They'll thocht you a shentlemans born.
WTien Donal, poor lad ! put on her new clothes—
Hooh, wow ! but the laddie look spree !
tie'll roar au' he'll dance, an' he'll kicket an' he'll prancel
Hugh ! tliere's nocht but a ladies for me !
Deed no, my good lad !
There's nocht but a ladies for thee.
Now Donal, poor lad ! he'll gone up the street.
An' he'll meet farmer's tochter called Grace,
He'll no pe shust taen ony kisses but ane,
^^^lan she'll teuk him a slap on the face.
Deed did she, ta vile jade ! she'll teuk him a slap on the face. Oh,
the drunken troiister, to offer so to my Donal, decent lad 1 She ehonlii
29
be catch and proclit to sliail, and put sliame im lier fnce for a year* to
oome.
But noAV sin' my Donal a-wooing has gane.
To muckle Meg Dhu o' Loch-sloy ;
She's blin' o'an e'e, an' her mouth stan's a-jee,
An' a hump on her shoutJier like buoy
Deed has slie, poor creature ! She has a hump on lier dhouther,
like ta ship's buoy ; but never mind, Donal, shnst got tn money, 8
great daud o' grund to buy, though she's as ugly as ta, foul tief.
Now she'll pray, an' she'll wish tat weel she may be.
Since Donal ta wifes now has got ;
Although she's no beauty, she can do her duty.
An' Donal's content wi' his lot !
Deed is he, good lad !
And Donal's content wi' his lot.
SIION M'NAB.
Tvyjc—" For a' that an' a' thai."
Nainsel pe Maister Shon M'Nab,
Te auld's ta forty-five, man,
And mony troll affairs she's seen,
Since she was born alive, man ;
Slie's seen t';.e wart' l>dva it[<side down,
Ta shentleman turn poor man.
And him was ance ta beggar loon,
Get knocker 'pon him's door, man.
She's seen ta stane bow't w\Te ta purn.
And sj-ne be ca'd ta prig, man ;
She's seen ta whig ta toiy turn,
Ta tory turn ta whig, man ;
But a' ta troll things she pe seen.
Wad teuk twa days to tell, man.
So, gin you likes, she'll told yoiir shust
Ta story 'bout hcrsel, man :— *
Nainsel was first ta herd ta kyes,
'Pon Morven's ponnie praes, man,
Whar tousand pleasant tays she'll spent,
Pe pu ta nits and slaes, man ;
An' ten she'll pe ta herring-poat.
An' syne she'll pe fisli-cod, man,
Ta place tey'll call Ne-A-foundhims-Iand,
Pe far peyont ta proad, man.
But, och-hon-ee ! one misty night,
Nainsel ^vill lost her way, man,
Iler poat was ti-owTi'd, Iiersel got fright.
She'll mind till djing day, man.
So fait ! she'll pe fish-cod no more.
Rut back to Morven cam', man,
An' tere she turn ta whisky still,
Pe prew ta wee trap tram, man :
But foul pefa' ta gauger loon,
Pe put her in ta shall, man,
Whar she wad stood for mony a tay,
Shust 'cause she no got bail, man ;
But out she'll got — nae matters hoc.
And came to Glasgow town, man,
WTiar tousand wonders mlior she'll saw.
As she went up and down, man.
Ta first thing she pe wonder at.
As she cam down ta street, man,
Was man's pe traw ta cart liimsol,
Shust 'pon him's nain twa feet, man
Och on ! och on ! her nainsel thought,
As she wad stood and glower, man,
Puir man ! if they mak you ta Ziorse—
Should gang 'pon a' your four, mas.
And when she turned ta coi-ner round,
Ta black man tere she see man,
SI
Pe grund ta music in ta kist.
And sell liiin for pa^vpee, man ;
And aye she'll grund, and grund, and grund.
And turn her mill about, man,
Pe strange ! she will put nothing in,
Yet aye teuk music out, man.
And when she'll saw ta people's walk,
In crowds alang ta street, man.
She'll wonder whar tey a' got spoons
To sup teir pick o' meat, man ;
For in ta place whar she was pom.
And tat right far awa, man,
Ta teil a spoon in a' ta house,
But only ane or twa, man.
She glower to see ta Mattams, too,
Wi' plack clout 'pon teir face, man,
Tey surely tid some graceless teed,
Pe in sic black disgrace, man ;
Or else what for tey'll hing ta clout,
Owre prow, and cheek, and chin, man.
If no for shame to show teir face,
For some ungodly sin, man ?
Pe strange to see ta wee bit ku-n,
Pe jaw the waters out, man,
And ne'er rin dry, though she wad rin
A' tay like moimtain spout, man ;
Pe stranger far to see ta Limps,
Like spunkies in a raw, man ;
A' pruntin pright for want o' oil.
And teil a wick ava, man.
Ta Glasgow folk be unco folk,
Ilae tealings wi' ta teil, man, — ■
Wi' fire tey grund ta tait o' who,
Wi' fire tey Ciird ta meal, man ;
■^^'i' fire tey siiin, wi' fii-e tey weavt,
Wi" lire do ilka turn, man.
32
Na, some o' tern u-ill eat ta fire,
And no hun's pelly purn, man.
Wi' fire tey mak' ta coach pe rin.
Upon ta railman's raw, man,
Nainsel will saw him teuk ta road.
An' toil a horse to traw, man ;
Anither coach to Paisley rin,
Tey'U call him Laiichie's motion,
But oich ! she was plawn a' to bits,
By rascal rogue M'Splosion.
Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin
Upon ta river Clyde, man,
She saw't hersel, as sure's a gun.
As she stood on ta side, man :
But gin you'll no pelieve her word.
Gang to ta Proomielaw, man.
You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheel<},
Pe grund ta water sma', man.
Oich ! sic a town as Glasgow town.
She never see pefoi-e, man,
Ta houses tere pe mile and mair,
Wi' names 'poon ilka toor, mim.
An' in teir muckle windows tere,
She'll saw't, siu-e's teath, for sale, man,
Praw shentleman's pe want ta head.
An' leddics want ta taQ, man.
She wonders wii:it ta peoples do,
Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man,
Gie her ta prose, ta kilt, an' hose.
For tern she wadna care, man.
And aye gie her ta pickle sncesh,
And wee di-ap parley pree, man.
For a' ta praws in Glasgow town.
She no gie paw-pro^^Ti-pee, man.
AUjc. ttodffer.
83
MAGGY AND WILLTE.
TuNB — " Whistle an' I'll come to ye, my toi.**
CHORUS.
O, what ^vud I do gin my Maggy were dead ?
O, what wild I do gin my Maggy were dead ?
This Avud e'en be a wearifu' warld indeed.
To me, gin my ain canny Maggy were dead.
Bairns brought up thegither, baith nursed on ae Itnee,
Baith shmg owre ae cuddy, fu' weel did we gree ;
Tho' I was bom armless, an' aye unco wee,
My Maggy was muckle an' bunted for me.
O, what wud I do ? &c.
When she grew a woman an' I grew a man,
She graspit my stump, for I hadna a han',
An' we plighted our troth owre a big bag o' skran,
Thegither true hearted to beg thro' the Ian'.
0, what wud I do ? &c.
Tho' whiles when the skran and the siller are rife,
We baith may get fou, we ne'er hae ony strife ;
To me she ne'er lifted her ban' in her life,
An' whaur is the loon that can brag sic a wife ?
O, what ^vud I do ? &c.
O, Maggy is pure as a yoimg Papist mm,
An she's fond o' her will as the wean o' its fun.
As the wight o' his drink, or the wit o' his pun—
There's no sic anither Meg under the sun.
O, what wud I do ? &c.
Mony big loons hae hechted to -wyie her awa,
Baith thumblers ^nd tumblers and tinklers an' a' ;
But she jeers them, an' tells them her Willie tho' sma',
BaiS mair in his buik than the best o' them a*.
O, what wud I do ? &c.
C
31,
I'm feckless, an' fricnless, distorted an' wee,
Canna cast my ain claes, nor yet claw my ain knee ;
But she kens a' my wants, an' does a'thing for me.
Gin I wantit my Maggy I'm sm^ I -vvTid dee.
Then, what wud I do, gin my Maggy were dea^'>
O, what -wud I do, gin my Maggy were dead ?
This wud e'en he a wearifu' warld indeed,
To me, gin my ain canny Maggie were dead.
James Ballantlne, Edin,
LAUGH AN' BE THANKFTT".
Come sit down, my cronies, and gie us your crack,
Let the ■\vin' tak the care o' this worl' on its back ;
The langer we sit here and drink, the merrier will we get—
We've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.
Then bring us a tankard o' nappy guid ide.
To cheer up oiu- hearts, and enliven our tale ;
Till the house be riim Ln' roun' about, its time enough to flit— «
We've aye been provided for, and sae wUl we yet.
May the taxes come afif, that the drink may be cheap,
And the yUl be as plentif td as 'gin it were a spate ;
May the enemies o' liljerty ere lang get a kick
They've aye gott'nt hitherto, and s-ie bhall they yet.
Now, God bless the Queen, an' aye prosper her days.
For I'm sure that Her Majesty has baith meat an' clacs;
And lang on the throne o' her faithers may slie sit—
They've aye been provided for, and sae wiU they yet.
Then push roimd the jorum, an' tak aff j-our dram,
An' laugh an' be thankfu' as lang as yc can —
For seed-time and harvest ye ever shall get.
When ye fell ye aye got up again, and sae will yo yet.
33
THE TWAL O* AUGUST.
She'll taen't ta gun upon her shoutlier,
A pock o* lead upon the 'other,
An' she'll had her horn weel fill m' pouther.
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh hut she's fond o' shooting ;
Fond, fond, fond o' shooting ;
Oh but she's fond o' shooting,
Upon the Twal o' August.
Twa ponny tog rin at her heel,
An' oh tey'll snock the burd out weel,
She'll no be fear for man nor Deil,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &;c.
Ta fii-st tey'll call'd her Cuilach Mohr,
Ta noter's name was Pruach Vohr,
An' troth tey'll rais't a ponny splore,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
Wi' pouther tan, she'll sharge ta gun.
An' tan she'll ram't in lead a pun',
Tan threw't her gun the shouther on,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
She'll gang't a bit an' rise ta purd,
Another tan, an' tan a third ;
But aye to shot, she maist turn't fear'd,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
She'll teuk't ta gun up ta her sh.outhei ,
An' whether ta fright, or n'clse the pouther,
But o'er she'll fa't an' maist turn smother.
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
Shell fa'at back on a muckle stane,
An' roar't a grunt, an' tan a grane.
An' shell thocht her back had lost ta bane,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
Poor Pruaeh Vohr, he was "nock plin,
An' afif his head was blaw the skin ;
He'll youll't a squeel, an' aff he'U rin,
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but, &c.
Shell ne'er will go a-shooting more.
To kill ta pvu-ds, an' tats what for ;
Ta peoples say, ta plum was sour.
Upon the Twal o' August.
For, oh but she's tire o' shooting !
Tire, tire, weary shooting !
For she'll shot her tog, an' lam't hersel,
Upon the Twal o' August. A. Fisher.
IRISH LOVE SONG.
Oh ! what a beautiful bit of mortality.
Sweet Judy O'FIannigan is imto me ;
The world must allow her angelic reality,
The like of my Judy I never shall sec.
Her manner is free from all low vulgara/ity,
So politely genteel, imaffected, and free :
To see Iier and think of a moment's neutrality,
You might just as well go dance a jig on the sea.
O smile on me, Judy ! with some partiality.
For the brains in my skull have been all set a-jee;
Else I soon shall be dead, that's an end to vitality.
Broken-hearted and murder'd, your Paddy ^vill be!
37
And pray, where the deuce did ye get your morality ?
Would you like your poor Paddy to hang on a tree ?
Sure, Judy, that would be a bit of rascality,
UHiila the daws and the crows would be pecking at me !
O name but the day, without more hotheralit)/.
Then the happiest of mortals your Paddy will be ;
Ere a year will go roimd, ye'll have more motheraUty,
And that the whole to\vn of Kilkenny will see !
Then Ave'll laugh, dance, and sing with true conviviality.
While the rafters would ring to the noise of our spree ;
And our hearts mil be beating with congeniality,
\Mien Judy and Paddy they married shaU be !
Oh what a beautiful bit of mortality,
Sweet Judy O'Flannigan is unto me ;
The world must allow her angelic reality.
The like of my Judy I never shall see !
BONNY FLORY.
I'VE lodged wi' mony a browster wife.
And pree't her bonny mou' ;
But the coshest wife that e'er I met.
Was Mistress Dougal Dhu,
But INIistress Dougal 's no for me,
Though always kind I've thought her ;
My pleasure is to sit beside
Her rosy-chcekit doehter.
To me, sweet Flory's wee bit mou'
Is never out o' season ;
An* if ye'll hover but a blink,
I will explain the reason :
Her breath's the balmy breath o' Spring,
Her tongue kind Hairst discloses,
Her teeth show Winter's flakes o' snavr
Set roimd wi' Simmer's roses.
Then 111 awa to the ffielan' hills,
TMiar neath^r-bells are siiringing ;
And sit beside some waterfa',
■And hear the Unties singing ;
And while they sing their sang o' love,
Frae 'neath their leafj' cover,
I'll press sweet Flory to my breast.
And vow myself her lover !
The bustled beauty may engage.
The dandy in his corset ;
But I'm content wi' Hielan' worth,
In hodden-grey and worset.
And if she'll gie her wee bit han'.
Although it's hard and hackit,
Yet, heart to heart, and loof to loof,
A bargain we shaU mak it.
Carrick,
THE MUIRLAN' COTTARS.
"The snaw flees thicker o'er the muir, and heavier grows the
lift ;
The shepherd closer ^\Taps his plaid to screen him fi-ae the
drift;
I fear this nicht ^\•ill tell a tale amang our foldless slieep.
That will mak raony a farmer sigh— God grant nae widows
<veep.
I'm blythe, guidman, to see you there, wi' elshin an' \n'
lingle,
S le eydent at your cobbling wark beside the cosie ingle ;
It brings to miad that fearfu' nicht, i' the spring that's now
awa, . ^
\Mien you was carried thowless Iiame frae 'neath a wrea.th
o' snaw.
That time I often think upon, an' mak' it aye my care.
On nichts like this, to snod up a' the beds we hae to spare ;
39
In case some drift-driveu strangers come forfoughten to our
bield,
An' welcome, welcome they shall be to what the house can
yield.
'Twas God that saved you on that nicht, when a' was black
despair,
An' gratitude is due to him for makin' you his cai-e ;
Then let us show our grateful sense of the kindness he be-
stowed.
An' cheer the poor wayfaring man that wanders frae his
road.
There's cauld and drift without, guidman, might drive a
body blin'.
But, Praise be blessed for a' that's gude, there's meat and
drink \vithin ;
An' be he beggar be he prince, that Heaven directs this way.
His bed it shall be warm and clean, his fare the best we hae."
The gudeman heard her silentlie, an' threw his elshin by.
For his kindlie heart began to swell, and the tear was in
his eye ;
He rose and pressed his faithfu' wife, sae loving to his breast,
While on her neck a holy kiss his feelings deep expressed.
" Yes, ]\Iirran, yes, 'twas God himself that helped us in
our strait.
An' gratitude is due to him— his kindness it was great ;
An' much I thank thee thus to mak' the stranger's state
thy care.
An' bless thy tender heart, for sure the grace of God is there.-
N'or prince nor beggar was decreed their kindness to partake ;
The hours sped on their stealthy pace as silent as the flake ;
Till on the startled ear there came a feeble cry of wo.
As if of some benighted one fast sinking in the snow.
But help was neai- — an' soon a youth, in hodden grey attire.
Benumbed with cold, extended, lay before the cottar's fire ;,
40
Kind Mirran thow'd his frozen hands, the ?uidman rubbed
his breast.
An* soon the stranger's glowin' cheeks returning life con-
fess'd.
How aft it comes the gracious deeds which we to others shov^
Return again to our o\vn hearts ^rt' joyous overflow !
Su fared it with our simple ones, who foimd the youth to be
Their only son, ^\d^om they were told had perish 'd far at sea
The couch they had with pious care for some lone stranger
spread —
Heaven gave it as a resting-place for their lov'd wanderer's
head:
Thus aft it comes the gracious deeds which we to others
show,
Return again to our own hearts with joyous overflow.
. Carrirk.
BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.
Air — Good morrotv to your night cap.
Behave yom-sel' before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me.
As kiss me sae before folk.
It wadna gie me meikle pain.
Gin we were seen and heard by nane.
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane ;
But, guidsake ! no before folk.
Behave j-oursel' before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
"SVhate'er you do, when out o' view.
Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folk will crack.
And what a great afifair they'U mak*,
O' naething but a simple smack,
That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
41
Behave youi'ser before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young
Occasion to come o'er folk.
It's no through hatred o' a kiss.
That I sae plainly tell you this ;
But losh ! I tak' it sair amiss
To be sae teazed before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
When we're oiu: lane ye may tak' ane.
But fient a ane before folk.
I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be ;
But yet, it doesna do to see
Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
I'll ne'er submit again to it —
So mind you that— before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair ;
It may be sae — I dinna care-
But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair
As ye ha'e done before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks.
But jiye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet.
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet
To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk ;
42
Gin that's the case, there's time and place.
But sm-ely no before folk.
But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae, get a license frae the priest.
And mak' me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel* before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk ; '
And when we're ane, bluid, flesh and bane.
Ye may tak' ten— before folk.
AJex. Rodger
THE ANSWER.
Cax I behave, can I behave.
Can I behave before folk,
^^'^l6n, ^v'ily elf, your sleeky self.
Gars me gang gj-te before folk ?
In a' ye do, in a' ye say,
Ye've sic a pawkie coaxing way,
That my poor wits ye lead astray,
An' ding me doilt before folk !
Can I behave, &c.
Can I behave, &c.
"S\Tiile ye ensnare, can I forbear
A-kissing, tnough before folk ?
Can I behold tliat dimpling cheek,
AVhar love 'mang sunny smiles mii^'ht beek,
Yet, howlet-liko, my e'e-lids steek,
An' shun sic light, before folk ?
Can I behave, &c.
Can I beLave, &c.
When ilka smile becomes a wile,
Enticing me— before folk ?
43
That lip, like Eve's forbidden fniit.
Sweet, plump, an' ripe, sae tempts me to't.
That I maun pree't, though I should rue't.
Ay, twenty times — before folk !
Can I behave, &c.
Can I behave, &c
When temptingly it offers me.
So rich a treat — before folk ?
That gowden hair sae sunny bright ;
That shapely neck o' snawy white ;
That tongue, even when it tries to flyte.
Provokes me till't before folk !
Can I behave, &c.
Can I behave, &c.
\Vhen ilka charm, young, fresh, an' warm.
Cries, ' ' kiss me now" — befoue folk ?
An' oh ! that pawkie, rowin' e'e,
Sae roguishly it blinks on me,
I canna, for my saul, let be,
Frae kissing you before folk !
Can I behave, &c.
Can I behave, &c.
AVhen ilka glint, conveys a hint
To tak a smack— before folk ?
Ye o^vn, that were we baith om- lane.
Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane ;
Weel, gin there be nae harm in't then.
What harm is in't before folk ?
Can I behave, &c.
Can I behave, &c.
Sly hypocrite ! an anchorite
Could scarce desist — before folk ?
But after a' that has been said.
Since ye arc willing to be wed.
44
We'll hae a " blytbesome bridal" made,
\\Tieu ye'll be mine before folk !
Then I'll behave, then I'll behave.
Then I'll behave before folk.
For whereas then, ye'll aft get " ten,"
It winna be before folk !
Alex. Rodger.
JEAXIE MORRISON.
I'VE wander 'd east, I've wander'd west.
Through mony a weary way ;
But never, ne«^er, can forget
The luve o' life's young day !
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
3Iay weel be black gin Yule ;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
^\^le^e first fond luve grows culc.
dear, dear Jeanie Jlon-ison,
The thochts o' byganc years
Still fling their shadows ower my path.
And blind my een wi* tears :
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tciirs.
And sair and sick I pine.
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk itlier wcel,
"Twas then we twa did part ;
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at schule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart !
Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink.
To Icir ilk ither lear ;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd ever mair.
1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet.
When sitting on that bink.
45
Clieek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof.
What oiu- wee heads could think ?
\\1ien baith bent doun ower ae braid page
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.
Oh mind ye how we hung our heads.
How cheeks brent red wi' shame.
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughtn', said.
We cleek'd thegither hame ?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(The schule then skail't at noon/.
When we ran aff to speel the braes—
The broomy braes o' June ?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea.
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life ! Oh, morain' luve !
Oh, lichtsome days and lang.
When hinnied hopes around our hearts.
Like simmer blossoms, sprang !
O mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green bumside.
And hear its water croon ;
The siimner leaves hung ower our heads.
The flowers burst round our feet.
And in the gloamin' o' the ^v^ld,
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wud.
The bum sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune.
Concerted harmonies ;
And on the knowe abune the Duru,
For hours thegither sat
46
In the silentness o' joy, till baitt
Wi' very gladness grat !
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled dowTi your cheek.
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nana
Had ony power to speak !
That was a time, a blessed time,
AVhen hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forthj
TJnsyllabled — unsung !
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me ?
Oh ! tell me gin their musio fills
Thine ear as it does mine ;
Oh ! say gin e'er yq|ir heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ?
I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
I've borne a weary lot ;
But in my wanderings, far or near.
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae tliis hearf,
Still travels on its way ;
And channels deeper as it rins
The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear .leanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd j'oung,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue ;
But I could hug all -vvi-etchedness.
And happy could I die.
Did I but ken your heart still drcam'd
0" bygane days and me !
MothcnrefL
47
JESSY M'LEAN.
Oh hark ! an' I'll tell you o' Jessy IM'Lean,
She promis'd shortysyne she would soon be my ain,
So mind yell be ready to come on neist Friday,
An' see me get buckled to Jessy IM'Lean.
Lang, lang hae I lo'ed her, and faithfully woo'd her.
Yet ne'er has she treated my suit wi' disdain,
For sense an' good nature enliven ilk feature.
And guileless the heart is o' Jessy M'Lean.
Tho' nane o' your butterflee beauties sae vain.
That flutter about, aye, new lovers to gain ;
Yet she has attractions to catch the aflfections.
And prudence, the heart that she wins, to retain.
Her mild look so touching, her smile so bewitching,
Her rich melting tones, sweet as seraphim's strain.
Rush through my heart thrilling, and wake every feeling
Of tender attachment for Jessy M'Lean.
"SVlien sitting beside her, my heart is aye fain,
To thinK what a ti easure will soon be my ain ;
Nae fause gaudy glitter, to clicat, then embitter.
But pure solid worth, without hollow or stain.
And should a bit callan, e'er bless our snug dwallin*.
Or ae bonnie lassie, (as heaven may ordain,)
The sweet smiUng creature, its mither ilk feature,
Will knit me stiU closer to Jessy JM'Lean.
Alex. Rodger.
I SEEK TO WED NO OTHER LOVE.
Sing not that song again, lady !
Loolc not to me with sighs ;
Past feelings all are buried now.
Ah ,' never more to rise.
The pledge that bound our hearts in one,
Was register'd on high ;
Nought but thy tcish could cancel it,
Could I that wish deny 7
I cannot pledge again lady !
Our griefs must now be borne ;
The angel who records above,
Would laugh us both to scorn :
I seek to wed no other love.
No, no, that cannot be ;
My widow'd heart must still bleed on.
In memory of thee !
The bliss which once you had to give,
1 covet now no more ;
A few short struggles here, and then
Life's sighs and pangs are o'er.
I seek to wed no other love.
No, no, that ne'er can be ;
My widow'd heart must still bleed on,
In memorj' of thee !
THE SERENADE,
Wake, lady, wake !
Dear heart, awake
From slumbers light,
For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour,
In harness bright.
Lingers thine own true paramour
And chosen knight !
Wake, lady, wake !
Wake, lady, wake !
For thy lov'd sake.
Each trembling star
Smiles from on high, with its clear eye ;
"WhUe, nobler far,
Yon siiverj' shield lights earth and sky.
49
How good they are ?
Wake, lady, wake !
Rise, lady, rise !
Not star-fiU'd skies
I worship now :
A fairer shrine, I trust, is mine
For loyal vow.
Oh, that the living stars would shine
That light thy brow !
Rise, lady, rise !
Rise, lady, rise !
Ere war's rude cries
Fright land and sea :
To-morrow's light sees mail-sheath'd knight,
Even hapless me.
Careering through the bloody fight.
Afar from thee.
Rise, lady, rise !
Mute, lady, mute !
I have no lute.
Nor i-ebeck small,
To soothe thine ear with lay biucere
Or madrigal :
With helm on head, and hand on epear
On thee I call.
Mute, lady, mute !
Mute, lady, mute
To love's fond suit !
I'll not complain.
Since underneath thy balmy breath
I may remain
One brief hour more, ere I seek death
On battle plain !
Mute, lady, mute I
u
50
Sleep, lady, sleep.
While watch I keep
Till dawn of day ;
But o'er the wold, now morning cold,
Shines icy grey ;
While the plain gleams \vith steel and gold.
And chargers neigh !
Sleep, lady, sleep !
Sleep, lady, sleep !
Nor wake to weep,
For heart-struck me.
Tliese trumpets knell my last farewell
To love and thee ;
NMien next they sound, 't\vill be to tell
I died for thee !
Sleep, lady, sleep ! MothervDcU.
THE UNINVITED GHAIST.
As the deil and his dame,
Ae nicht were frae hame,
A ghaist frae this warld did tick at their dooi'.
A wee deU did answer
An' roar'd " Wliat d'ye want, Sir ?"
" I want," qtuo' the ghaist, "just to rank in your core."
" The guidman's frae hame, man.
The guid>vife's the same, man,
Td admit ye mysel' is against their comman's,
Sae slip your wa's back ;
An' our cork when he's slack,
Will gie ye a hint when he's takin on han'a"
The ghaist turn'd his heel
Without sayin' fareweel.
An' sneak'd awa back wi' his thimib in his jaw :
51
Thinking 'twas a nard case.
That in sic a warm place,
A puir ghaistie should get sic a cauld coal to blaw.
Now, let sonae folks reflect
Upon this disrespect.
An' look ere they loup, whar their landing's to be ;
For it seems there is reason
To tak tent o* their wizen.
Since the deil's on the shy, and their frien's ca' themyg<».
Carrie fc
BRANDY VERSUS BEAUTY.
JIiss Dorothy Dumps was a lovely maid,
Fal lal la, fal lal di dal di de.
In nature's rarest gifts array'd,
Fal lal, &c.
Her cheeks wore England's rose's hue,
Her eyes were of the Prussian blue,
And Turkey red were her elbows too ;
Fal lal, &c.
Now, many a youngster came to woo,
Fal lal, &c.
But at them all she look'd askew ;
Fallal, &c.
The youths all strove, but strove i.i vain,
The maid's affections sweet to gain ;
But she answer'd still with proud disdain,
Fal lal, &c.
Now, we've all heard grave sages say,
Fal lal, &c.
That beauty's but a flower of Mr.y ;
Fal lal, &:c.
For time began her charms to crop.
Nor paint nor patch could beauty prop.
So she lost all hope and took to the drop,
Fal lal, he.
52
But, as we very seldom see
Fal lal, &c.
That brandy and beauty do agree,
Fal lal, &c.
So frequent did she ply the dose.
At last, alas ! the faithless rose
Gave the slip to her cheek, and drew up \nttx her
Fal lal, &c.
Now, Miss Dolly's nose shines a lighthouse, fit
Fal lal, &c.
To show the rock on which she has split ,•
Fal lal, &c.
For when the brandy gains the sway.
The loves and the graces, all so gay,
Soon pack up their aicls and fly away,
Fal lal, &c. Carri
THE HARP AXD THE HAGGIS.
At that tide when the voice of the turtle is dumb.
And winter \n' drap at his nose doth come, —
A whistle to mak o' the castle lum
To sowf his music sac sairie, O !
And the roast on the spect is sapless an' saui'.
And meat is scant in chamber and ha*,
And the knichts hae ceased their merry gafiFaw,
For lack o' their warm canarie, O !
Then the Harp and the Haggis began a dispute,
'Bout whilk o' their charms were in highest repute i
The Haggis at first as a haddie was mute,
An' the Harp went on wi' her vapourin*, O !
An' lofty an' loud were the tones slie assumed,
An' boasted how ladies and knichts gaily plumed,
Through rich gilded halls, all so sweetly perfumed.
To the sound of her strings went a caperLn', O !
53
•' Wliile theHaggis,"6he said, " was a beggarly slave,
'•' An' never was seen 'mang the fair an' the brave ;"
'* Fufif ! fufF !" quo' the Haggis, " thou vile lying knave.
Come tell us the use of thy twanging, ?
Can it fill a toom wame ? can it help a man's pack ?
A minstrel when out may come in for his snack,
But when starving at hame, will it keep him, alack !
Frae trying his hand at the hanging, O ?"
The twa they grew wud as >vud could be.
But a minstrel boy they chanced to see,
Wha stood list'ning bye, an' to settle the plea,
They begged he would try his endeavour, !
For the twa in their wrath had all reason forgot.
And stood boiling with rage just like peas in a pot.
But a Haggis, ye ken, aye looks best when it'a hot.
So his bowels were moved in her favour, O !
" Nocht pleasures the lug half sae weel as a tune,
An' whar hings the lug wad be fed wi' a spoon ?"
The Harp in a triumph cried, " Laddie, weel done,"
An' her strings wi' delight fell a tinkling, O !
** The harp's a braw thing," continued the youth,
" But what is a harp to put in the mouth ?
It fills na the wame, it slaiks na the drouth,—
At least, — that is mt/ way o' thinking, O.
" A tune's but an air ; but a Haggis is meai ; —
An' wha plays the tune that a body can eat ? —
When a Haggis is seen wi' a sheep's head and feet.
My word she has gallant attendance, O.
• A man wi' sic fare may ne'er pree the tangs.
But laugh at lank himger though sharp be her fangs ;
But the bard that maun live by the wind o' his sangs,
Waes me, has a puir dependence, O.
" How aften we hear, wi' the tear in our eye.
How the puir starving minstrel, exposed to the sky.
54
Lays his head on his harp, and breathes out his last sigh,
Without e"er a friend \vithtn hearing, O.
But wha ever heard of a minstrel so crust, —
L.ay his head on a Haggis to gie up the ghost ?—
O never, since time took his scythe frae the post,
An truntled awa to the shearing, O.
" Now I'll settle your plea in the crack o' a whup ;^
Gie the Haggis the lead, be't to dine or to sup : —
Till the bags are weel filled, there can nae drone get up,—
Is a saying I learned from my mither, O,
When the feasting is o-»vre, let the harp loudly twang.
An' soothe ilka lug wi' the charms o' her sang,^
An' the wish of my heart is, wherever ye gang,
Gude grant ye may aye be thegither, O." Cay-rick.
SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.
Air — " Tin Rose of AllandaU."
How brightly beams the boimie moon,
Frae out the azure sky ;
While ilka little star aboon
Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.
How calm the eve ! how blest the hour !
How soft the sylvan scene !
How fit to meet thee — lovely flower !
Sweet Bjt of Aberdeen.
Now, let U3 wander through the broom.
And o'er the flowery lea ;
^\^liIe simmer wafts her rich perfume.
Frae yonder hawthorn tree :
There, on yon mossy bank we'll rest,
\Vhere we've sae aftcn been,
Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast.
Sweet Bet of Aberdeea i
55
How sweet to view that face so meek. —
That dark expressive eye, —
To kiss that lovely blushing cheek, —
Those lips of coral dye !
But O ! to hear thy Seraph strains.
Thy maiden sighs between.
Makes i-apture thrill through all my veins-
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen !
O ! what to us is wealth or rank ?
Or what is pomp or power ?
More dear this velvet mossy bank, —
This blest extatic hour !
I'd covet not the Monai-ch's throne.
Nor diamond-studded Queen,
While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. Ah.c. Rodger,
THE NAILER'S WIFE
Air—" Willie Wasile."
Thehk lives a Nailer wast the raw,
Wi' brain o' peat, an' skull o' putty ;
He has a wife — gude satF us a' !
A randy royt ea'd Barmy Betty !
O sic a scauld is Betty !
Och hey ! how bauld is Betty !
Xantippe's sel', wi' snash sae snell.
Was but a lamb compared v.-i' Betty.
An' O but she's a grousome quean,
Wi' face like ony big bass fiddle,
Twa flaming torches are her een.
Her teeth could snap m bits — a griddle.
O what a wight is Betty !
O sic a fright is Betty !
Wi' fiery een, an' furious mien,
The queen o' terrors sure is Betty I
Ye'vu seen upon a rainy night,
Uj/on the dai-k bro>vn clouds refleckit,
56
Clyde Aim Warks* grim an' sullen light-
Then , that's her hrow when fro\ras bedeck it.
O what a brow has Betty !
O sic a cowe is Betty !
Her vera glow'r turns sweet to sour,
Sae baleful is the power o' Betty.
It had been good for you and me,
Had mither Eve been sic a beauty.
She soon wad garr'd aitld Saunders flee
Back to his dungeon dark an' sooty.
O what a grin has Betty !
O how like Sin is Betty !
The auld "foul thief wad seek relief.
In his maist darksome den frae Betty.
"VVhene'er ye see a furious storm,
Uprooting trees, an' lums down smashin'.
Ye then may some idea form,
Of what she's like when in a passion,
O what a barmy Betty !
O sic a stormy Betty !
The wind an' rain maj- lash the plain,
But a' in vain they strive wi' Betty.
For then the weans she cuffs and kicks.
In fau't or no, it mak's nae matter ;
While trenchers, bowls, and candlesticks.
Flee through the house v,i' hailstane blatter.
O what a hag is Betty !
O sic a plague is Betty !
Dog, cat, an' mouse, a' flee the house,
A-wondering what the deuce means Betty.
Her tongue— but to describe its power,
Surpasses far baith speech and \vriting ;
The Carron blast could never roar
Like her, when she begins a flyting.
O what a tongue has Betty !
O siccan lungs has Betty !
37
The blast may tire, the flame expire.
But nought can tire the tongue o' Betty.
Alex. Rodger
«'0 MITHER! ONY BODY."
Air—" Sir Alex. M'Donald't Reel.
" O niither, ony body !
" Ony body ! ony body !
" O mither, ony body !
" But a creeshy weaver.
" A weaver's just as good as nane,
•* A creature worn to skin and banc,
" I'd rather lie through life my lano,
•' Than cuddle wi' a weaver."
Tlie lassie thocht to catch a laird,
But fient a ane about her cared ;
For nane his love had e'er declared.
Excepting, whiles — a weaver.
Yet ne'er a weaver wad she tak'.
But a' that cam', she sent them back,
An' bann'd them for a useless pack,
To come nae mair and deave her.
Their sowen crocks — their trantlum gear —
Their trash o' pirns she couldna bear ;
An' aye the ither jibe and jeer,
She cuist at ilka weaver.
But sair she rued her pridefu' scorn,
E'er thretty nicks had mark'd her horn.
For do-vvn she hurkled a' forlorn.
In solitude to grieve her.
She gaed to kirk, she gaed to fair.
She spread her lure, she set her snare.
But ne'er a nibble gat she there,
Frae leading apes, to save her.
At last, unto the barn she gaed.
An' ilka e'ening duly pray'd,
That some ane might come to her aid.
An' frae her wants relieve her.
58
An' thus the lassie's prayer ran —
" O send thy servant some hit man,
" Before her cheelcs grow hleach'd an' wan,
" An' a* her beauties leave her."
A weaver lad wha ance had woo'd.
But cam' nae speed, do a' he could,
Now thocht her pride might be subdued.
An' that he yet might have her.
Tie watch'd wlien to the bam she gaed.
An' while her bit request she made.
In solemn tone, he slowly said —
" Lass — will ye tak' a weaver."
" Thy vrHl be done — I'm now contcui,
"Just ony body ere I want, *
" I'll e'en be thankfu' gin thou grant,
" That I may get a weaver."
The weaver, he cam* yont neist day,
An* sought her hand — she ne'er said " nay,"
But thocht it time to mak' her hay,
So jumpit at the weaver.
Now, ye whase beauty's on the wane,
Just try the barn, at e'en, your lane,
Sma' fish are better far than nane,
Ye'll maybe catch a weaver. Alex. Rodger,
BLYTHE ARE WB SET ^\^• ITHER.*
Blythe are we set \vi' ither ;
Fling Care aj'ont the moon ;
• This song hitli a right pleasant smack of boon companionship.
The lines—
Now, round the ingle cheerly met.
We'll scug the blast, and dread nae harm ;
Wi'Jaws 0' todd;j reeking hef,
^\'e'll keep the genial current -wariii—
are -wortliy of Burns. The Author -was Ebenezer Picken, a native of
Paisley, who was bom about the year 1765, and, after many vicissitudes,
diL'd in 15515, or 1816. His Poems have been published.
59
No sae aft we meet thegither ;
^V^la wad think o' parting soon ?
Though snaw bends dowTi the forest trees,
And burn and river cease to flow ;
Though Nature's tide hae shor'd to freeze.
And Winter nithers a' below ;
Blythe are we, &c.
Now, round the ingle cheerly met.
We'll scug the blast, and dread nae harm :
Wi' jaws o' toddy reeking het.
We'll keep the genial cm-rent warm.
The friendly crack, thecheerfu' sang,
Shall cheat the happy hours awa',
Gar pleasure reign the e'ening lang,
And laugh at biting frost and snaw.
Blythe are we, &c.
The cares that cluster round the heart.
And gar the bosom stound wi' pain.
Shall get a fright afore we part,
AVill mak* them fear to come again.
Then, fill about, my winsome chiels.
The sparkling glass will banish pine ;
Nae pain the happy bosom feels,
Sae free o' care as yours and mine.
Blythe are we, &e.
ADAM GLEN.*
Tune — Adam Glen.
Pauky Adam Glen,
Piper o' the clachan,
^Vhan he stoitet ben
Sairly was he pechan,
Spak a wee, but tint his win',
Hurklit down and hostit syne.
• By Mr. Laing of Brechin— this is one of the best iUustrations of
the frosty-bearded anti-Malthasiaa that we have met -with in t)-pe.
CO
Blew his beak, an' digh tit's een.
An' whaisl't a' forfoughten.
But, his yokin dune,
Cheerie kyth't the body,
Crackit like a gun,
An' leugh to auntie Madie ;
Cried, my callants, raise a spring,
*' Inglan John," or ony thing,
For weel I'd lilve to see the fling,
O' ilka lass and laddie.
BIythe the dancers flew.
Usquebaugh was plenty,
BIythe the piper grew,
Tho' shaking ban's ^.vV ninety.
Seven times his bridal vow
Ruthless fate had broken thro'—
Wha wad thought his coming now
Was for our maiden auntie.
She had ne'er been sought,
Cheerie houp was fading,
Dowie is the thought
To live and die a maiden.
How it comes we canna ken,
Wanters ay maun wait their ain,
Madge is hecht to Adam Glev,
An' soon we'U hae a wedding'.
SANCT MUNGO.*
Saxct Mongo wals ane famous sanct.
And ane cantye carle wals bee.
He drank o' ye Molendinar Burne,
Qulian bettere bee culdna prie ;
• The Patron saint of Glasgo-sr Cathedral. The Molendinar hum,
alluded to in the third line, is the Lethe that separates the two gre.at
repositories of mortalitj-— the churchyard of the Cathedral, and the
Necropolis.
61
Zit quhan he culd gette sti-ongere cheere,
He neuer wals wattere drye,
Butte dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimplaiid worme.
And loot ye burne rynne bye.
Sanct Mungo wals ane merrye sanct,
And merrylye hee sang ;
Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge,
Ye very Fure Parke rang ;
Butte thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge,
And mak sweet melodye,
He chavmtit aye ye bauldest straynes,
Quhan prymed wi' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct,
Farre-famed for godlye deedis,
And grete delyte hee daylye took
Inn coimt jTige owre hys beadis ;
Zit I, Sanct Blungo's youngeste sonne.
Can count als welle als hee ;
Butte ye beadis quilk I like best to count
Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane jolly sanct : —
Sa weele hee lykit gude zil,
Thatte quhyles hee staynode hys quhyto vesture,
"\Vi' dribblands o' ye still ;
Butte I, hys maist unwordye sonne,
Haue gane als farre als hee,
For ance I tynde my garmente skirtis,
Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree. Alex. Rodger.
GLASGOW PATRIOTS.*
Air — " There was a hamUome Soldier."
LoYAii hearted citizens !
Great news there's come to to^vn ;
• It is not long since the turf covered the remains of the Glasgow Homer,
Alex. M'Donald, aJias, Blind Aleck, author of these verses, who for many
62
I have not got the particulars yet,
But tlaey'll be in the afternoon-
Loyal hearted citizens •
Great news I've got to tell,
Of the wars in Spain and Portingall,
And how the town of Badajos feU.
There was one Aleck Pattison,
A man of great renown ;
He was the first that did mount Badajos walla.
And the fii'st that did tumble do^vn.
He was a handsome tall young gentleman,
As ever my eyes did see ;
A captain, colonel, or major.
He very soon would be.
I am the author of every word I sing,
\Miich you may very well see,
The music alone excepted,
But just of the poetree.
I've travell'd the world all over,
And many a place beside ;
But I never did see a more beautifuller city,
Than that on the banks of the navigatable river, the Clyda
I left Inverness without e'er a guide.
And arrived in Glasgow city,
"NVliere I've been informed that hold John Bull,
Again beat the French so pretty.
years perambulated our streets, and with dexter hand directed the move-
ments of his violin, while liis lips gave the mtasured accompaniment.
A remarkably spirited sketch of his life appeared in the Scots Times
Newspaper at his death, drawn up by our City Chamberlain, Mr. John
Strang. Aleck was, perhaps, one of the readiest improvisatores of his
time ; and it was greatly to his advantage that he was not distressed
by a very delicate ear for either numbers or harmony. 'Whether his
lines had a greater number of feet than consisted with ease and ST.-«:e,
cr limped in their motion for want of the due proportion, tnese defects
were amply compensated for by a rapid articulation in the one case, and
In the other by a strong daeh or two of the bov.
63
I came into the Star Inn and Hotel ;
First, they gave me brandy, and then they gave me gin i
Here's success, to all the waiters
Of the Stai- Inn and Hotel !
THE TOOM MEAL-POCK.*
Preserve us a' ! what shall we do.
Thir dark unhallowed times ?
We're surely dreeing penance now.
For some most a^vfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,
In reality or joke,
For ilka chield maun mourn wi' me,
O' a hinging toom meal-pock.
And sing, Oh waes me !
\Vhen lasses braw gaed out at e'en.
For sport and pastime fi-ee,
I seem'd like ane in paradise.
The moments quick did flee.
Like Venuses they a' appeared,
AVe.-l pouther'd were their locks — f
Twaseasy dune, when at their hames,
Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
And sing. Oh waes me !
How happy past my fonner days,
Wi' merry heartsome glee,
<V"lien smiling Fortune held the cup.
And Peace sat on my knee ;
Nae wants had I but were supplied.
My heart wi' joy did knock,
» This capital song was -written by John Robertson, Weaver, in
Paisley, about the time of the political ferments of 1793. We kno\*
not the air to which it is sung, but believe it is an old one. Our worthy
friend, Mr. George Miller, Blantyre, sings it inimitably, whether
tlio air, or the accent, or the action, be taken into consideration.
i The allusion here, is to hair powder, which, at the time in queation,
was u»ed by all respectable person*, gerMc ami *emji/«.
Oi
^\^len in the neuk, I smiling saw
A gaucie, weel-filled pock.
And sing, Oh waes mo:
Speak no ae word about Ileform,
Nor petition Parliament ;
A wiser scheme I'll now propone,
I'm sure ye'll gie consent ; —
Send up a chield or twa like him,
As a sample o' the flock,
Whase hollow cheeks wll be sure proof
O' a hinging toom meal-pock.
And sing. Oh waes me !
And should a sicht sae ghastly like,
Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
Hae nae impression on yon folks.
Just tell ye'll stand a-hin.
O, what a contrast will ye show.
To the glow'rin' Lunnun folk,
WTien in &t. James' ye tak' your stand,
Wi' a hinging toom meal-pock.
And sing. Oh waes me •
Then rear your hand, and glow'r, and stare,
Before yon hills o' beef ;
Tell them ye are frae Scotland come.
For Scotia's relief ;— ,
Tell them ye are the very best
Wal'd frae the fattest flock ;
Then raise yoiu: ai-ms, and O ! display
A hinging toom meal-pock.
And sing, Oh waes me I
Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain
That bauds the state thegither,
For Scotland %\ishes just to tak'
Gude niclit wi' ane anither !
We canna thole, we canna bide
This bard unwieldy yoke,
For wark and want but ill agree,
Wi' a hinging toom meal-pock.
And eing. Oh waes me .'
05
I SHALL RETDllN AGAIN.*
J WOULD not have thee dry the tear
That dims thine eye of blue ;
I would not that thy check should wear
A smile at our adieu : •
Yet cheer tliee, love, the past Avas bliss.
And though we part in pain,
A happier hour will follow this.
And we shall meet again.
Oh think not that the wild sea-wave
Shall bear my heart from thee,
Unless its cold breast prove my gTave,
'Twill work no change in me.
The troubled music of the deep
Is now our farewell strain,
And fond affection well may weep.
Yet — I'll return again.
I go to find a bower of peace,
In lovelier lands than thine.
Where cruel fortune's fro\vns shall cease,
AVhere I can call thee mine.
And when to crown my fairy plan,
But one thimj shall remain ;
Then, love— if there be truth in man—
I shall return again. Wm. Kennedy.
THE ANSWER.
Whv walk I by the lonely strand ?
He comes not with the tide,
• This song was one of the first vrritleu by I\fr. Kennedy, and was
presented hy him to our publisher, who had suggested the air to which
it is usually sung— The Highland Watch, or March in the 42d Pi,egi.
ment. We regret that a lyrist so highly gifted does not favour the
■world with more of liis pieces.
£
66
His home is in another land, ^
The stranger is his bride.
The stranger, on whosa lofty brow.
The circling diamonds shine,
Is now his bride, whose earliest vow,
And pledge of hope, were mine.
Tliey tell me that my cheek is pale»
That youth's light smile is gone ; • '
That mating with the ocean gale
Hath chilled my heart to stone ;
And friendship asks what secret care
Tliere is to work me wo,
But vainly seeks a grief to share
\STiich none shall ever know.
Ye waves, that heard the false one swear.
But saw him not return,
I'e'll not betray me, if a tear
Should start in spite of scorn.
Yet, no — a wounded spi rit's pride.
Though passion's pangs are deep,
ShaU dash the trait 'reus drop aside.
From eyes that must not weep.
In vain, ulas ! I have no power
To quit this lonely strand.
From whence, at the \\ M parting hour,
I saw him leave the land.
Though he has ta'en a stranger bride,
My love \\ill not depart ;
Its seal, too strong for woman's pride.
Shall be a broken heart. Wm. Kenncdi/.
NED BOLTON.
A JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea ;
AVhen I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass be !
And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken dovra in shame,-
If, when the social can gc^cs roimd, I fail to pledge thy name I
67
Up, Tip, my lads ! — his memory! — we'll give it w ith a cheer,—
Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake privateer !
Poor Ned ! he had a heart of steel, Avith neither flaw nor
speck ;
Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter-deck j
He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian dame,
And Spanish planters crossed themselves at whisper of his
name;
But now, Jamaica girls may weep — rich Dons securely
smile — ■
His bark will take no prize again, nor ne'er touch Indian
isle!
•S blood ! 'twas a son-y fate he met on his own mother wave,—
The foe far off, the stoi-m asleep, and yet to find a gi-ave !
With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane,
No need would he have had to cruise, in tropic climes,
again :
But some are horn to sink at sea, and some to hang on
shore,
And Fortune cried, God speed ! at last, and welcomed Ned
no more.
•Twas off the coast of Mexico— the tale is bitter brief—
The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef ;
Upon a cutting coral-reef— scarce a good league from land-
But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged upon the
strand :
His boats wei-e lost before Cape Horn, and, with an old
canoe.
Even had he numbered ten for one, what could Ned Bolton
do?
Six days and nights, the vessel lay upon the coral-reef,
Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought prospect of
relief ;
For a land-breeze, the wild one prayed, who never prayed
before.
And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip and swore:
68
The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not venture
near.
Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer !
A calm ! — a calm ! — a hopeless calm ! — the red su^j burning
high.
Glared blisteringly and wearily, in a transparent sky ;
The grog went round the gasping crew, and loudly rose the
song,
The only pastime at an horn* when rest seemed far too Ion..
So boisterously they took their rouse, upon the crowde i
deck ,
They looked like men who had escaped, not feared, a sud-
den ^vreck.
Up sprung the breeze the seventh day — away ! away ! to sea
Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters free ;
Their battle-flag these rovers bold then hoisted top-mast
high,
And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying cry.
" One last broadside !" Ned Bolton cried, — deep biwmed the
cannon's roar,
And echo's hollow growl retm-ned an answer, from the
shore.
The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tumultuous
cheer,
Ceased not, so long as ocean s-pared, the shattered privateer :
I saw her— I— she shot by me, like lightning, in the gale.
We strove to save, we tacked, and fast we slackened aU
our sail —
[ knew the wave of Xed's right hand— farewell .'—you strive
in vain !
And he, or one of his ship's crew, ne'er enter'd port again
Win. Kenned I/.
IRISH INSTRUCTION
In- this wonderful age when most men go to college,
And everj' man's skull holds a hatful of knowledge.
09
Twill soon be a wonder to meet ■with a fool,
Since men are abroad like Professor O'Toole.
Derry do^vn, do^vn, down, derry do\^Ti.
There are very few men like O'Toole who can teach,
When the head wont respond, he applies to the breech j
And whacking them well, till he gives them their full,
Let us knock in the larning, says Doctor O'Toole.
Derry dONXTi, &c.
One morning the Doctor went out to his walk,
And found on the door his own likeness in chalk.
That morning he flogg'd every hratin the school,
its a part of my system, says Doctor O'Toole.
Deny down, &c.
Now get on with your laniing as fast as you can.
For knowledge is sweeter than eggs done with ham ;
Fire away with j'our lessons, mind this is the school.
Or I'll blow ye to pot, says Professor O'Toole.
Derry down, &c.
And now, my dear childer, bear this in j'our mind.
That words without meaning are nothing but wind ;
Accept of all favours, make that the first rule.
Or your nothing but goslins, says Doctor O'Toole.
Derry down, &c.
■VMien you go to a house and they ax you to eat.
Don't hold down your head, and refuse the good meat;
But say you will drink too, or else you're a fool.
Myself docs the same thing, says Doctor O'Toole.
Derry down, &c.
When father and mother have turned tlieir backs.
Don't kick up a row with the dog and the cat ;
Nor tie the pig's tail to a table or stool,
Ve're a parcel of villains, says Doctor O'Toole.
Derry do^\'n, &c.
But give over fighting, and think of your sins.
Or I'll break ev'ry bone in your rascally skins.
70
Nor try to deceive me like ducks in a pool.
For I'll find out the sinner, saj's Doctor OToole.
Derry down, &c.
When into your grandmother's cup-hoard ye hreak.
In scrambling do^\'n from it take care of yoiir neck—
Don't cheat the poor hangman, that crazy old fool ;
Give the Devil his due, says Professor O'Toole.
Derry dowTi, &c.
The lessons are over, so rim away home.
Nor turn up j-our nose at a crust or a bone ;
Come back in the morning, for that is the rule ;
And ye'U get more instructions from Doctor O'Toole.
Derry douTi, &c.
MARY BEATON.
Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton !
Bonnie blooming :Ma]-y Beaton '.
Could I but gain her for my ain,
I'd be the blythest wight in Britain.
I've woo'd and sued this mony a day,
Ilk tender vow o' love repeatin',
But still she smiles, and answers " nay,"
"WTiile I, puir saul ! am near the greetin',
Bonny blooming, &c.
If smiles frae her can wound sae sair.
How sail- were fro^vns frae ^lary Beaton !
The lee-lang night I sich and grane.
An' toss an' tumble till I'm sweatin',
For -tt-ink o' sleep can I get nane.
For thinkin' still on Mary Beaton.
Bonnie blooming, &c.
Poor troubled ghaist ! I get nae rest,
And what's my trouble ? JNIarj' Beaton.
WTien ither youngsters blythe an' gay.
Set afif to join some merry meetin',
71
By some dyke-side I lanely stray,
A-musing still on Mary Beaton.
Bonnie blooming, &c,
A' mirth an' fun, I hate an' shun,
An' a' for sake o' Mary Beaton.
I ance could laugh an' sing wi' glee.
And grudg'd the hours sae short an' fleetin'.
But now ilk day's a moon to me,
Sae sair I lang for Mary Beaton.
Bonnie blooming, &e.
Till ance she's mine, I'll Avaste an' pine,
For now I'm past baith sleep an' eatin'
Her fairy form sae light an' fair,
Her gracefu' manner sae invitin',
Alas ! will kill me wi' despair,
Unless I soon get Mary Beaton.
Bonnie blooming, &c.
Wad she but bless me wi' a Yes,
Oh how that yes my lot wad sweeten !
Alex. Rodggr.
PETER AND MARY ;
A KITCHEN BALLAD.
Fowided on Fact, and written expressly fur all the Hangers-on aliui Ih-,
Dripping-Pan.
The learned have said (but ^^'ho can tell
When learned folks are right)
That there is no such thing in life
" As loving at first sight."
But I will now an instance bring.
You may rely upon,
How Peter Black fell deep in love
With Mary MucKiiBJOiiN^
72
He through the kitchen-^v'indow lock'f^,
"Wlien INIary just had jiot
A rcund of beef all newly cook'd,
And smoking from the pot.
And aye he gaz'd and aye he smelt,
AVith many a hungry groan.
Till ^Mary's heart began to melt
Like marrow in the bone.
And looking up, she sweetly smiled.
Her smile it seemed to say,
" Please, IMr. Black, if you're inclined.
You'll dine with me to-day."
At least so Peter read her smile.
And soon tripp'd down the stair ;
TVTien ]\Iary kindly Avelcom'd him,
And help'd him to a chau-.
There much he praised the roimd of beef.
And much he praised the maid ;
While she, poor simple soul, believed
Each flattering word he said.
Perhaps he made some slight mistakes,
Yet part might well be trew'd.
For though her face was no great shakes.
The beef was really good.
Then Peter pledged his troth, and swore
A constant man he'd be,
And daili/, like a man of truth,
Came constantly at three.
And thus he dared, though long and leaii.
Each slanderous tongue to say.
That, though when present he seem'd long.
That he was long away.
Three was the hour, when bits were nice.
And then he show'd his face.
73
But show'd it there so very oft
That Mary lost her place.
Some fair ones say that love is sweet.
And hideth many a fault ;
Our fair one found, when turrCd aioay^
Her love was rather salt.
Poor IMary says to Peter Black,
" Now wedded let us be,
Bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh
You promis'd to make me."
" Flesh of your flesh, I grant I said,
Bone of j'our bone, I'd be ;
But now you know you've got na flesh.
And hones are not for me."
Poor Cooky now stood all aghast
To find him on the shy.
And rais'd her apron-tail to wipo
The dripping from her eye.
She sobb'd *' Oil, perjured Peter Black,
The basest man I know.
You're Black by name, you're black at heart.
Since you can use me so."
Yet, still to please her Peter's taxte
Gave her poor heart relief ;
So Mary went and hung herself.
And thus became humj beef.
That grief had cut her up, 'twas plain
To every one in town.
But Peter, when he heard the tale.
He ran and cut her down.
Fast, fast his briny tears now flow'd
Yet Mary's sands ran fleeter ;
Such brine could not preserve the maid.
Though from her own salt Peter.
74
Prom this let cookmaids learn to shun
Men who are long and lean ;
For when they talk about their love,
'Tis pudding that they mean. Carrick.
THE DEIL O' BUCKLYVTE.
Nae doubt ye'll hae heard how daft Davie Jf'Ouat
Cam' hame like a deil, wi' an auld horn bouat ;
His feet they were cloven, horns stuck through his bonnet.
That fley'd a' the nieboiirs when e'er they look'd on it ;
The bairns flew like bees in a fright to their hivie,
For ne'er sic a deil was e'er seen in Bucklyvie.
We had deils o' our ain in plenty to grue at,
^yithout makin' a new deil o' Davie M'Ouat :
We hae deils at the somin', and deils at blasphemin' ;
We hae deils at the ciu-sin', and deils at nicknamin' ;
But for cloots and for horns, and jaws fit to rive ye.
Sic a deil never cam' to the to^\-n o' Bucklyvie.
We hae deils that will lie wi' ony deils breathing i
We're a' deils for drink when we get it for naething ;
We tak' a' we can, we gie unco little,
For no ane '11 part wi' the reek o' his spittle ;
The shool we ne'er use, \n' the rake we ^^•ill rive you,
So we'll fen without ony mau- deils in Bucklyvie.
Though han'less and clootless, wi' nae tail to smite yc,
Like leeches when yaup, yet fu' sair can we bite ye ;
In our meal -pock nae new deil ^^^ll e'er get his nieve in,
For among us the auld ane could scarce get a livin'.
To keep a' that's gude to ourselves we contrive aye,
For that is the creed o' the town o' Bucklyvie.
But deils wi' Court favour wo never look blue at.
Then let's drink to our new deil, daft Davie M'Ouat ;
75
And lang may he wag baith his tail and his bairdie,
"Without skaith or scorning frae lord or frae lairdie ;
Let him get hut the Queen at our fauts to connive aye,
He'll be the best deil for the toAvn o' Bucklyric.
Now, I've teirt ye ilk failin', I've tell't ye ilk faut ;
Stick mair to yer moilin', and less to yer maut ;
And aiblins ye'll find it far better and wiser.
Than traikin' and drinkin' wi' Davie the guizar ;
And never to wanthrift may ony deil drive ye,
Is the wish o' wee Watty, the bard o' Bucklyvie.
Carrick.
A MOTHER'S DAUTY.
Am — " Mt/ mither's aye glorvrin' orvre me."
My mither wad hae me weel married.
My mither wad hae me weel married ;
Na, she tries a' she can
To get me a gudeman ,
But as yet, a' her plans hae miscarried.
To balls and to concerts she hies me.
And meikle braw finery buys me ;
But the men are sae shy,
They just glow'r and gang by,
There's nane has the senso yet to prize me.
To ilka tea-party she tak's me,
And the theme o' her table-talk mak's me ;
But the folks leuk sae queer,
AVhen she cries "Lizzy! dear,"
That their conduct most grievously racks me.
She haurls me afiF to the coast there, j
Expecting to mak' me the toast there ; \
But somehow or ither, j
A lass wi' her mither, i
Discovers her time is but lost there. n
76
At the kirk, too, I'm made to attend her.
Not wholly heart-homage to render,
But in rich "silken sheen,"
Just to see and be seen,
And to dazzle the go^vk3 wi' my splendour ;
But for a' my sweet smirks and my glances.
There's never a A^rooer advances
To oxter me hame,
Wi' my dainty auld dame ;
Alas, now, how kittle my chance is !
I'm sure I'm as good as my cousin, ,
Wha reckons her joes by the dizen ;
That besiege her in thrangs,
nka gate that she gangs,
A' swarmin' like bumbecs a-bizzin' .
And for beauty, pray what's a' her share o't ?
Like me she could thole a hue mair o't ;
For it's granted by a*,
Though she dresses right braw,
She has v.orderfu' little to spare o't.
But I trow I maun try a new plan yet ,
And depend on myscV for a man yet ;
For my cousin Kate vows.
That some mithers are coives.
That wad scaur the b_'st chiel that ever ran yet.
And gin I hae the luck to get married,
Gin I hae the luck to get man-ied,
Wi' a husband to guide,
(Let Miss Kate then deride,)
I'll be proud that my point has been carried.
Alex. Rodger,
" HOUT AW A', JO^^'NY, LAD!"
Hour awa', Johnny, lad ! what maks ye flatter me ?
Why wi' your praises sae meikle bespatter me ?
77
\Miy sae incessantly deavc and be-clatter me,
Teasing me mair than a body can bide ?
Can I believe, when ye " angel" and "goddess* me,
That ye 're in earnest to mak nie your bride ?
Say, can a woman o' sense or yet modesty,
Listen to talk frae the truth sae far wide ?
Few are the flatterer's claims to sincerity.
Loud though he boast o' his honour and verity ;
Truth frae liis lips is a wouderfu' rarity,
"Words by his actions are sadly belied !
Woman he deems but a toy to be sported wi',
Dawted or spurned at, as caprice may guide ;
Blooming a while to be dallied and courted wi'.
Then to be flung like auld lumber aside !
True love has seldom the gift o' loquacity.
Lips to express it, aft want the capacity ;
Wlia, then, cm trust in a wooer's veracity,
Whase butter'd words o'er his tongue saftly slide ?
"Wliat are love's tell-tales, that give it sweet utterance.
Wherein the maiden may safely confide ?
What — but tlie glances, the sighs and heart-flutterings.
Of the loved youth who takes truth for his guide ?
Yet, though I've spoken wi' seeming severity.
Made observations wi' prudish asperity,
I'd be the last ane to geek, or to sneer at ye.
Kenning how little is made by fause pride.
Could we but then understand ane anither, then
Soon wad my bosom the matter decide ;
Leaving my worthy auld father and mither, then
Hey, Johnny, lad ! I'd become your ain bride.
Alex. Rodger.
HIGHLAND PGLITICIANS.
Come, Tougall, tell me what you'll thocht
Anout this Bill Reform, man.
78
Tafs preeding sic a muckle steer.
An' like to raise ta storm, man ;
For no o ta peoples meet in troves,
On both sides o' ta Tweed, man,
An' spoket sijeectiums loud an' lang,
An' very pauld inteed, man.
Teed, Tonald, lad, she'll no pe ken.
For she's nae politish, man,
But for their speechums loud an' lang.
She wadna gie tat sneesh, man ;
For gin she'll thocht ta thing was ricbt.
She wad her beetock traw, man.
An' feught like tamn — till ance ta Bill
Was made coot Cospel law, man.
Hoot toot, man, Tougall ! tat micht do
When Shordie Twa did ring, man.
An' her fore-faiters trew ta tu-k.
To mak teir Chairlie king, man ;
But tirks, an' pistols, an' claymores,
Pe no for me nor you, man ;
Tey'll a' pe out o' fashions gane
Since pluity Waterloo, man.
Last nicht she'll went to pay her rent,
Ta laird gie her ta tram, man.
An' tell her tat this Bill Reform
Was shust a ncmsense tamn, man !
Pfe no for honest man's, she'll say,
Pe meddle 'flfairs o' State, man.
But leave those matters to him's Crack,
Him's Clory, an' ta great man.
She'll talk 'pout Revelations, too,
Pe pad an' \vicked thing, man,
Wad teuk awa ta 'stinctions a',
Frae peggar down to king, man ;
Nae doubts, nae doubts, her nainsel' said.
But yet tere's something worse, man.
79
To Revolations tat will teuk
Ta puir man's cow nor horse, mau.
An' ten she'll ■wish ta Ministers
Pe liicket frae teir place, man :
Och hon, och hon ! her nainsel said.
Tat wad pe wofu' case, man ;
For gin ta Ministers pe fa',
Precentors neist maim gang, man—
Syne wha wad in ta Punker stood.
An* lilt ta godly sang, man ?
Och ! ten ta laird flee in a rage.
An' sinfu'dicl^ me ca', man —
Me tell him no pe understood
"What him will spoke ava, man :
Ta sinfu'diel !— na, na, she'll say.
She'll no pelang tat clan, man,
Hersel's a true an' trusty Grant,
As coot as 'nitter man, man.
But, Tougall, lad ! my 'pinion is,-
An' tat she'll freely gie, man,
Ta laird pe fear tat this Reform
Will petter you an' me, man :
For like some ither lairds, she still
"Wad ride upon our pack, man ;
But fait ! she'll maj-pe saw ta tay,
Pe tell him 'nitter crack, man.
For Shames ta/eelerj say this Bill
Will, mak' ta rents pe fa', man ;
Pe mak' ta sueesh an' whisky cheap,
Ta gauger chase awa, man ;
An' ne'er let lairds nor factors more
Pe do ta poor man's harm, man,
Nor pum him's house apoon him's bead.
An' trive him aff ta farm, man
♦ Infidel. -f .laniM the AVeaver.
80
Weel, Tonald ! gin I'll thochtit that.
Reformer I will turn, man.
For wi' their 'pressions an' their scorns,
My very pluit will purn, man :
Och, shust to hae ta t :y apout,
Wi' some tat I will ken, man ;
Tey'Il primt my house to please ta laird.
Cot I let them try't again,, maji !
Alex. Rodger.
O ! DINXA BID JilE GANG ^\l' YOU.
O ! DrxNA bid me gang wi* you,
'Twould break my mither's heart ;
There's nane to care for her but me,
Sae dinna bid us part :
Increasing frailties tell that here
Her time will no be lang,
And wha wad tend her deeing bed.
Gin I \sV you should gang ?
She kens our hearts, and says she thinks
She could our absence bear ;
But while she speaks, her aged e'e
Is glist'ning wi' a tear.
Light waos will weet the youthfu' cheek,
But ah ! scvcre's the pang
That stirs the time-dried fount of grief,
Sae dinna bid me gang.
James Scott,
KILROONY'S VISIT TO LONDON.
Have ye heard of the excellent sport
Afforded by blaster Kilroony,
How, when he got up to the court.
The king recognised an old cronj?
81
* Right happy to see you I am !
And welcome you are into Limnan :
The natives cried out, there is Dan,
We scarcely believed you were comin*.
(Spoken.) ' And so, Mr. Daniel Kilroony, how do you do ?' says the
King. ' Pretty -well, I thank you,' says Dan, ' Oxis doxis glorioxis t»
your Kingship's glory, forever, and a day after; I hope your Majesty ia
full of salubrity ?• ' That I am,' says the King. ' Did you bring your
ahillelah -with ye, Dan?' ' I did.' 'And right you were,' says His
Majesty, ' for betwixt you and me, there is the ouhl one to pay here, and
no money to give him ; depend upon it, there will be wigs upon the grass
this year, long before it grows, Dan ; but keep your mind asy, for I am
determined to stand by my loyal loving subjects as long as they have a
button on their coats.' ' That's right,' s.ays Dan, ' and if one of the var-
mint, after this, presume to question your Blajesty's goodness, blow
me if I don't beat their two eyes into one.'
Then tlie King and Kilroony do^^'n sat,
And partook of an excellent dinner ;
There was roasted and boil'd, lean and fat.
To comfort the heart of each sinner ;
There was brandy, and porter, and ale,
With excellent wine and gOod wliisky ,
All the fruits that are sold by retail j
So the King and Kikoony got frisky.
' And how is Mrs. Kilroony and all the childer ?' says the King, after
the dianer was over. ' Why, pretty well, thank your IMajesty," says Dan.
• How is your own good lady, the Que.an, I don't see her about all the
house, at-all-at-all ?' ' Spake aisy.'says the King, 'she's in bad Immour
to-day, this is Friday, and she's busy wi' wasliing and cleaning ; and
when engaged in that sort of work, the ould black gentleman with the
long tail, couldn't make Tier keep the dumb side of her ipngub
undermost.' 'And are ye so circumst;uiced,' says Dan, 'it's just thf
»ame way with Mrs. Kilroony; when her blood got np, she used to
Hoake me believe that she would fight the devil himself; but faitlj J
F
82
took it out of her.' ' And how did you manage that ?' says the
King.' • Just wi' the same elegant instrument you were enquiring after
a little ago. I rubbed her down with an oaken towel, and gave her five-
and-twenty drops of shillelah oil nest her stortAch in the morning.
•Don't mention it," says the Iving. * Tlien don't ax me," says Daa.
' Arrah, murder !' exclaim'd the good King,
• Could you cudgel the bones of a woman ?'
• I would try,' says Kilroony, ' to bring
Back her sinses, and make her a true one ;
For ladies when doing what's -wrong,
Are nought but a parcel of varmint:
Says the King to Kilroony, ' go home,
I've heard quite enough of your sai^nint
' Getoutof myhousethisminute,'saystheKing, 'and never afterwards
let me hear you insinuate any thing against the female generation.
Bad luck to yoi. for a dirty bog-trotting-potValloper, can't ye give out
your counsel to your own beautiful pisanfry, six millions of elegant
male and female Paddies, all in a state of beautiful naturality; sure
there's work enough for your patriotism. Daniel Kilroony, leave
this, I say, and never be after showing yourself here as long as there's
a nose protruding from your countenance.' ' Please yonr Majesty," says
Ilan, ' might I venture to show myself should I ever happen to lose that
nspfiil appendage?' 'Never,' says th* King — 'leave my presence, oi
III spake ye into the earth in a moment.
So Kilroony was * cut at th<; court.
And soon left the city of Limnan ;
All the Paddies had capital sport.
When thej' saw poor Kilroony back coming
'Kilroony, Kilroony!' said they,
' You would fain be a parliament minibcr.
But the King lie put salt in your tay,
And buru't your nose with a cinder.
O have you not heard, dc.
83
THE DETJKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE.*
The bairns got up in a loud, loud skrcech,
-The deuks dang o'er my Daddie, O ;
Quo' our gude%vife, " let him lie there,
For he's just a paidling body, O :
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
He paidles late and early, O ;
This thirty years I hae been his wife,
And comfort comes but sparely, O."
•' Now haud your tongue," quo' our gudeman,
" And dinna be sae siucy, O,
I've seen the day, and so hae ye,
I was baith young and gaucy, O.
I've seen the d ly you butter'd my brose,
And cuitered me late and early, O ;
But auld age is on me now,
And wow but I fin't richt sairly, O."
*' I carena' tho' ye were i' the mools,
Or dookit in a boggie, O ;
I kenna the use o' the crazy auld fool,
But just to toom the coggie, O.
Gin the win' were out o' your whaisling hauze,
I'd marry again and be voggie, O ;
Some bonny young lad would be my lot,
Some rosy cheeked roggie, O."
Quo' our gudeman, " gie me that Rimg
That's hingin' in the ingle, ;
I'se gar ye haud that sorrowf u' tongue.
Or else your lugs mil tingle, O.
* The first two stanzas are, with a fov verbal alterations, from
Bums — the additional verses are by a facetious contributor to whom
this publication is indebted for the graphic humour of our brethren of
the Oreen Isle.
84
Gang to your bed this blessed nicht,
Or I'll be j'our undoing, O ;"
The canny auld wife crap out o' sicht,
"NMiat think ye o' sic wooing, O ?
LOVE'S FIRST QUARREL.
" Whar' shall I get anithcr love,
Sin' Johnny's ta'en the gee ?
WTiar' shall I get anither love.
To speak kind words to me ?
To row me in his cozie plaid,
"Wlian ^vint^y winds blaw snell,
■\Miar' shall I get anither love ?
Waes me, I canna tell.
Yestreen I quarrel 'd ^\^' my love,
'Cause he behaved immeet.
An' rubb'd my cheek wi' his hard chin
Till I was like to greet.
I flate upon him lang and sair.
At last he took the huff,
An' tel't him ne'er to see my face.
If he kept his baird sae rough.
But a' nicht lang I lay an' sigh't,
Wi' the waiTii tear in my e'e.
And I wish'd I had my Johnny back,
Though his baird wei'e to his knee.
It's harsh to use a maiden thus.
For her simplicity,
Wlia scarce can tell what loving means.
Or kens what maii should be."
The youth ahint the hallan stood.
And snirtled in his sleeve.
85
It's cordial to a love-sick heart.
To hear its true love grieva
He slipp'd ahint her — ere she wist.
He baith her een did steek,
" Now guess and tell wha's loeel-shav'd chin,
Is press'd upon your cheek ?"
Her lips sae rich wi' Jiinn)/ dew,
Smil'd sae forgiving-like,
That Johnny crook'd his thievish mou.
To herry the sweet bpke.
Camck,
THE GUDEMAN'S PROPHECY
The win' blew loud on our lum-liead.
About auld Hallowe'en ;
Quo' our gudewife to our gudeman,
" What may this tempest mean ?"
The gudeman shook liis head, an' sich'd.
Quo' he, " 'tween you and me,
I fear we'll haesome bluidy wark.
And tliat ye'U live to see.
For just before the Shirra Muir,
We had sic thuds o' win',
An' mony a bonny buik lay cauld.
Before that year Avas dune."
" Hoot, toot ! gudeman, ye're haverin' noo.
An' talkin' like a fule.
Ye ken we've aye sic thuds o' win',
'Bout Candlemas or Yule."
*• I'll no be ca'd a fule," quo" he,
" By ony worthless slie,
My boding it sail stan' the test.
An' that belyve ye'll sec"
86
"To ca' yoiir ^yife a worthless she.
Shows just ye're scant o' wit.
But if ye'll speak that word again,
I'll brain you whar ye sit."
Now up gat he, and up gat she,
An' till't fell teeth an' nail,
"VVhUe frae the haffets o' them baith.
The bluid cam doAvn like haJL
Our GutchjTe now spak frae the nuik,
A sairie man was he,
" Sit down, sit do^sTi, ye senseless fouk.
An' let sic tuilzcing be.
An' gudewife leam an' no despiso
The word o' prophecy.
For " bhiidi/ icark" this nicht has been.
An' that ye've lived to see.
I could hae seen wi' hauf an e'e.
The prophecy was sure,
For siccan words 'tween married fouks.
Bring on a " SJiirra Muir."
An' noo I hope ilk wedded pair,
A moral here may fin'.
An' mind though tempest rage Avithout,
A calm sough keep within.
Carrick.
THE AVEE RAGGIT LADDIE.
Wee stuffy, stumpj', dumpie laddie,
Thou urchin elfin, bare an' duddy.
Thy plumpit kite an' cheek sae ruddy
Are fairly baggit,
Although the breekums on thy fuddy
Are e'en right raggit.
87
Thy wee roun* pate, sae black an' curly.
Thy tv,-a hare feet, sae stoure an" burly,
The biting frost, though snell an' surly
An' sair to bide,
Is scouted by thee, Ihou hardy wiu:ly,
Wi' sturdy pride.
Come frost, come snaw, come win', come weet,
Owcr frozen dubs, through slush an' sleet.
Thou patters wi' thy wee red feet
Right bauld an' sicker.
An' ne'er wast kenned to whmge or greet.
But for thy bicker.
Our gentry's wee peel-garlic gets
Feed on bear meal, an' sma' ale swats,
Wi' thin beef tea, an' scours o' sauts.
To keep them pale ;
But aitmeal parritch straughts thy guts.
An' thick Scotch kaiL
Thy grannie's paiks, the maister's whippin'.
Can never mend thy gait o' kippin' ;
I've seen the hail schule bairnies trippin'
A' after thee.
An' thou aff, lUce a young colt, skippin'
Far owre the lea,
'Mang Hallowfair's wild, noisy brattle,
Thou'st foughten mony a weary battle,
Stridin' o^vre horse, an' yerkin' cattle
Wi' noisy glee,
Nae jockey's whup nor drover's wattle.
Can frighten thee.
Hk kiltit Celt, ilk raggit Paddy,
Ilk sooty sweep, ilk creeshy caddie.
Ilk tree-logg'd man, ilk club-taed laddie.
Ilk oily leary.
88
nk midden mavis, wee black jaudy,
A' dread an' fear ye.
Ilk struttin' s%vad, ilk reelin' sailor.
Ilk rosin't snab, ilk barkin't nailer,
Ilk flunky bauld, ilk coomy collier,
Ilk dusty batchy,
nk muckle grab, ilk little tailor,
A' strive to catch ye.
Ilk thimblin', thievin', gamblin* diddl(ar.
Ilk bellows-mendin' tinkler driddler,
Hk haltin', hirplin', blindit fiddler.
Ilk wee speech-crier.
Ilk lazy, ballant-singin' idler.
Chase thee like fire.
Hk waly-draiglin', dribblin' wight,
Wha sleeps a' day, an' drinks a' night.
An' stagger's hame in braid daylight,
Blcerit, blin', an' scaur.
Thou coverest him up, a movin' fright,
Wi' dunts o' glaur.
nk auld ^vife stoyterin' wi' her drappie.
In teapot, bottle, stoiip, or cappie,
Fu' snugly fauldit in her lappie,
Wi' couthy care.
Thou gar'st the hidden treasure jaupie
A' in the air.
At e'en, when weary warkmcn house,
Their sau- forfoughten spunks to rouse,
An' owre th' inspirin' whisky bouse.
Croon mony a ditty.
Thou sits amang them bauld and crouse,
"WTiiflan' thy cutty.
Thine edue&tion's maistly perfect.
An' thntigh thou now are wee an' barefoot.
89
Thoult be a svvankin', spunky spark yet.
Or I'm mista'en,
Unless misfortunes gurlj' bark yet
Should change thy vein.
O, why sould age, wi' cankered c'e,
Condemn thy pranks o' rattlin' glee,
We a' were callants ance, like thee.
An' happier then
Than, after clamberin' up life's tree.
We think us men.
James Ballantine, Edinbw-'jk.
THE QUEEN'S ANTHEM.
God bless our lovely Qviccn,
With cloudless days serene ; —
God save our Queen.
From perils, pangs and woes,
Secret and open foes,
Till her last evening close,
God save our Queen.
From flattery's poisoned streams ;—
From faction's fiendish schemes,
God shield our Queen ; —
With men her throne surround,
Firm, active, zealous, soimd.
Just, righteous, sage, profound; —
God save our Queen.
Long may she live to prove.
Her faithful subjects' love; —
God bless our Queen.
Grant her an Alfred's zeal,
StiU for the Commonweal,
Her people's wounds to heal ;—
God save our Queen.
90
Watch o'er her steps in youth ; —
In the straight paths of truth.
Lead our young Queen ;
And as years onward glide,
Succour, protect and guide,
Albion's hope — Albion's pride ;—
God save our Queen.
Free from war's sanguine stain.
Bright be Victoria's reign ; —
God guard our Queen.
Safe from the traitor's wiles,
Long may the Queen of Isles,
Cheer millions with her smiles ; —
God save our Queen.
Alex. Rodger.
THE FORSAKEN.
O GIVE me back that blissful time,
\\Tien I so fondly gazed on thee.
And loved — nor deemed my love a crime.
Till now too late, my fault I see.
O give me back my innocence !
Alas ! that may not — cannot be,
Too deep, too dark is my offence.
For pm-ity to dwell with me.
Hast thou forgot the solemn vows.
Si) oft exchanged by thee and me,
TMiile seated underneath the boughs,
Of yonder venerable tree ?
Those vows, indeed, may be forgot,
Or only laughed at, now, by thee,
But to thy mind they'll yet be brought.
When cold below the sod I'll be.
How could'st thou treat a maiden so,
Wlio would have gladly died for thee?
91
Think, think what I must undergo.
Think of my load of infamy ;
O could repentance wash my stain,
What peaceful days I yet might see,
But no ; — I ever must remain ,
Al victim of my love, for thee.
Alex. Rodger.
OH ! PRINCELY IS THE BARON'S HALL.
Oh ! princely is the Baron's hall.
And bright his lady's bower,
And none may wed their eldest son
Without a royal dower ;
If such, my peerless maid, is thine,
Then place thy lily hand in mine.
A cot beside the old oak-tree.
The woodbine's pleasant flower,
A careless heart and spotless name.
Sir Knight, are all my dower ;
Thy gold spin- and thy milk-white steed.
May bear thee whei-e thou'lt better speed.
Now, by the ruby of thy lip— .
The sapphire of thine eye—
The treasures of thy snowy breast.
We part not company :
A sire's domain— a mother's pride.
Can claim for me no wealthier bride.
Win. Kennedif.
WEE RARIE.
Ae mornin', weo Rabie, fu' canty and gabbie.
Gat up frae his nestic an' buskit him braw ;
To sweeten his lifey, he wish'd for a wifey.
An' fix'd on tall Nolly o' Heathery Ha*.
The laughin' wee bodie soon mountit on Doddie,
Sae sleekit, an' bridled, an' saddled, an' a' ;
A drap in his headie, to baud his heart steadie,
Aff he trotted for Nelly o' Heathery Ha'.
A WQoer mair vap'rin', mair paukie and cap'rin',
Ne'er before took the road sae weel mountit an' a' ;
But the fowk thought him muzzy, to fix on a huzzy,
Sae strappin* as Nell o' Heathery Ha'.
But Rabbie was happj', love smit wi' the nappy.
Nor dream'd that his person was punj'lie sma' ;
He canter'd fu' smirky, a bauld little birky.
Nor halted till landit at Ueatherj' Ha'.
Wi' wliip-han' he knuckled, while neighbours a' chuckled,
An' wondered what made him sae trig and sae braw ;
Ne'er thinking that Doddie had brought the wee bodie,
A-wooin' to Nelly o' Heathery Ha'.
But Rabie soon lightit, -without being frightit,
An' vow'd he'd hae Nelly, or hae nane at a' ;
Then tiptoe in goes he, resolved to be easie.
Before ae'i leave Nelly an' Heathery Ha'
Soon Nelly, though taller, wi' Rabbie though smaller,
Agreed to be buckled for gude an' for a' ;
She voivs he is snodie, though but a wee bodie.
An' better a mannie than ne'er ane ava.
Sae they've remounted Doddie, lang Nell, the wee bodie ;
'Twas sport to see Rabie sae brisk gauii a.va'.
He sat in Nell's lapie, sae laughin' an' happy.
An' trottit hame crously frae Heathery Ha'.
LOVELY MAIDEN.
LoTELY maiden, art thou sleeping?
"Wake, and fly with me, my love.
While the moon is proudly sweeping
Through the ether fields above ;
93
^Vhile her mellow'd light is streaming
Full on mountain, moor, and lake !
Denrest maiden, art tbou dreaming ?
'Tis Lhy true love calls— awake ?
All is hush'd around thy dwelling.
Even the watch-dog's luU'd asleep ;
Hark ! the clock the hour is knelling,
Wilt thou then thy promise keep ?
Yes, I hear her soUly coming.
Now her window's gently rais'd.
There she stands, an angel blooming —
Come, my Mary ! haste thee, haste !
Fear not, love ! thy rigid father
Soundly sleeps, bedrcnch'd with ^vine;
'Tis thy true love holds the ladder.
To liis care thyself resign !
Now my arms enfold a treasure,
Which for wt)rld's I'd not forego ;
Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,
Faithful bosoms only know.
Long have our true love's been thwarted
By the stern decrees of pride,
'SVhich would doom us to ba pai'ted,
And make thee another's bride ;
But behald my steeds are ready,
Soon they'll post us far away ;
Thou wilt be Glen Alva's Lady
Long before the da^\-n of day !
Alex. Rocker.
COME THEN, ELIZA DEAR.
Dearest Eliza, say, wilt thou resign
All thy companions gay, and become mine ?
94
Wilt thou through woe and weal.
Be my loved partner still,
Share with me every ill.
Nor e'er repine ?
Wilt thou, O level}' fair ! when I'm distress'd.
AU my afflictions share, soothe them to rest ?
Wilt thou, when comforts fail.
When woe and want assail.
With sympathizing wail.
Cling to this breast ?
Yes, yes, O dearest youth ! here I resign,
All else I prize on earth, thy fate to join ;
Gladly I'll share thy woes.
Soothe thee to calm repose,
TMiile heaven on me bestows
Such love as thine.
Come then, Eliza dear, come to this breast.
Thou alone reignest here, kindest and best ;
If wealth and rural peace.
If love that ne'er shall ceaise.
Can give thee ought lil-e bliss.
Thou Shalt be bless'd. Alex. Rodger,
THE CAVALIER'S SOXCc.
A STEED ! a steed of matchless s^ eed,
A sword of metal keen !
All else to n jblc hearts is dross.
All else on e rth is mean.
The neighing of the war-horse proud.
The rolling of the drum.
The clangoiu- of the trumpets loud.
Be sounds from heaven that come :
95
And oh ! the thund'ring press of kuighta.
When as their war-cries swell,
May toll from heaven an angel bright.
Or rouse a fiend from hell.
Then mount, then moimt, brave gallants all.
And don your helms amain,
Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call
Us to the field again.
No shre^vish tears sliall fill our eye.
When the sword-hilt's in our hand.
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigh
For the fahest of the land.
Let piping swain and craven wight.
Thus weep and puling cry ; —
Our business is, like men to fight
And hero-like to die ! MotherweU.
YOUNG PADDY'S TUTOR.
So.ME patriots howl o'er Paddies ^vrongs,
And raise such lamentation, O ;
Whilst others contrive witli their speeches and songs.
To complete her stultification, O.
Quid Father M'Flail, good honest man,
Like a heavenly constellation, O,
Enlightens the Paddies as much as he can.
With his system of education, O.
(Spoken.) ' Come hither the whole vanaint of je, and let me see that
ye're all present and none ov ye absent. I see ye're all here, my
honnies ; the more credit to you for the interest you take in your larn-
Jn'. But before commencin' the instruction of the day, let us attend
to the comforts of the Academy. Phidre O'Gallach ! what sort of a turf
is that ye brought with you this morning ? Ye'U be after kaping it
warm in your pocket, for shame, till ye come up to the school; — did you
»ver erpoot that n handful like it could give a hap'worth of heat to
90
comfort tli9 Institution? Jim M alien, now fbr yon, my mtai; what
sort of a way is that "you've tnm'd the corner of your catechism ?
don't abuse the literature of the country. Are ye at it already?
paice childer — houl' your paice, I say, agin ; for I don't know
■whether my tongue is in my own mouth, or dancin' agin the t-eeth of
all the childer in the Academy. 2Mike Linahan, there's no hearin', for
you're roaring as if a score of ducks were houlding a holiday in your
mouth; them black-nosed pepper-boxes on Dublin Castle, with the
brimstone breath comin' up their throats, couldnt hear themselves
spakin' for you ! turn the dumb side of your tongue uppermost, or I'll
glue it agin the ceilin' of your mouth ! A\'inny M'Coy, my little pot of
honey ; there's not a sweeter mouth in ould Ireland, nor one that M'Flail
would like to put knowledge and letters into, but there is no opening or
pretinsion yet in your intellects; the mighty big letters coming up from
the bottom of your bre.ost, would be splittin' your throat to ribbands,
and opening another mouth below your illigant chin ; and there would
be no raison for your takin' in sustenance and comforts there, my sweet
potato blossom ; just trot away home on that puity little foot of your'3,
that couldn't hurt a hair on the head of a daisy, and come back
agin to the instruction when the turf is puttin' on its clothe* for
summer. Now, children, go on with, the instruction of the day.
Looney M'TwoIter, ye scoundrel, what's the name of that letter
that's starin" you there in the fece ?' ' Q, sur.' ' It's a lie, sir .'
that's A; didn't I tell you that a n»nth ago? Sure you might
see the two legs of it standing up there like the sticks at yoni
grandmother's clay cabin door ? O, Looney, Looney ! you'll never make
a clargy in the 'varsal world. And what's the name of the next letter
that comes after the A ? sure you havn't forgot it already ! "OTiat do you
call the little gintleman, with the sting in his tail, and yellowjacket over
his shoulders, that flies about the bogs and the ditches?' 'Bee, snr.
' That's the name of it, you blackguard; many's the day you run aftei
him when ye should have been following your edication. And what do
you call the fellow of the B ?' ' Tiiat's tlie moon, sur.' ' Thunder ani
tiinmp ! that's murderous ; who ever heard of a letter called the moon ?
What do I do when I look through my spectacles, ye rapscallion, ye ?*
»T« cinint, «nr ' fBeatt him.) ' And what else?' ' Vou eee, sur.'
97
Troth, I dn that, and C is the very name ov it ; runaway to your seat.
Ml' turn the sharpest comer of your eye to your lesson.'
And thus the worthy Father lajs,
Of knowledge the sure foundation, O,
The sj'stem every one should plase,
For its all of his own creation, O.
The Arts and Sciences every one,
From the very first emanation, O,
lie explains to all as clear as the sun,
What a brilliant elucidation, O.
* Charley Hl'FIuskey, come hither; but first of all take that fly out of
your mouth. ^Vhat would you think now, if that Uttle creature contained
in its tiny body the soul of your own ould grandmother? but you don't
understand transmugrification ; never catch flies in the school, sur.
Denis Hourigan, now, tell me the name of that letter 1 was explaining
to you yesterday — the long one there, for all the world like a May-pole ?
You've forgot, I see, that's sartain. What was't your father gave to
your mother last Saturday night, when he came noma ?' ♦ He gived
her a black eye, si.u:.' 'And isn't I th" very name of the letter ? And
what's the name of the nert but one after the I ? VVliat does your
mother open the door with ?' ' A latch, please your worship.' ' Any
thing else ?' ' A key, sur.' ' Sure, and K's the very name of it too.
Well, and what's the rame of that round letter like the full moon,
afore she turns herself into a raping-hook agin, as our own Belfaat pro-
phets foretel ? I wonder if I can 'ring it out ov ye ?' (P)JU hit ear.
• O murder, murder!' • That's it now; I'll take the O, and lave the
murder to yourself. Tell me now, before I dismiss you, the name of
that one with the slop over his head. Sure you know what mother
lakes to her breakfast on Sunday morning ?' ' Rum, sur.' Oh ye little
tell-tale! well does I love it my own self too, as well as a duck does
adhurty day; an' it were not for a dhrop or two of it, my ould throat
would get dliry with spaking — and my body a lump of dhry dust —
ould Father M'Flail, your tutor, would be blown about hke the dust
in the very air vou're breathiu'. Does your mother never take
anything else?' ' Tay, sur.' 'And T's the very word I want ; so gei
»uay to your seat, and p<iy more attention for the future. And now,
98
Deunis O'Xeal, you are farther on with your laming ; tell me how
many cases them Latins had amongst them.* Six ; please your honour.
' Then fire away and let's hear their names.' • There was the Nomativ,
and the Ginitiv, and the Jockatir. ' Thunder and turf, who evei
heard of the Jockativ case ; take that, (knocks him down,) and remem-
ber that is the Knockativ. There is a lesson in jigonometry for )ou, that
your mother never contracted for. Larry Hoolagan, spell Babelmandel,
an' be hanged t'ye.' * B-a-able-m-a-mandle, Babelmandel.' ' That's
the thing, my boy. Spell us Constantinople.' ' C-o-n-con-s-t-a-n-stan-
tinople, Constantinople.' Do you know the meanin' of that mighty
word, now ? That's the name of the Grand Turk, sir, who commands
the cratures with the tliree tails. There's the benefit of navigation
to you without ever puttin' your foot on water.'
Now boj's and girls go home I say,
And see ye give over flirtation, O ;
Nor dare any more the truant to play,
But get on A\'ith ynur idication, O.
Jlay English, Ii'ish, Scotch, each one,
Soon make an amalgamation, O,
With heart, and soul, and blood, and bone,
To coniirm theii- liberation, O.
^^'EARIE'S WELL.
In a saft simmer gloamin'.
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met
By "SVearie's cauld well.
We sat on the brume bank
And look'd in the burn,
But sidelang we look'd on
Ilk ither in turn.
The corn-craik was chirming
His sad eerie cry.
And the wee stai's were di-eamiug
Their path througti the sky ;
99
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower.
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.
We heard and we saw nought
Above or around ;
We felt that our love lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till te.irs filled my e'e,
And they drapt on your wee loot—
A warld's wealth to me.
Now the winter's snaw's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea ;
And the eauld wind is strijipin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heai-t.
Ye've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be ;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee ?
Ye'll got biggings and mailings.
And monie braw clax;s ;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.
Fareweel, and for ever,
My first luve and last.
May thy juvs be to come—
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness.
This hour fa's on me ;
100
But light, as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee !
Mothcrv;etl-
iMY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, ^^^LLIE.
My heid is like to rend, "NViUie,
Jly lieart is like to break —
I'm wearin' afF my feet, Willie,
I"m dyin' for your sake I
Oh l.iy your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane —
Oh say yc'll think on me, Willie,
A\Tien I am deid and gane !
It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will —
But let me rest upon your briest.
To sab and greet my fill.
Let m.e sit on your knee, AVillie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sail see mair !
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life^
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae -wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart.
And press it mair and mair^
Or it will burst the silken twine
Sae Strang is its despair !
Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
"VNTien we thegither met—
Oh wae's me for the time, Willie,
Tliat our first tryst was set !
101
Oh wae's me for the loanin' greett
AVhere we were wont to gae —
And wae's me for the destinic.
That gart me luve thee sae !
Oh I dinna mind my words, Willie,
I do\\Tia seek to blame-
But oh ! it's hard to live, Willie,
And di-ee a warld's shame !
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin ;
Why weep ye sae for worthle^sness.
For sorrow and for sin ?
I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see — •
I canna live as 1 ha'e lived.
Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, AVillie,
The heart that still is thine^
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek.
Ye said was red langsj-ne.
A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart—
Oh ! hand me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt,
Anither, and anither yet !—
How fast my life-strings break !
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard
Step lichtly for my sake !
The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts fir ower our heid.
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid ;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
102
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.
But oh ! remember me, "Willie,
On land where'er ye be —
And oh ! think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And oh ! think on the cauld, cauld mools.
That file my yellow hair —
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin,
Ye never sail kiss mair ! MotherweU.
THE BLOOM HAT IT FLED TUY CHEEK, MARY.
The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
As spring's rath blossoms die.
And sadness hath o'ershadowed now
Thy once bright eye ;
But, look on me, the prints of griet
Still deeper lie.
Farewell '.
Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,
Tlie morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst did know ;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell !
It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain.
When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,
Discoursed my love, and told how loved
I was again.
Farewell I
1U3
Twas not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name ;
Scorning each tedious eloquence.
Our hearts' fond flame
And long imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came.
Farewell !
Would that our love had been the love
That merest worldlings know,
WTien passion's draught to our doomed lip«i
Tm"ns utter woe,
And our poor dream of happiness
Vanishes so !
Farewell !
But in the wreck of all our hopes.
There's yet some touch of bliss,
Since fate robs not our -wi-etchedness
Of this last kiss :
Despair, and love, and madness, meet
In this, in this .
Farewell ! MotherwelL
MAY MORN SONG.
The grass is wet with shining dews,
Their silver bells hang on each tree.
While opening flower and bursting bud
Breathe incense forth unceisingly ;
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw.
The throstle glads the spreading thorn,
And cheerily the blythsome lark
Salutes the rosy face of mom.
'Tis early prime ;
And hark ! hark ! hark I
104
His merry chime
Chirnxps the 1 irk :
ChiiTup ! chirrup ! he heralds in
The jolly sun with matin hymn.
Cone, come, my love ! and IMay-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping hough ,
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom
Th;it breaks upon thy young cheek now.
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,
Axirora's smiles are streaming free ;
vV'ith earth it seems brave holiday.
In heaven it looks high jubilee.
And it is right,
For mark, love, m"rk !
How bathed in light
Chirrups the lark :
Chirrup ! chirrup I he upward flies.
Like holy thougJits to cloudless skies.
They lack all heart who cannot feel
The voice of heaven within them tlii-ill.
In summer morn, when mounting high
This merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell
Wliere brightest wild-flowers choose to be.
And where its clear stream murmurs ou,
3Iect tjTJe of our love's pui-ity ;
No witness there.
And o'er us, hark !
High in the air
Chirrups the lark :
Cliirrup ! chirrup ! away soars be.
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee !
Mo'henr^U
105
HE is GONE! HE IS GONE i
Hb is gone ! he is gone !
Like the leaf from the tree ;
Or the down that is blo^vn
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled, the light-hearted '
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye, when he parted
From love-stricken me !
He is fled ! he is fled !
Like a gallant so free.
Plumed cap on his head,
And sharp sword by his knee ;
While his gay feathers fluttered,
Surely something he muttered.
He at least must have uttered
A farewell to me !
He's away ! he's away
To far lands o'er the sea—
And long is the day
Ere home he can be ;
But where'er his steed prances,
Amid thronging lances.
Sure he'll think of the glances
That love stole from me !
He is gone ! he is gone !
Like the leaf from the tree ;
But his heart is of stone
If it ne'er dream of me !
For I dream of him ever :
His buff -coat and beaver.
And long sword. Oh, never
Are absent from me 1
Motherwell.
106
on, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.
Oh wae be to the orders that marched my luve awa',
And wae be to the cruel c:iiise that gars my tears doun fa' ;
Oh wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they hae ta'cn my luve, and left a broken heart to me
The drums beat in the momin' afore the screich o' day.
And the wee, wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the
mom was gray ;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see.
But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to Germanie.
Oh, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
Oh dreich it is to gang on foot wi* the snaw-drift in the
teeth !
And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my
c'e,
"When I gade there to see my luve embark for Germanie !
I looked ower the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
Ae wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in ;
' But the wind was blawin' sair and sneU, and the ship sail'd
speedilie.
And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome
luve frae me.
I never think o' dancin, and I downa try to sing.
But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies bring ;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
S\-ne for every loop that I cast on, I am sure to let doun
three.
My father says I'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me.
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be ;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e :
Oh they hae nae winsome luve like mine in the wars o'
Germanie !
AothertceU.
107
BRITAIN'S QUEEN, VICTORIA.
Air — Rob Roy Macgregor O.
Brightest gem of Britain's Isle !
Born to wear the British cro\vn,
Millions basking in your smile.
Crowd around your noble throne,
Rending air with loud applause,
Swearing to defend your cause,
British rights and British laws.
And Britain's Queen, Victoria.
Bravest Britons guard your croAvn !
Patriots, statesmen, honest men —
Tyrants, traitors, trample down I
Never more to rise again ;—
Let corruption wither'd parch!
Let reform and knowledge march !
Through perfection's glorious arch,
Led by Queen Victoria !
Equal rights, and equal laws, ^
Let the people ail enjoy.
Peace proclaim'd with loud huzzas !
Never more let war destroy ; —
Agriculture, lead the van ;
Commerce, fi'cc to ev'ry man ;
Religion pure, complete the plan,
Glory to Victoria.
John Paterson.
I MET TWA CRONIES.
I MET twa cronies late yestreen,
AVham blythe I've aft been wi' ;
And ilka mind soon felt inclined
To taste the barley-bree :
f
108
We sat sae late, and drank sae deep.
That roarin' fou gat we ;
And haith! I found, when I gaed hame.
My ynSe had ta'en the gee.
All lauely by the fire she sat.
Her brows hung owTe her e'e ;
And wistfu* hush'd she aye the bairn,
Though sleeping on her knee —
I saw the storm was masking fast,
That soon wad fa' on me ;
Sae quietly slipt I aff to bed,
And left her in the gee.
Neist day her looks were sour and sad.
And ne'er a word spak she ;
But aye the tear-drap gather'd big.
And dimm'd her bonnie e'e :
Quo' I, " My dear, what's past let gang.
And frown nae mair on me.
The like again I'll never do.
Gin ye 11 ne'er tak the gee !"
When this she heard, her brows she raised.
And down beside me sat ;
I kiss'd her, for her heart was fu'.
And, puir wee thing ! she grat :
Quo' she, " Gin yell but keep your word.
And bide at hame wi' me —
Hae, there's my ban', that, while I live,
I'll never tak' the gee ! "
Then let us ca', and pay our drap.
And toddle while we doo ;
For gin we di-ink anither bowl
We'll a' get roarin* fou' :
>iy wifie's smile is aye sae kind,
"WTien blythe or pleased is she.
To anger her wad be a sin,
Or gar her tak' the gee .'
109
MARRY FOR LOVE AND WORK FOR SILLER.
When I and m}' Jenny thegitber were ticMi,
We had but sma' share o' the world between us ;
yet lo'ed ither wecl, and had youth on our side.
And strength and guid health were abundantly gi'en us i
I warsled and toiled through the/air and the foul.
And she was right carefu' o' what I brought till her,
For aye we had mind o' the canny auld rule,
'* JIarry for love, and work for siller."
Our bairns they cam' thick — we were thankfu' for that.
For the bit and the brattie cam* aye alang wi' them ;
Out pan we exchanged for a guid niuckle pat.
And somehow or ither, we aye had to gi'e them.
Our laddies grew up, and they ^^TOught wi' mysel',
Ek ane gat as buirdly and stout as a miller.
Our lasses they keepit us trig aj'c, and hale.
And now we can count a bit trifle o' siller.
But I and my Jenny are baith wearin' down.
And our lads and our lasses hae a' gotten married ;
Yet see, we can rank wi' the best i' the town.
Though our noddles we never too paughtily carried.
And mark me — I've now got a braw coc/cit hat.
And in our civic building am reckon'd a pillar;
Is na THAT a bit honour for ane to get at,
Wha married for love, and wha wrought for siller ?
Alex. Rodger.
IT'S NO THAT THOU'RT BONNIE.
It's no that thou'rt bonnie, it's no that thou'rt braw.
It's no that thy skin has the pureness o' snaw.
It's no that thy fomi is perfection itsel',
That mak's my heart feel what my tongue canna tell
But oh ! its the soul beaming out frae thine e'e,
That mak's thee sae dear and sae lovely to me.
no
It's pleasant to look on that mild Dlushing face,
Sae s^%'eetly adoru'd wi' ilk feminine grace,
It's joyous to gaze on these tresses sae bright,
O'ershading a forehead sae smooth and sae white ;
But to dwell on the glances that dart frae thine e'e,
O Jeaiye ! it's evendown raptui-e to me.
That form may be wasted by lingering decay,
The bloom of that cheek may be wither'd away,
Those gay gowden ringlets that yield sic deliglit,
By the cauld bi-eath o' time may be changed into white ;
But the soul's fervid liaslies that brighten thine e'e,
Are the offsprmg o' heaven, imd never can dee.
Let me plough the rough ocean, nor e'er touch the shore,
Let me freeze on the coast of the ble;xk Labrador,
Let me pant 'neath the glare of a vertical sun.
Where no trees spread their branches, nor streams ever run i
Even there, my dear Jeanie, still happy I'd be,
If bless'd wi' the liglit o' thy heavenly e'e.
Alex. Rodger.
A LULLABi'.
O SAFTLY sleep, my bonnie bairn !
Rock'd on this breast o' mine ;
The heart that beats sae sair within,
AVill not awaken thine.
Lie still, lie still, ye cankcr'd thoughts !
That such late watches keep ;
An' if ye break the mother's heart.
Yet let the baby sleep.
Sleep on, sleep on, mj- ae, ae baun 1
Nor look sue wae on me.
As if ye felt the bitter tear
That blin's thy mother's e'ft
Ill
Dry up, dry up, ye saut, saut tears.
Lest on my bairn ye dieep ;
An' break in silence, waefu' heart.
An' let my baby bleep.
TUE DOCTORS.
Be honours which to Kings we give.
To Doctors also paid ;
We're the King's subjects while we live,
The Doctor's when we're dead.
Though wJien in health and thoughtless 7.noodl,
AVe treat them oft with scoffing ;
Yet they, returning ill with good,
Relieve us from our coughing (coffin).
At times they kill us, to be sure,
In cases rather tickle ;
But when they've kill'd^they still can cun
Their patients— in a. pickle.
And when at last we needs must die,
The Doctors cannot save
From death— they still most kindly try
To snatch us from the grave.
LADY'S POCKET ADONIS.
Thkre was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man,
And yet, in spite of all her teeth.
She fell in love with an Irishman,
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ramping, roaring
liishman.
112
Ilis face was no waj-s beautiful,
For %\ith small-pax 'twas scarr'd across ;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh the lump of an Irishman,
The whisky-devouring Irishman —
The great he-rogu3, with his wonderful brogue, the fighting,
rioting Irishman.
One of his eyes was bottle-green.
And the other eye was out, my dear ;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs.
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh the gi-eat big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman —
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering
swash of an Irishman.
He took so much of Limdy-foot,
That he used to snort and snuffle, O ;
And in shape and size, the fellow's neck.
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman,
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hash-
ing Irishman.
His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ;
And whenever ho emptied his tumbler of punch.
He'd not rest till he filled it full again.
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman —
The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, braudy, no dandy
Iribliman.
This was the lad the lady loved.
Like all the girls of quality ;
iia
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
Oh the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman —
The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were
bother'd, I'm sure, by this Irishman.
Doctor Btaginn.
A COOK'S LEGACY,
Bleak now the winter blaws, thick flee the driftin' snawa,
A' the warld looks cauld and blae ;
Birds wha used to sing, now wi' shiverin* wing,
Dozen'd sit on the frosted spray ;
But though the wintry winds blaw keenly.
What are the wintry winds to me.
When by the kitchen fire sae cleanly.
My love is baking a pie for me !
Oh when I think on her cheeks sae greasy,
Oh when I think on her shoulders fat.
Never a lass have I seen like Leezy,
She makes my poor heart to go pitty-pat !
All the way hame though never so dreary.
It charms my heart to think of thee ;
How by the kitchen fire sae cheery.
My love is baking a pie for me !
Some yield their hearts to the charms of oea^v^ .
Boating with pleasure upon her smile.
But when they've caught their long-wish 'd booty,
'Twill neither make pat nor pan to bnil ;
And wi' their beauty they aft catch a Tartar—
Often it happens, as all may see ;
Then for beauty, I'll scorn to barter
The maid that is baking a pie for mo !
Carriek.
H
-114.
JUNE AND JANUARY.
Air — "Willie ivas a Wanton Wat;."
Frost r-bearcled warlock body.
Wife to yoii I'll never be ;
Rather wad I wed the \\iiddic,
Or a ninkled inaidcn die ;
Gang your wa's, an' seek some ither—
Ane that's weary o' her life,
For ye're liker Death's half-brither.
Than a man that wants a wife.
What care I for a' your grandeur,
Gear an' lands, and houses braw ?
Sapless rung .' the witch o' Endor
Scarce wad taen you wi' them a' !
Troth, ye might hae hain'd yom- siller,
That ye've spent on fripperies vain ;
Dotard fool I to think a tailor
E'er could mak' you young again !
\Mien you gat your dandy stays on,
Was't to malv you trig an' sma' ;
Or for feai- that ye might gyzen.
And in staves asunder fa' ?
Ye wad tak' me to your bosom.
Buy me braws an' ilk thing nice !
Gude preserve's ! I'd soon be frozen,
Clasp 'd by sic a sherd o' ice !
Hoot ! hand aflF— ye're quite ridic'lous
Wi' yom- pow as white as snaw.
An' 3'our drmnstick-shanks sae feckless.
Aping youth o' twenty-twa ;
Wha could thole your senseless boasting,
Squeaking voice, an' ghaistlike grin ?
Doited driveller I cease yoiu* boasting,
Else gie owcr yoiu- fulsome din.
115
\Vha could sit an' hear a story,
'Bout a bosom's burning pains,
Frae an auld " Memento mori,"
Sand-glass, skull, an* twa cross banes ?
But for fear my scorn should cool ye,
Hark ! I'll tell you what I'll do,
When December's wed to July,
There's my Jit, I'll then tak' you. A lex. Rodger.
MY GUDEMAN.
Air — " Lock- Err Gch Side."
My gudeman says aye to me.
Says aye to me, says aye to me ;
3Iy gudeman says aye to me.
Come cuddle in my bosie I
Though wearin' auld, he's blyther still
Than mony a swankie youthfu' chiel, *
And a' his aim's to see mo weel.
And keep me snug and cozie.
For though my cheeks where roses grew,
Hae tint their lively glowing hue.
My Johnnie's just as kind and true
As if I still were rosy.
Our weel-won gear he never drank.
He never lived aboon his rank.
Yet wi' a neebour blythe and frank.
He could be as jocose aye.
We hae a hame, gude halesome cheer,
Contentment, peace, a conscience clear.
And rosy bairns, to us mair dear
Than treasures o' Potosi :
Their minds are formed in virtue's schooU
Their faut's are check'd wi' temper cool.
For my gudeman mak's this his rule.
To keep frae hasty blows, ay&
116
It ne'er was siller gart us ■sved.
Youth, health, and love, were a' we had.
Possessed o' these, we toil'd fu' glad.
To shun want's bitter throes, aye ;
We've had our cares, we've had our toils,
We've had our bits o' troubles whiles,
Yet, what o' that ? my Johnny's smiles
Shed joy o'er a' our woes, aye.
Wi' mutual aid we've trudged through life,
A kind gudeman, a cheerfu' wife ;
And on we'll jog, imvexed by strife.
Towards our journey's close, aye ;
And when we're stretch'd upon our bier.
Oh may our souls, sae faithfu' here,
Together spring to yonder sphere,
Where love's pure river flows, aye.*
• Alex. Rodger.
O PETER M'KAY.
Ane toher advice to aiu drucken Souter in Perth.
Air — " Come wider my Plaidie."
O Peter 51' Kay '. O Peter M'Kay !
Gin ye'd do like the brutes, only di-ink when ye're dry.
Ye might gather cash yet, grow gawcy and gash yet,
And carry your noddle Perth-Provost-pow-high ;
But poor drucken deevil, ye're wed to the evil
Sae closely, that naething can sever the tie ;
Wi' boring, and boosing, and snoring, and snoozing.
Ye emulate him that inhabits — the sty.
O Peter M'Kay ! O Peter M'Kay !
I'm tald that ye drink ilka browster wife dry ;—
"\Mien down ye get sitting, ye ne'er think o' flitting,
"While cogie or caup can a dribble supply ;—
• The Bret four lines form tM choral of a very old »ong.
117
That waur than a jaw-box, yoiir monstrous maw soaka
VVbate'er is poured in till't, while " give" is the cry;
And when a' is drunk up, ye bundle your trunk up.
And bid, like the sloth, the bare timmer good-bye.
O Peter M'Kay ! O Peter M'Kay !
Gang hanie to your awls, and j^our lingals apply,
Ca' in self-respect, man, to keep you correct, man— i
The task may oe irksome — at ony rate try ;
But gin ye keep drinking, and dozing, and blinkirg,
Be-clouding your reason, God's light from on high.
Then Peter depend on't, ye'U soon make an end ou't.
And close your cai-eer 'neatli a cauld wiut'ry sky.
Alex. Rodger.
MARY'S GANE.
O WAES my heart, now IMary's gane.
An* we nae mair shall meet thcgither.
To sit an' crack at gloamin' hour.
By yon auld grey-stane amang the lieathcr,
Trysting-stane amang the heather,
Trysting-stane amang the heather.
How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour.
By yon auld grey-stane amang the heather.
iler faither's laird sae gair on gear.
He set their mailin to anither,
Sae they've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane, and lelt their native heather.
Left their native blooming heather.
Left their native blooming heather.
They've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane, and left their native heather.
Her parting look bespake a heart,
Whase rising grief she couldna smother.
118
As she waved a last fareweel to me
An' Scotland's braes an' blooming Iieatber;
Scotland's braes and blooming heather,
Scotland's braes and blooming heather,
•Twas sair against the lassie's will.
To lea' her native blooming heather.
A bm-ning curse liclit on the heads
O' wortliless lairds colleagiied thegither.
To drive auld Scotland's hard}' clans
Frae their native glens and blooming heather.
Xative glens and blooming heather,
Native glens and blooming heather.
To drive auld Sc-otland's hardy clans,
Frae their native glens and blooming heather.
I'll sell the cot my granny left.
Its plenishing an' a' thegither,
An' I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather ;
Used to meet me amang the heather.
Used to meet me amang the heather,
I'll seok her out 'mang foreign wilds,
■\Vha used to meet me amang the heather.
Carrick.
OUR JOHN IIIELANMAN.
I've sax eggs in the pan, gudeman,
I've sax eggs in the pan, gudeman ;
I've ane for you, an' twa for me.
An* three for our John Iliel
Oh Johnny has a shapely leg,
"Wecl fitted for the philibeg ;
Wliile we've a hen to lay aa egg.
That egg's to our John Hielanman.
I've sax eggs, Sic.
119
Ye ken, gudeman, you're failing noo,
An' heavy wark ye canna do,
Ye neither thrash nor hand the plough
Sae weel as our John Hielanman,
I've sax eggs, &c.
The folk that work should always eat.
An' Johnny's wordy o' his meat.
For ne'er a job that's incomplete
Is done by our John Hielanman.
I've sax eggs, &c.
As yet, gudeman, I'm no to blame,
For I've maintain'd an honest fame ;
But just stap aff to your lang-hame,
An' I'll wed our John Hielanman.
I've sax eggs, &c.
Carrick.
THE HERRING-HEAD CLUB.
As we journey through life let us live by the way,
A fanious remark which a sage once did say ;
We all now are met, spite of care the old scrub.
And we'll pass half an hour in the Herring-head club.
Dei-ry down, down, down, derry down.
Some good folks complain of the times baing bad,
But the way to impi-ove them, is not to be sad ;
To laugh is no sin, if we raise no hubbub.
At least so we think at the Herring-hrfad club.
Derry down, &c.
King Fergus the First, who in Scotland did reign,
Was a merry old blade who did seldom complain :
No glasses had he, so he drank from a shell,
His nobles and he had a glorious spcU.
Derry do wm, &c.
120
One night being merry and fioll of much glee.
For with herrings and drixik they were all on the spree—
This meeting, cried Fergus, it is now time.to dub,
So, my drouthies, we'll call it the Herring-head club.
Derry douii, &c.
And now I command that ye keep the thing up.
Be sure once a-month that on herrings ye sup.
And if ye forget it, my ghost shall ye drub.
And this was the rise of the Herriag-head club.
Derry do^vn, &.c.
Then drink to King WLlliam, and drink to the Queen,
Jlay their pains be all past and their sorrows all seen ;
May we all pass through life without jostle or rub.
And often come back to the Herring-head club.
Derry do%vn, <!tc.
THE AULD SCOTTISH BRUGH.
Alft — "John Anderson tnrj Jo."
In Scotland stands an ancient brugh, -wi' some twal-hundred
people,
A lang and narrow strip o' street, and ae high-shoulder'd
steeple ;
Ilk grocer i' the borough is a bailie, or has been,
But the Provost was perpetual, anddravethe hail machine.
At twal o'clock, the Provost cam, and stood upo* the street,
And waggit to his right-hand man, i' the public house to meet;
The Bailie threw his apron by, and o'er their gill they sat.
And they managed a' the Toun's affairs in a bit quiet chat.
The Deacon, wi' a face half-wash 'd, gaed conseqiiential by —
But the Deacon, as a' body kent, had nae finger i' the pie.
The Deacon made the Provost's breeks, and a' his laddies'
claes —
And the Provost, though the best o' friends, was yet the
warst 0* faes.
121
And oh ! the Provost was a man o' consequence and worth —
lie managed weel, be strutted weel, yet had nae \\'it nor
birth :
He led the Council in a string, and the member ken't, I
trow.
That, if he said the word, 'twas done, and there were votes
enow.
And when the canvassin' cam' round, the member walk'd
about,
And blighted i' the Provost's ami — they sought the Deacon's
out;
The bodies tlirew their nightcaps by, or wi' them cleaned a
chair.
And tlie member sat i' the ben house, wi' a condescendin'
air.
The gudewife stood aside, and beck'd and twirled her apron
strings,
And wimner'd that the member deign'd to speak to them,
puir things !
The Parliamentar roar'd, and talked, and syne kiss'd the
gudewife^
And the wife declares the Deacon's vote is now as sm-o's his
life.
The Bailie's wife, wi' a braw head, frae her window looks
out.
And cried, ' Preserve 's .' he's comin' now — what are ye a
about ?
Put down the wine, ye lazy jad .'—the lassie's surely mad !'
And do^vn she sits, to be sm-prised, upon her cosh bit pad.
The Bailie bustles in before — his very lugs are red^
The gudewife hears upo' the trance a Parliamentar's tread J
He enters a' sooaw^-ity, and chucks each chubby laddie,
And swears how ane is like to her, anither to its daddy.
122
And now the Provost walks him hame to dinner wi' himsel',
And the member tak's his seat atween the leddie and Misa
BeU—
And the leddie cracks o' Dr. John, and syne o' Captain
Sandy,
Wha, by his Honour's influence, to India got so handj'.
But, waes my heart ! the auncient town hasnowgane down
the liill,
And vested rights o' families are stolen by Russell's Bill —
And vulgar weaving touns, I ti'ow, like Glasgow and Dundee,
Maun steal the honom-s frae om* brughs o' high antiquity I
MISTER PETER PATERSON.
Or, a Bailie in his Cups.
Mister Peter Paterson,
Ye will find that late or soon,
If ye dinna change your tune,
Ye wU most dearly rue.
Mister Peter Paterson,
Mister Peter Paterson,
Mister Peter Paterson,
I see you're gayan' fu'.
You're a Bailie now, ye ken.
Then drink wi' nane but sober men.
Nor sit in ony dirty den
WV ony vulgar crew.
For I maun tell it to your face.
That it's a sin and a disgrace.
For you to sit in sic a place,
And drink till ye get fu'.
So, blister Peter Paterson, &c.
Mistress Peter Paterson,
Ye aye tak' the gate ower soon.
123
To snool your pet an* keep him down.
Before ye ken what's true :
.Believe me, I was nae sic gates,
But dining wi' the magistrates.
An' some o' them gaed ower the sklates.
As wcel's yom- dainty dow.
So, IMistrcss Peter Patcrson,
Mistress Peter Paterson,
Mistress Peter Patcrson,
I'm no sae vera fu'.
Provost Brodie he was there,
But yet they gart me tak' the chair,
Guidsake, Kate, had ye heen there.
You'd keckled weel, I true.
Deacon Roset when he saw't.
He left the room he was sae chawt,
And on his tail we ne'er coost saut,
The hail nicht lang I true.
So, Mistress Peter Paterson,
Slistress Peter Paterson,
Mistress Peter Paterson,
I'm no sae vera fu*.
(Bailie hickupin^ and laughing as he proceeds.) — " I'm no sae vera fa',
Mrs. Paterson, and its vera ill-done o' you to say sae ; besides, it's no
a proper expression to use to a man filling a civil as weel as an official
capacity, and -who has got a cocket hat on his head, and a gou'd chaia
ubout his neck — ha, ha, lass, ca" ye that naething ? — lang looked-for's
come at last — I've got the cocket hat noo— you did na ken \rhat I w.i
about these twa-three days. Little thought ye o' the braw tow I had in
my rock — ha, ha, lass, catch a cat sleeping wi' a >nouse in her lug.
I've been on the hunt these twa days, and I've catched cocky at last.
But noo, Ulrs. Paterson, since you're a Bailie's wife, I maun gi'e yon a
word o* advice : — Never say the Bailie cam" hame fu'. O woman .'
woman ! -what wad the Provost's wife think o' you ? she's the prudent
woman ! she never says the Provost cam' hame fu' — na, na, the Pro-
124 ^
vost cam* hame ' a leetle eleval^,' that's her prudent erpression, worthy
woman that she is; so dinna forget, Jlrs. Paterson, but just say, whan
ye speak about rue and the town's aflFairs, tliat ' tlie Bailie cam' hame
a UeUe eUvalid.' But what d'ye think we're gaun to be about the mom ?
Ha, lia, lass, we're to be great folks the morn— the mortj's the Lord's
day, ye ken, Mrs. Paterson, aa^ me aod the magistrates are gaun to
hae a grand paruad to the kirk, anfl. we're to hae the town-officers afore
us, wi' their liats aif and their halberts in their ban's; ay, woman,
they're to be a' afore us, guidbe-thankct '. they're to be afure us, I've
been sair eneugh fashed i' my day wi' them (^aurt after me, iVIony a
time the buffers took 7ue afore the Bailie ; but priise be blessed ! I've
got them afore the Bailie now ; time about's fair play, ye ken, Mrs.
Paterson. Now, Mrs. Paterson, there's just ae favour I want o' you
the night ; IMrs Paterson, and ye maunua deny me ; you needna
laugh, ;Mrs. Paterson, I'm a wee newfangled about my cocket hat ; ye
ken, I had a lang and a sair strussel to get it ; now, I acknowltdge I'm
a leeile elevated the night, as the Provost's wife says, and I canna think
to part wi't woman ; now, wliat I want o' you, Mrs. Paterson, is just
to let — let — let me sleep wi' my cocket hat on the night — 1 just want to
lie ;n state for ae nicht ; and ye ken, Mrs. Paterson, you would be so
agreeably astonished when ye waukened in the morning, and found
yoursel l)ing beside a Bailie, a real bailie, woman! wi' his three-cor
nered night-cap and a' his p.araphemalia on. Now, Mrs. Paterson,
you'll oblige me the night, like a dear, and I'll tell you the mom about
a town's job that 1'iq to get that'll do me muckle good and yoa little
ill. Thou's get the best silk gown to be li.ad witliin the four quarters o'
this or ony ither town in Scotland. What d'ye think o' that, Mrs.
Paterson?"
There's mony a job about a tovra
To gar a Bailie's pat play brosvn.
But on ae job I'll keep my thumb,
Ye'll hcar't some itlier day.
So, Mistress Peter Paterson,
Mistress Peter Paterson,
' So, Mistress Peter Paterson,
I'm no baa vera fu' Carrick.
WG^OiTLd-^Q ^ S^at^-
: To iric ih^ra uiniio
EC02TD SEBIES.
iEA^a© !H©®IESTiGKl, e(LAg©©Tft7.
i
WHISTLE-BINKIE.
SECOND SERIES.
"LO'E ME LITTLE AND LO'E ME LANG."
Aw'a' wi your wheezing, your coaxing, and teasing,
Your hugging and squeezing I beg you'll let be ;
Your praising sac fulsome, too sweet to be wholesome,
Can never gang down wi' a lassie like me ;
Nae mair than a woman, nae higher than human.
To Sylphs and to Seraphs I dinna belang ;
Then if ye wad gain me, the way to attain me.
Is *' Lo'e me little, and lo'o me lang."
Wi' some silly gawkie, your lieeching sae pawkie,
Like sweet dozing draughts, will glide cannily down ;
Hence, seek some vain hizzy, and doze her till dizzy,
She'll quickly consent a' your wishes to crown ;
But pester na me wi't, my heart canna 'greo wi't,
I'm sick o' your cuckoo's unvarying saTig
Cease, therefore, your canting, your rhyming and ranting,
But " Lo'e me little, and lo'e rae lang."
The love thatlowes strongest, say, lasts it the longest?
The fires that bleeze brightest burn soonest awa" ;
Tlicn keep your flame steady — a moderate red nyo,
Or else ye may yet hae a cauld coal to blaw ;
And quat your romantics, your airs, and your anties,
Tak' trutli's honest track, and you'll seldom gae wranj
Then win me, and welcome, let weal or let ill come,
I'll '• Lo'e you little, but lo'e you lang,"
Alexander Rodoktu
THE AULD SCHOOL.
A NEW SANG TO A NEW TUNE.
Is there ony that kens nae my auld uncle AVatty,
Wi' 'a buckled knee breckums an' three cockit battle ?
Is there ony that kens nae my auld auntie iNIatty,
Wi* "r wee black silk cloak, and her red collar 'd cattie 7
O, auld imclc Watty,
An' auld auntie Matty,
Ye may gang whare ye like, but their match winna see.
They've a wed plenished house, an' a weel stockit pantry.
Kegs 0' gin in their press, kegs o' ale on theu* gantree ;
An' the lean parish poor, an' the fat county gentry.
Ne'er find sic a bien couthy hame in the kintiy.
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld auntie ^Matty, •
Ye're dear imto a', but ye 're dearer to me.
They've saved a' they hae, tho' they never were greedy.
Gang to their liousc hungrj', they're sure aye to feed ye,
Gang to their house tatter'd, they're sure aye to deed ye
O, wha '11 fill their place to the puir an' the needy ?
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty ."\Iatty,
Yc'rc kind unto a', but ye 're kinder to me.
I mind nae o' mithcr, I mind nae o' faither.
Yet np'«-!r kcn't tho ha'eing or wanting o' cither,
For the puir orphan sprout, that was left here to wither.
Gat uncle for faither, and aunty for mither.
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Few orphans lia'e uncle and aunty like me.
An' didna my bosom boat fondly an' fou,
When up like an aik 'ncath their nursing I grew ;
While a tear in their e'e, or a clud on their brow,
NVas aye sure to pierce my fond heartie right througlu
O, auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty jMatty,
Ye're faither, an' mither, an' a' thing to me.
But luve play'd a plisky, that maist rave asunder.
Three hearts that ye '11 no find the like in a hunder ;
I married wee Mary, to a' body's wonder.
An' maistly had paid for my het-headed blunder.
For auld luicle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Vow'd they wad ne'er own either JSIary or me.
But Clary's kind heart, aye sae couthy and sleo.
Soon won the auld bodies as she had done me ;
When our callant cam' hame, to the kirk wi't cam* sh(
Ca'd it Watty— the auld folk sat bleer't in the e'e.
An' auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty -Matty,
Cam' nursin' the wean hame 'tween llai-y an' me.
Ad wow but the callant grows buirdly an' Strang,
There's nae Carritch question, nor auld Scottish sang.
But the loun screeds ye aft' in the true lowland twang,
I doubtna he'll beat his ain faither or lang ;
For auld uncle Watty,
An' auld aunty Matty,
Are learnin' the callant as aince they did me.
Gae bring mo the pinks o' your famed infant schools,
Wbasc Avee sauls are laden wi'newfiuiglcd rules.
Gif wee Watty dinna mak a' o' them fools,
I'll e'en gic ye leave to lay me in the mools :
An' auld uncle Watty,
An' aiild Aimty Matty,
Way throw do^^•n their buiks an* gae booby for me.
Jajies BaliuLntxne, Edinburgh.
MY COUSIN JEAN.
Tune, — " Ti'Tien she cam' ben she hobbit.
Chorus.
IMy Cousin Jean — ^my cousin Jean ,
A wild little hempie was my cousin Jeanj
For gentle or semple she ne'er cared a preen.
Yet the toast o' our parish is my cousin Jean.
I mind her right weel whan the cricket was young.
She'd a stap like the roe an' a glibby gaun tongue.
An' a' the schule callants she skelpit them clean.
Sac supple the nieves gat o' my cousin Jean.
Whar mischief was brewin' or devilry wrought,
A lum set a-low, or a teugh battle fought.
At the head of the foray was sure to bo seen,
The wild wavin' ringlets o' my cousin Jean.
O, rade ye to market or rade ye to fair.
Ye were sure to fa' in wi' my daft cousin there ;
Yet the puir, an' the feckless, aye gat a gude frien*.
And a plack frae the pouches o' my cousin Jean.
She helpit the tinklers their dour mules to load,
Slie foUow'd them miles on their moorland road.
Syne frighted the bairns wi* their stories at e'en;
Weel kent were their cantrips to my cousin Jean.
Cut our auld Mess .John had a Lunnun bred son,
■UTia lang had an e'e after Jean and her fun,
An* he begg'd but an hour frae his father at e'en»
To convert the wild spirit o' my cousin Jean.
I wat a sweet convert the stripling soon made.
But gif a' wi* his preachin', troth's no to be said,
For precious to him were the dark glancin' e'en,
Whilk laugh 'd 'neath the arch'd brows o' my cousin Jean.
Young Jean took to reading o* queer prented buiks.
An' wander 'd at midnight "mang hay- ricks and stocks —
Whilst the college-bred birkie right aften was seen,
' Pointing out heaven's wonders to my cousin Jean.
Nae doubt the hale parish was spited to see,
Sic a dance in her gait, sic a sang in her e'e.
And ilk auld wifie wager'd her life to a preen.
She v/ould soon get a down-come — my young cousin Jean.
Dumfounder"d were a' the hale parish, f trow,
When they saw the next week i' the minister's pew,
At the young laird's right han', they could scarce trust their
e'en—
A modest young bride sat my young cousin Jean.
Now crabbit auld wisdom should ne'er slight a tree,
Though when it is young it may waver a wee,
In its prime it may flourish the fair forest queen.
For sae was the upshot o' my cousin Jean.
Alex. MacLaggan, Edinburgh.
THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.
Am,—" Fo7- lack o' gowd."
How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,
Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside,
Wi' his v/itie blythe and free, and his baimie on her knee.
Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside.
Nae cares o' State disturb him, by his ain fireside,
Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside.
In his elbow chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind.
To hia bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.
8
When his bonnie baiins Increase, around his ain fireside,
That hcJtb, content and peace, surround his ain fireside,
A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles.
At their harmless pranks and wiles, around his ain fireside.
And while tliey grow apace, about his ain fireside,
lu beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside-
Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,
Re informs ilk youthfu' mind about his ain fireside.
^V^len the shivering orphan poor, draws near his ain fireside.
And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,
She's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet.
While she's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.
AMien youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,
And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside.
With joy he back surveys, all his scenes of bygone days,
As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.
And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside.
What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside.
With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop.
Then calmly down docs drop, by his ain fireside.
O may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside.
Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside.
May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath.
Then we'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.
Alex. Uodgeb.
TAK IT MAX, T.AJi IT.
TvsEy—Brose and Butter.
When I w-as a Miller in Fife,
Losh ! I thought that the sound o' the hajiper.
Said tak hame a wee flow to your wife.
To help to be brose to your supper.
Then my conscience was narrow and pure.
But someway by random it rack it ;
For I lifted twa neivefu* or mair.
While the happer said — tak it man, tak il.
Hey for the mill and the kill.
The garland and geer for my cogie.
Hey for tlie whisky or yill,
That washes the dust owre my craigie.
Altho' its been lane; in repute,
For rogues to mak rich by deceiving;
Yet I sec that it disna wecl suit,
Honest men to begin to the thieving.
For my heait it gaed dunt upon dunt,
Od ! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it ;
Sae I fiang frae my neive wliat was in't,—
Still the happer said — tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
A man that's been bred to the plough.
Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper ;
Yet there's few but would sufler the sough.
After kenning what's said by the happer,
I wliiles thought it scoflT'd me to scorn,
Saying shame, in j-our conscience no chackit ;
But when I grew dry for a horn, —
It changed aye to— tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, ccc.
The smugglers wliiles cam wi' their pocks,
'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker ;
Sae I baiter 'd wliilss wi' the gowks,
Gied them grain for a soup o' their liquor.
I had lang been accustom 'd to drink.
And aye when I purposed to quat it,—
That tiling wi' its clapperty clink, —
Said aye to me — tak it man, tak it.
Hej' for the mill, <&c.
Now, miller and a' as I am.
This far I can see through the matter ;
10
There's men mair notorious to fame.
Mair greedy than me for the muter.
For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men.
Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,
Had some speaking happer within,
That said to them — tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
David WEBSxaa.
RONALD MACGIECH.*
Air—" Hills o' Glenorchp."
O Ronald ^SlACorECH was a kenspeckle loon,
Had cash in ilk pocket, and feres in ilk to^vn ;
He was idle and thro'ither, and drucken an' a*.
His face it was roimd, and his back was aye braw.
He ate o' the daintiest, drank o' the best.
At sma' cost to him, as the neighbourhood wist ;
He troubled the change-folk baith often and dreigh—
Yet wha was sae welcome as Ronald Magiech ?
Tho' landlord and maid wad fain answer'd his bell.
The landlady ever served Ronald hersel' ;
She'd sit to taste wi' him, though ever sae th'-ang,
And see him a' right, though a' else should gae wrang.
And rise when he liket at e'en to gae 'wa'.
He ne'er got a hint for his lawing ava ;
Baith merchants and customers boost stand abeigh.
No ane wad she look at but Ronald Jlacgiech.
• Ronald ."Vracgieeh— with other aliases — irho paid the forfeit of his
crimes in front of the Glasgow Jail, along ■with an associate in crime —
Robert M'Kinlay, alias Rough Rab, in 1819. Ronald was a veteran
in his profession, and thoroughly understood all the Outs and Ins
of burglary. He had attained the moral hardihood — which only a
course of crime can induce — to turn into humoroas burlesque the exit
from the scaffold— by remarking, " That it was sair on the e'e-sicht."
When his hosiery had been the worse for wear, he used to say that it
" Saved him trouble, for he could draw them on by whatever end ha
•atehed first."
11
Bae lichtly, nao lad in the hale kintra side,
Could dance you a hornpipe, or set to a bride ;
At fairs, in the reel-house he'd caper and spreigh»
Till the rantle-tree rattled wi' Ronald Macgeich.
Though o' him the men were a' rede and unfain,
The lasses aye leuch when they met him again :
To a' ither wooers though saucy and skeigh,
They were aye unco cosh-like wi' Ronald Macgiech.
Whate'er was a%vn him he was aye sure to get,
But ne'er could remember to pay his ain debt ;
The luckiest Avight too he was in the land,
For ithers aft lost things, but Ronald aye fand
At last he did something-;-no ane could tell what.
The Wiggies* were down on him, iiae gude sign that;
Ele died in his shoon, about twa stories heich,
'Twas sail" on the e'esicht of Ronald Macgiech.
Thomas Dick, Paisley.
I'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.
I'll tend thj'" bower,' my bonnie May,
In spring-time o' the year.
When saft'ning winds begin to woo
The primrose to appear-
When daffodils begin to dance.
And streams again flow free —
And little birds are heard to pipe
On the sprouting forest tree.
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When summer days are lang^
When Nature's heart is big wi' joy,
Her voice laden wi' sang —
When shepherds pipe on sunny braes^
And flocks roam at their will,
• Lords of Justiciary.
12
And auld an' young in cot an' ha',
O" pleasure drink their fill.
I'll tend thy hotver, my bonnie 3Iay,
When autumn's Yell6\v fields —
That wave like seas o' gowd — before
The glancin' sickle yields ;
Wlien ilka bough is bent \vV fruit —
A glorious sight to see! —
And showers o' leaves, red, rustlhig, sweep
Out owTe the withering lea.
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When thro' the naked trees,
Cauld, shivering on the bare hill side.
Sweeps wild tlie frosty breeze ;
When tempests roar, and billows rise.
Till Nature quakes wi' fear —
And on the land, and on the sea.
Wild winter rules the year.
WiLLtA-Ai Fergusom, Edinburgh.
THE 3IERHAYDEX.
Sd to Music bi/ R. A. Smith.
*' The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill.
And the white faem weets my bree.
And my mind misgies me, gay mayden,
That the land we sail never see."
Then up and spak the mermayden.
And she spak blj'the and free,
•' I never said to my bonnie brjdegroom
That on land we should weddit be.
" Oh, I never said that ane erthlie priest
Om- bridal blessing should gie ;
And I never said that a landwart bower
Should hald my love and me."
' And whare is that priest, my bonnie mayden.
If ane erthlio wicht is na be ?'
13
•* Oh tbe wind will sough, and the sea will rata
AVhen weddit we twa sail be."
• And wliare is that bower, my bonnie may den.
If on land it should na be ?'
" Oh my blythe bower is low," said the mermayden,
" In the bonnie green hows o* the sea.
My gay bower is biggit o' the gude ships' keels,
And the bancs o' the drown 'd at sea ;
The fisch are the deer that fill my parks.
And the water waste my drurie.
" And my bower is^sklaitit wi' the big blue wave,
And paved wi' the yellow sand ;
And in my Chalmers grow bonnie white flowers
That never grew on land.
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie brydegroom,
A leman on earth that wad gie
Aiker for aiker o' the red plough 'd land.
As I'll gie to thee o' the sea ?
The mune will rise in half une hour,
And the wee bricht starnswill shine,
Then we'll sink to my bowir 'ueath the wan water.
Full fifty fathoms and nine." —
A wild, wild skreich gied tlie fey bridegroom.
And a loud, loud laucli the bryde ;
For the mune rose up, and the twa sank dovv-n.
Under the silver'd tide.
WlLJ,IAJl -MOTHEKWEM.
AVHETnER OR NO.
Set to Music hy John Turnbull.
Hang a* tho braw lads that come hither to woo mc,
There's only but ane I wad fain mak' my joe ;
Ind though I seem bhy, yet sae dear is he to me,
I Ecarce can forgie mysel' when I s;^y " No."
14
My sister she sneers 'cause he hasna the penny.
And cries, " ye maun reap, my lass, just as ye sow,"
My brither he bans, but it's a' ane to Jennj",
She'll just tak' the lad she likes — whether or no.
My father he cries, " tak' the laird o' Kinlogie,
For he has baith mailins and gowd to bestow :"
My mither cries neist, " tak' the heir o' Glenbogie,**
But can I please baith o' them ? — weel I wat no !
And since 'tis mysel' maun be gainer or loser —
Maun drink o' life's bicker, be't weal or be't woe,
I deem it but fair I should be my ain chooser ; —
To love will I lippen, then — whether or no.
Cauld Prudence may count on his gowd and his acres,
And think them the sum o' a* blessings below.
But tell mo, can wealth bring content to its makers?
The care-\\Tinkled face o' the miser says " No !"
But oh when pure love meets a love corresponding.
Such bliss it imparts as the world cannot know ;
It lightens life's load, keeps the heart from desponding,
Let Fate smile or scowl, it smiles— whether or no !
Alex, Rodger.
THE AVIDOWS EXCUSE.
Aiii — " saic ye the Lass wi' the bonnie blue een."
" Leezie M'Cutcheon, I canna but say,
Your grief hasna lasted a year and a day ;
The crape aff your bonnet already ye've tane ;
Nae wonncr that men ca' us tickle an' fain.
Ye sich't and ye sabbit, that nicht Johnnie dee't,
I thought my ain heart wad hae broken to see't ;
But noo ye're as canty and brisk as a bee ;
Oh ! the frailty o* women I wonner to see:
The frailty o* women, I wonner to see.
The frailty o* women, I wonner to seej
15
Ye kiss'd his cauld gab wi' the tear In your e'o ;
Oh, the frailty o' women I wonner to see.
♦' TNTien Johnnie was living, oh little he wist,
That the sound o' the mools as they fell on his kist,
^\^lile yet like a knell , ringing loud in your lug,
By anither man's side ye'd be sleeping sae snug.
Leezie, my lady, ye've surely been fain.
For an unco-like man to your arms ye have ta'en ;
John M'Cutcheon was buirdly, but this ane, I trow,
The e'e o' your needle ye might draw him through :
O, the e'e o' your needle ye might draw him through,
His nose it is shirpit, his lip it is blue,
Oh Leezie, ye've surely to wale on had few,
Ye've looted and lifted but little, I trow."
•' Now, Janet, wi' jibing and jeering hae dune,
Tliough it's true that anither now fills Johnnie's sh con,
He was lang in sair trouble, and Robin, ye ken.
Was a handy bit body, and lived butt and ben.
He was unco obliging, and cam at my wag,
Whan wi' grief and fatigue I was liken to fag ;
'Deed, John couldna want him — for aften I've seen
His e'e glisten wi' gladness whan Robin cam' in.
Then, how can ye wonner I gi'ed him my haim !
Oh, how can ye wonner I gi'ed him my hann,
When I needed his help, he was aj'e at commaun';
Then how can ye wonner I gi'ed him my haun ?"
"At length when John dee't, and was laid in the clay,
j"My haun it was bare, and my heart it was wae ;
1 had na a steek, that was black, to put on,
For wark I had plenty wi' guiding o' John ;
I^ow Robin was thrifty, and ought that he wan.
He took care o't, andayehad twa notes at commaun'.
And he lent me as muckle as coft a black goon,
Sae hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon.
\b
Then hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon,
My heart-strings wi* sorrow y^ere a' out o' tune :
A man that has worth and twa notes at commaun'.
Can sune get a woman to tak him in haun."
WiLLIA.M FlXLAV.
AULD JOHN NICOL.
Air— " John Kicol."
I SING of an auld forbear o' my ain,
Twecdle dun^ twadle dum twenty-one ;
A man wha for fun was never out-done.
And his name it was auld John Nicol o' Quhaia.
Auld John Nicol was bora — he &iid,
Tweedle dum, &c. ;
Of man or of maid 's no weel kent— sin he's dead,
Sae droll was the birth o* John Nicol o Quhain.
Auld John Nicol he lo'ed his glass.
Tweedle dum, ic. ;
And auld John Nicol he lo'ed a lass,
And he courted her tocher —the lands o' Balquhain.
Auld John Nicol he made her his wife,
Tweedle dum, &c. ;
And the feast was the funniest feast o' his liffe.
And the best o* the farce he was laird o' Balquhain.
The lady was fifty, his age was twal' mair,
Twecdle dum, <fcc. ;
She was bow-hough "d and hum ph -back 'd, twined like a
stair,
" But her riggs are fell straucht," quo' John Nicol o'
C>uhain.
By some cnancc or ither auld John got a son,
Tweedle dum , &a ;
17
He was laid in the cupboard for fear that the win'.
Wad hae blawn out the hopes o' the house o* Balquhaln.
The lady was canker'd and eident her tongue,
Twecdle dum, &c. ;
She scrimpit his cosr— thrash 'd his ba(;k wi' a rung,
And dousen'd for lang auld John Nicol o' Quhain.
Ae day cam a ca'er wi' mony lang grane,
Tweedlo dum, &c. ;
•* Oh ! death" — quo' the laird, " come stap your wa's ben,
Ye'se be welcome to tak Mrs. Nicol o' Quhain."
Auld John was a joker the rest o' his life,
Tweedle dum, &c. :
And his ae blythest joke was the yirdin' his wife,
For it left him the lau'd o' the lands o' Balquhain.
Patrick Bucman.
I HAD A HAT, I HAD NAE MAIR.
Air — " / had a horse, I had nae mair.'*
I HAD a hat, I had nae mair,
I gat it frae the hatter ;
My hat was smash'd, my skull laid bare,
Ae night when on the batter ;
And sae I thocht me on a plan,
Whereby to mend the matter-
Just turn at ance a sober man.
And tak to drinking water.
My plan I quickly put in force,
Yea, stuck till't most sincerely.
And now I drive my gig and horse.
And hae an income yearly.
But, had I still kept boozing on,
'Twa'd been anither matter.
My credit, cash, and elacs had gono,
In tatter after tatter.
s
18
My wife, perhaps, a worthless pest,
JNry weans half-starved and duddy ;
And I, mysel', at very best,
Gaun wi' an auld coal cuddie ;
Wi' scai-ce a stick in a' the house.
Or spoon, or bowl, or platter.
Or milk, or meal, to feed a mouse.
Or blanket save a tatter.
Now, Gude be praised, I've peace o* mind,^
Clear head and health o' body,
A thrifty wifie, cosh and kind.
And bairnies plump and ruddy.
Hence, I'd advise ilk weirdless wight,
Wha likes the gill-stoup's clatter.
To try my plan this very night,
And tak' to drinking water,
Alkx, Rodgkr.
PAT MULLIGAN'S COURTSHIP.
Tts our duty to love both our father andtnother, '
Give up talking nonsense, and all sn»«ts of bother.
But greater by far is the duty to smother
Oiu- love, when bjginning to ail :
O dear ! dear ! what can the matter be '■
Och botheration now, what can the matter be, ;
Thunder and turf ! why what can the matter be ?
How, Cupid, my poor heart doth flail !
" Och, Judy, but you have kilt me now, I can nather ate, sup, sleep,"
nor drink, for thinking ov ye, ye've made a hole in my heart like a
bung-hole, for which I hope you will live to repint and be forgiven.
Bad cess to me ! if the people ar'ntbeginnia'to think, that lam the livin'
atomy, aich of us, both saw at Donnybrook Fair, an' if my flesh, an'
bones, an* blood, dhrop of me longer, they'll be in earth's keeping afor«
my own eyes. Living, yon must be mine, and if I die, 1 sfiall lay my
19
. rteath agtii ye every night till I bring you to your senses, you munher-
Ing je-wel !"
Then I search 'd all around for a sweetheart less cruel.
In the hope she would make me forget my first jewel
This only was adding fresh fire to the fuel,
And making more trouble and wail.
" It is alLover ■with you now, Paddy, says I, so before the breath
laves yer body, you had better consult yourown clargy. Father ^Murphy,
and get a mouthful of ghostly consolation to die ■with. Father, says
I to. him, I%m going fo die." " Then*j'ou're a great big fool," says
he, " what puts that into your head, my son ?" " Jufly has kilt me,"
says I, "and it's of no use livin' any longer." " Paddy, my^son," says
he, " you ought to know that this ■world on which you are placed, is
just like a potful of praties — ye are all sent here to jumble, and tumble,
and bubble, and roar ; and, the mdn that remains longest in the pot of
affliction ■without his skin breakin* iutirely — tlKit man,iy«4i may dipind
on't, is the true potatoe." " Arrah Father," says I, " it's ifet that at
all, its Judy." ,
Then dear ! dear ! what can the matter be ! V
Och botheration now, what can the matter be.
Pewter and pots ! why what can the matter be ?
Cupid, my poor heart doth flail.
Fo finding no peace, I determined to marry,
Get Judy's consent, and no longer to tarry,
*Tis the road all must go, though a few will miscarry.
As onward thiough life they do saiL
"Judy," says I, "-will you have me iver 9tad always and amin ?"
" Well Pat, an' suppose I were, should I be any the worse for't."
" Troth an' myself often wondered that you were niver axin me."
" Is't your own self that I'm hearin' s]^akjn' — beauty an' blessing on
?very tether linth o' ye Judy ?" " It's not in the natur of woman to
refuse ye, Pat Mulligan," says she. " Then it's done in the closing of
an eye-cover," says I, " and next Sunday, Father Murphy, took uA
afore him. and repated the last bindin' words, that we should be one in
20
Bowl, body, an' nature, seed, breed, an* giniration for erer, and I nerer
rtpinted ; and I would advise all love-sick swains, just to ax their
sweethearts, and maybe they'll answer like my own Judy, it's not in
the natur of woman to refuse ye."
Well ! well ! now nought can the matter he,
Honey, and sugrar now, nought can the matter be,
Pigs and paraties since nought can the matter be,
Paddy no longer need wail.
THOU ZEPHYR, AS THOU FLITT'ST AWAY.
Thou zephyr, as thoii flitt'st away,
Wafting thy perfume o'er the grore,
U in thy course thou chance to stray
Along the cheek of her 1 love ;
Oh ! tell her that thou art a sigh,
Breathed from a fond and humble heart,
By fate, debarr'd from hopes so high.
But do not tell from whom thou art !
Thou streamlet, murmuring sweetly o'er,
The pebbles in thy rocky bed.
If ever near thy lonely shore.
Her wandering foot should chance to tread ;
Oh I whisper softly in her ear,
That with thy pure transparent wave,
There mingles many a bitter tear,
But do not tell the eye that gave !
E. PiNKERTOV.
THEY COME ! THE MERRY" SUM]MER MONTHS.
They come ! the merry simimer months of Beauty, Song,
and Flowers ;
They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafinea*
i« boweri ;
21
Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad, fling cark and cara
aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquil-
lity.
The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,
Ajid, like the kiss of naaiden love, the breeze is sweet and
bland ;
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously,
It stirs their blood, with kindest love, to bless and welcome
thee :
And mark how with thine own thin locks — they now are
silvery grey —
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering " Be
gay !"
There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky.
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody :
Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like
red gold.
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course
they hold.
Heaven bless them ! all these little ones, who far above this
earth ,
Can make a scoflf of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.
But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it
came;
Tlio spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad
name ; —
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind ,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ;
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again — his notes are void of art.
But simplest strains do soonest sovmd the deep founts of the
heart!
22
It is a rare and gracious boon ! for thought-crazed wight
like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer
tree .'
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away
And feed my fancv with fond dreams of youth's bright sum-
mer daj',
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant
boy.
Wander M through green woods all day long, a mighty heart
of joy.
I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but oh ! I'm proud to
think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to
drink ; —
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm un-
clouded sky,
Still mingle music witli my dreams, as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and
cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse — a heart that hath wa
eld !
Motherwell.
waxed
OCn ! WHILE I LIVE, I'LL NE'ER FORGET.
OcH ? while I live, I'll ne'er forget
Tiie troubles of that day.
When bound unto this distant land.
Our ship got under weigh.
My friends I left at Belfast tovra,
IVIy love at Carrick shore.
And I gave to poor old Ireland
ily blessing o'er and o'er.
23
Och ! well I. knew, as off we sail'd.
What my hard fate would be ;
For, gazing on my country's hills,
They seera'd to fly from me.
I watch'd them, as they wore away,
Until my eyes grew stire
And I felt that I was doom'd to walk
The shamrock sod no more !
They say I'm now in Freedom's land,
"Where all men masters be ;
Rut were I in my winding-sheet,
There's none to care for nie !
I must, to eat the stranger's bread.
Abide the stranger's scorn.
Who taimts me with thy dear-loved name,
Sweet isle, where I was bom !
Och ! where — och * where's the careless heart
I once could call my own ?
It bade a long farewell to me,
The day I left Tyrone.
Not all the wealth, by hardship won
Beyond the western main,
Thy pleasures, my own absent home !
Can bring to me again !
WfJ-LIAM KE.V.VItDV.
thp: peerless rose of kent.
When beauty, youth, and innocence.
In one fair form are blent.
And that fail- form our vestal Queen,
The peerless Rose of Kent,
Say, Where's the Briton's heart so cold—
The Briton's soul so dead,
24
As not to pour out ardent prayer
For blessings on her head ?
This is the day * — the joyous day,
That sees our lady crow-n'd.
Hence, may not one disloyal heart.
In Albion's Isles be found ;
But may she find in every breast
An undisputed throne,
And o'er a gallant people reign,
"Whose hearts are all her own.
For ne'er did woman's hand more fair
The regal sceptre hold,
And ne'er did brow more spotless wear
The coronal of gold ;
And ne'er beneath the pmple robe
Did purer bosom beat ;
So ne'er may truer lieges kneel
A lovelier Queen to greet.
May every blessing from above.
On Kent's fair Rose descend.
While wisdom, dignity, and grace.
On all her steps attend.
Still may she wear fair Virtue's bloom,
Througliout a happy reign.
And long be haU'd the " Queen of Isles"—
Fair Mistress of the Main !*
Alexander Rodreiu
TFIE SONG OF THE SLAVE.
O E.vGLAND ! dear home of the lovely and true
Loved land of the brave and the free.
• This song \n» '«rritt«n on th« Coronation of Qa««n Vietori^ S8th
JnM, isaa.
25
Though distant— though wayward— the path I pursue.
My tlioughts shall ne'er wander from thee.
Deep, in my heart's core,
Rests the print of thy shore,
From a die whose impression fades never ;
And the motto impress'd,
By this die, on my hreast.
Is " England, dear England, for ever,"
May blessings rest on thee for ever !
As Queen, she sits throned with her sceptre of light.
Aloft on the white-crested wave ;
Wliile billows surround her, as guards of her right
To an island where breathes not a slave.
And her sceptre of light
Shall, through regions of nigh'.
Shed a radiance like darts from day's quiver.
Till the unfetter'd slaves.
To the Queen of the Waves,
Shout " Freedom and England for ever,"
May blessings rest on thee for ever !
How often hath Fame, with his trumpet's loud blast.
Praised the crimes of mock-heroes in war.
Whose joy was to revel o'er nations lai I waste.
And drag the fallen foe at their car !
But a new law, from heaven.
Hath by England been given
To Fame — and from which she'll ne'er sever,—
' ' No hero but he
Who saves and sets free,"
Saith England, free England, for ever.
May blessings rest on thee for ever 1
J. D. Carrick.
26
BAULD BRAXY TAM,
A WEEL KEXNED CHIEL IN CARNWATH MUIR.
Tone — " 27je Campbells are coming."
Bauld Braxy Tam, be lives far in the west,
Whaur the dreary Lang ^Vhang heaves its brown heathe
crest ;
He's bauld as a lion , tho' calm as a lamb —
rede ye nae rouse him, our bauld braxy Tam.
The Strang stalwart loon wons upon the hill tap
In a i)eat-biggit shieling wi' thin theekit hap-
Yet he ne'er wants a braxy, nor gude reestit ham.
And snell is the stamack o' bauld braxy Tam.
See how his straught form, 'midst the storm-flecker'd lift,
Stalks athwart the bleak muir, thro' the dark wreaths o'
di-ift,
While the wowff o' the colley or bleat o' the ram •
Are beacons o' light, to guide bauld braxy Tam.
"WTien April comes in aye sae sleety and chill.
And mony young lammie lies dead on the hill.
Though miss'd by its owner, and left by its dam,
Its gude gusty geai- to our bauld braxy Tam.
Tho' some o* us think he gets mair than eneugh —
That he finds them himssl', wliilk he cast in tlie heugh.
The bauldest amang us maun keep a sough calm —
He's a lang luggit deevil, our bauld braxy Tam.
FTe ne'er parts wi' master, nor master wi' him —
Wlien the headsman luiks sulky, the herdsman luiks grim.
Syne they souther a' up wi' a flytc and a dram,
For Tam's like the master, the master like Tam.
Thro' a' our braid muirlands sae stunted an' brown.
There's nane fear'd nor lo'ed like the hellicat loun ;
27
Our fair freckled maidens feel mony love dwaum,
When milking the ewes o' our bauld braxy Tarn j
For the wild roving rogue has the glod in his e'e,
Twa three-neukit e'ebrees, aye louping wi' glee,
Wi' a black bushy beard, and a liquory gam—
O wlia wad be kittled by bauld braxy Tarn.
At the lown ingle cheek, in the lang winter night,
Tarn's welcomed wi' pleasure aye mint^led wi' fright ;
Queer sangs, and ghaist stories, a' thro'ither cram,
In the big roomy noddle o' bauld braxy Tam.
Then the weans cour in neuks frae the fancy-raised ghaist.
And ilk lad faulds his arms round his ain lassie's waist ;
The auld folks gae bed, in an ill-natured sham,
But the young gape till midnight round bauld braxy Tam
They wad fain hae him married, his courage to cowe,
For he's tickle's the clouds, tho' he's het as the lowe.
He courts a' tlie lasses without ere a qualm,
Yet^or nano by anither cares bauld brixy Tam.
But a puir auld sheep-farmer cam here to the muir,
Wi' a daughter as fair as her faither is puir ;
She's pure as the dew-drap, an' sweet as tho balm,
And she's won the stout heart o' our bauld braxy Tam.
James Ballantixe, Edinburgh.
THE SMIDDIE.
Air—" The days d" langsi/ne."
Ye'll moimt your bit naggie an' ride your wa's doun,
•Bout a mile and a half frae the neist borough toun.
There wons an auld blacksmith wi' Janet his wife.
And a queerer auld cock ye ne'er met i' your life.
As this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine ;
O ! be sure that ye ca' on this cronie o* mine.
Ye'll fin' 'im as I do, a trust-worthy chiel
Weel tempered wi' wit frae his head to his heel.
28
Wi' a saul in his body auld Nick ne'er could clout.
And a apark in his thront, whilk is ill to di-o\VTi out.
This cronic o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
For a deil o' a drouth has this cronie o' mine.
His smiddie ye'll ken by the twa trough stanes
At the auld door clieeks, an' the black batter 'd panes — -
By the three iron clocks whilk ho straik in the wa'.
To tj'c up wild yads when heigh customers ca'
Oh this ci'onie o' mine, tlsis cronie o' mine.
Sure the hail countrie kens him, this cronie o' mine.
Up agen the auld gable 'tis like you may view,
A tramless cart, or a couterless plough,
An' auld teethless harrow, a brcchem ring rent,
Wi' mae br ken gear, whilk are meant to be ment
By this cranio o' mine, this cronic o' mine ;
He's a right handy craftsman, this crony o' mine.
There's an auld broken sign-board looks to the hie i-oad,
Whilk tells ilka rider whar liis n lig may be shod,
Tliere's twa or three wordies that yc'U hue to ppell.
But ye needna find fault for he wTote it himsel' ;
This cronie o' mine, this cronie o* mine.
He's an aul' farren carl, this cronie o' mine.
Wlien ye fin his auld smiddie, ye'll like, there's nae doubt>
To see the inside o't as well as the out ;
Then stap ye in bauldly, altho' he be thrang,
Gif the pint-stoup but clatter, ye'll ken him ere lang.
This cronic o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
Baith wit, fun, and fire, has this cronie o' mine;
Twa or three chiels frae the tou-n-end are sure to be there—
There's the bauld-hcaded butcher, wha taks aye the chair,
'IMang tlie queerest auld fallows ae way and anither,
That e'er in this world were clubbit thegither,
A' cronies o* mine, a' cronies o' mine,
They'll a' mak ye welcome, those cronies o' mine.
29
There's Dominie Davie, sae glib o' the mou ;
But its like ye will fin' the auld carl blin' fou ;
Wi' the wee barber bodie, an* his wig fu' o' news,
Wlia wad shave ony chap a' the week for a booze ;
A' cronies o' mine, a' cronies o' mine.
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
There's our auld Toim-Clerk, wha has taen to the pack,
Whilk is naething in bulk to the humph on his back ;
His knees are siie bow't, his splay feet sae tlirawn.
Troth its no easy tellin' the road whilk they're gaun,
Tho' a cronie o' mine, a bauld cronie o'mine.
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
There's Robin the ploughman, wha's cramm'd fu' o' fun,
Wee gamekeeper Davie, wi' bag, dog, and gun.
And the miller, wha blj'thly the pipes can play on.
So your sure to fa' in wi' the " Miller o' Drone,'
A' cronies o' mine, a' cronies o' mine.
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
Tlien \vi' thumpin' o' hammers, and tinklin' o' tangs,
Wi' auld fashion *d stories wrought into queer sangs,
Wi' this soun, and that, ye'll ablins be deaved—
And tak care o' your brceks that they dinna get sieved
Wi' this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
For an arm o' might has this cronie o' mine.
Then the Vulcan his greybeard is aye sure to draw,
Frae a black sooty hole whilk ye'll see i' the wa'.
And lang or its empty, frien', I mcikle doubt,
Gif the tae chap kens weel what the tither's about,
Wi' this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine —
O ! be sure that ye ca' on this cronie o' mine.
Come now my gude frien' gie's a shake o' your haun,
The night's wearin' thro', and ye maun be gaun.
so
The callan -vvill bring down j-our naig in a blink,
But before that ye mount again let us drink
this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine.
Here's lang life and pith to this cronie o' mine.
Alexander MacLaggan, Edinbiu-g'.i
SOME PASSAGES
FROM THE PRIVATE LIFE OF LA.VG KATE DALRYMPLS,
A CELEBRATED BALLAD SINGER.
Tune—" Wliislle, and I'll come to ye my lad."
O Katie's worth gowpsns o'gowd to me,
O Katie's worth gowpens o'gowd to me.
Gang favour, gang fortune, I carena a flee,
My Katie's worth gowpens o'gowd to me.
She's nippit, decrepit — she's crabbit and wee.
Looks twa ways at ance wi' a grey greedy glee.
But she turns round on me wi' the tail of her e'e,
An' ilk glance has the glamour o' sunshine to ma.
O Katie's worth, &c.
I'm couring and cauldrife, I'm lang and I'm lean,
Ilae a leg like a lath, an' an arm like a preen,
Hae a face like a knife, an' a head like a bean.
Yet I'm comely and dear in my kind Katie's e'en.
O Katie's worth, &c.
Wc live man and wife, by nae priest ever tied.
We are bound by love's fetters, nae bondage beside ;
We were made, Kate an' me, to be ilk ither's pride,
Kane else covets me, nor yet fancy's my bride.
O Katie's worth, &c.
O why should a blackcoat tie me to my joe.
Sic blinds may bring weal, but they sometimes bring woe;
Gin ye're no match'd aboon, ye'll ne'er souther below.
Far better shake hands on't. syne bundle and go.
O Katie's worth, <to.
81
I ance was a wabster, and sair did bowail
That bonny wee Katie should sup water kail,
She windit my pirns, I was fond, she was frail.
So to fend for our weanies I took to the trail.
O Katie's worth, &c.
Syne I learnt a bit sang that spak kindly o' Kate,
Her name had a music that rang in my pate,
An' I sang't wi' sic birr thro' the streets air and late.
That a' body bought it wha cam in my gate.
O Katie's worth, &c.
When weans cry lang Katie, I e'en let them cry.
When fou fools Avad fash me, I jouk an' gae bye.
When lasses come flirtin, I coax them fa' sly
Sae there's nane comes my way, but my ballant they buy.
O Katie's worth, &c.
Guid-natured contentment is aye sure to please,
I souther a' jars wi't, a' life's wheels I greeze ;
Like the sweet sighing sough o' the saft summer breezo,
Is a well scrapit tongue, tho' its laden wi' lees.
O Katie's worth, &c.
Then wha wad eir fash wi' a loon that's sae slee,
Wha shouthers life's rubs wi* a heart fu' o' glee,
Ye'U ne'er break my heart, nor yet bluther my e'e,
Sae lang's ye leave Katie to cuddle wi' me.
Then my Katie's v/orth, ike.
James Ballantine, Edinburgh.
THE EVIL E'E.
An evil e'e hath look't on thee,
JNIy puir wee thing, at last.
The licht has left thy glance o' glee.
Thy frame is fading fast.
32
Wha's frien's— wha's faes in this cauld warld
Is e'en richt ill to learn.
But an evil e'e hath look'd on thee,
My bonnie — bonnie baLm,
Your tender buik I happit warm,
AVi' a' a mither's caro.
I thought nae human heart could harm
A thing sae guid an' fair.
An' ye got aye my blessing when
I toil'd, your bread to earn,
But an evil e'e hath look't on thee
My bonnie — bonnie bau"n.
The bloom upon thy bonnie face.
The simlicht a' thy smiles,
llow glad they made ilk eerie place,
llovf short the langsome miles,
For sin I left my minnie's cot
Beside the brig o' Earn,
O, ours has been a chequer'd lot,
>iy bonnie — bonnie bairn.
I can forgie my mither's pride.
Though driven frae my hame,
I can forgie my sister's spite —
Her heart maun bear its blame.
I can forgie my brither's hard
And haughty heart o' aim,
But not the e'e that withers thee,
I\Iy bonnie — bonnie bairn.
I ken that deep in ae black breast
Lies hate to thee and me ;
I ken wha bribed the crew that press't
Thy father to the sea.
But hush !— he'll soon be back again
Wi' faithfu' heart I learn,
33
To drive frae thee the evil e*e,
My bonnie — bonuie bairn.
Alexr. MacLaggan, Edinburgls.
OUR AIN GUDE TOWN.
SCOTTISH BALLAD.
Air — " The yoiuuj May moon."
O LEEZE me now on our ain gude Town !
I wat there's few like our ain gude To\vtij
On the crown o' the land, may be mony mair grand
But there's nae ane sae dear as our ain gude Town.
There's lads fu' rare in our ain gude To%vn,
And lasses fu' fair in our ain gude Town ;
The light o' their e'e is a fountain o' glee,
And it flows to the heart in our ain gude Town.
O leeze me now, &c.
O dearly we loe thee, our ain gude Town,
And meikle we owe thee, our ain gude Town ;
The friendship, the love, we were fated to prove.
Were happiest aye in our ain gude To\\ n.
O leeze me now, &c.
Then here's to the health o' our ain gude Town,
The wisdom and wealth o' our ain gude Town;
May plenty and peace, ilka blessing increase,
And sweet freedom aye halo our ain gude Town !
O leeze me now, &c.
Thos. Dick, Paisley.
34
THE KAIL BROSE OF AULD SCOTLAND.*
When our ancient forefathers agreed wi' the laird.
For a spot o' good ground for to be a kail-yard.
It was to the brose that they had the regard ;
O ! the kail brose of auld Scotland ;
And O ! for the .Scottish kail brose.
A^Tien Fergus, the first of our kings, I suppose.
At the head of his nobles had vanquish'd his foes,
Before they began they had dined upon brose.
O ! the kail brose, Sec.
Then oiu" sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hos
With bonnet and belt which their dress did compose.
With a bag of oatmeal on their back to Lxake brose.
O ! the kail brose, &c.
• This song has been reprinted in our collection as being an exact
copy from the original MS — which we have seen in the hands of
Mr. Peter Buchan, tlie indefatigable ballad collector. The author was
Alex. Watson, merchant tailor in Aberdeen, who was at one time
Deacon of the Incorporated Trades, in the northern metropolis. The
circumstance that first suggested the idea to the author, was a Scottish
regiment recruiting in Aberdeen, playing in their processions the
" Roast Beef of Old England " oftener than the patriotic Deacon thought
consistent with true national spirit— thus, as he thought, holding his
country in invidious contrast — and so, while tlie goose was hot, he
Struck off the " Kail Bro&e of Auld Scotland." We think it contains
incontestible evidence that the worthy Deacon knew that there were
other sorts of padding that would relieve the acute angles in the frame-
work of man besides roast beef. The reader will observe that there are
two or tliree stanzas in the original not printed in the current version ;
and the third stanz.i but tlie last, " Now State," Sec. was never before
^ven. This song was written during the period of the American war,
1781, and the guardians of the Press in those days were so nervous, that
they feared, if published, it might be construed Into sedition.
35
In om- free early ages a Scotsman could dine
Without English roast heef , or famous French wine,
Kail brose, if weel made, he always thought hne.
O ! the kail brose, &c.
Vt oiu- annual election of bailies or mayor,
Nae kickshaws of puddings or tarts were seen there,
•i dish of kail brose was the favourite fare.
O the kail brose, &c.
It has been our favourite dish all along.
It our ladies makes beauties, our gentlemen strong—
When moderately used, it our life does prolong.
O ! the kail brose, &c.
While thus we can live, vre dread no kind of foes^
Should any invade us, we'll twist up their nose.
And soon make them feel the true virtue of brose,
O ! the kail brose, &c.
Now State politicians, new taxes propose.
Involving our country in numberless woes,
WTiat a blessing it is ! there's yet nane upon brose !
O ! the kail brose, &lc.
But aye since the thistle was joined to the rose.
And Englishmen no more accounted our foes.
We have lost a great part of our stomach for brose,
O ! the kail brose, czc.
But each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose.
Can cheerfully dine on a dishful of brose.
And the grace be a wish to gat plenty of those.
O ! the kail brose of auld Scotland.
And O for the Scottish kail brose !
LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E MB.
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e ma,
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
36
Ye'se be layde o' my ha'.
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
A canty butt, a cozie ben,
Weel plenished ye may true me ;
A brisk, a blythe, a kind gudeman —
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me !"
Walth, there's little doubt ye hjie.
An' bidin' bein an' easy ;
But brisk an' blythe ye canna be,
An' j'ou sae auld and crazy.
Wad marriage mak you young again ?
Wad woman's love renew you ? —
Awa', ye sillj' doitet man,
I canna, v.inna lo'e you."
Witless hizzie, e'en's ye like.
The ne'er a doit I'm carin' ;
But men maim be the first to speak.
An' wanters maun be spoirin'.
Yet, lassie, I hae lo'ed you lang,
And noo I'm come to woo you —
I'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you'd better lo'e me !"
*' Doitet bodie !— auld or young.
Ye needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' owre a rung,
lie's no for me to m .rry.
Gae hame and ance bethink yoursel*
How ye wad come to woo mc^
And mind me i' your latter- will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me .'"
Alex. Lakvo, Brechin.
37
TA PRAISE O' OUSKIE.
Air — "Neil Goio's farewell to wntshy."
Ta praise o' ouskie, she will kive,
An' wish ta klass aye in her neive ;
She tisna thought that she could live
Without a wee trap ouskie, O.
For ouskie is ta thing my lad.
Will cheer ta heai-t whene'er she's sad :
To trive bad thoughts awa like mad,
Hoogh ! there's naething like kood ouskie, O.
Oh ! ouskie's koot, an' ouskie's cran,
Ta pestest physick efer fan ;
She wishes she had in her han*,
A krcat pig shar o' ouskie, O.
Ta lallan loon will trank at rum.
An* shin tat frae ta Tutchman come ;
An' pranty— Fieugli ! tey're a' put scum,
No worth a sneesh like ouskie, O.
Ta shentles they will trank at wine,
Till faces like ta moon will shine ;
Put what's ta thing can prighten mine ? —
Poogh ! shust a woe trap ouskie, O.
Ta ladies they will klour and plink.
Whene'er tey'll saw't a man in trink ;
Put py temsel tey'll never wink.
At four pig dram o' ouskie, O.
An' some will trank a trashy yill,
Wi' porter some their pellies fill;
For Loch Ard fu', a sinkle shill
She wadna gie o' ouskie, O.
Some lads wi' temprant rules akree.
An' trench their kite wi' elooshy tea ;
38
She's try't tat too, but nought for me—
Is like a wee trap ouskie, O.
What kars her roar, and tance, and sing ?
Wliat kars her loilp ta highlan fling ?
"S^liat kars her leuk as pault's ta king ?
Put shust a wee trap ouskie, O.
"WTiene'er she's towie. fex, and wae,
Whane'er ta cault her nose maks plae.
What cheers her heart py night an' tay ?
Hoogh ! shust a wee trap ouskie, O.
Alkx. Fishkr.
SINCE FATE HAS DECREED IT.
Air — "A' body's like to get married hut me."
SixcE B^e has decreed it— then e'en let her gang,
I'll coraS^t mysel' yri' a cant}- bit sang :
Yes ; I'll sing like a lintie and laugh at it a',
Though the auld donnart dotai'd has wiled her awa'.
O wae worth that siller ! what mischief it breeds,
Dame Fortune's pet weans, how it pampers and feeds ;
It has made them baith ane whom auld Nature meant twa,
And has torn frae my arms, my dear lassie awa'.
The neighbours will clatter about the affair.
But e'en let them talk— tliat's the least o' my care.
For the sugh ^^'ill blaw by in a fortnight or twa.
But ne'er oan restore to me, her that's awa'.
Come cheer up my heart ! — yet, what need'st thou be wae,
There are thousands bchint her, sae e'en let her gae ;
Yes ; thousands, as bonnie, as good, and as braw —
Then why should'st thou grieve for her, now she's awa' ?
But ah ! hapless lassie, my heart's wae for thee,
To think what a comfortless life thou maun dree ;
How cheerless to sit in a rich splendid ha'
'3Iidst desolate graiidem*, when love is awa".
89
And tliou, her auld mither, ah what wilt thou say,
^^^^en thou seest thy poor lassie, heart-hroken and wae ;
Ah what wift avail then, her deeding sae hraw.
When it covers a bosom that's riven'^in twa.
Alkx. Rodgek.
DOWN THE W^ATER.
Air — " The Jorum."
Quo* Jean to me the tither morn, while munching at our
toast, sir,
"Dear me, gudeman, ye're une 3 worn— ye're looking like a
ghost, sir —
Ye're thin and wan— ye're colour's gane— I trow ye are nae
fatter—
In troth ye'U needs subtract a day, and journey doAvn the
water.
I'm sure 'twill do us meikle gude — a waucht o' cauler air,
sir,
A cauler douk — a cauler breeze — and cauler fish and fare, sir ;
Besides, ye ken, I'm far frae weel— and sae is Jane our
daughter,
Sae trouth, gudeman, ye'll needs consent to journey down
the water.
There's Will, and Bob, and George, and Ned, are hardly
cured the measles ;
And Jess, and Jlay, and Jean, and I— our skins are din
as weazles ;
Besides, ye ken, its just the thing— and see there's Mrs.
Clatter,
And illia creatm-e ought genteel — for weeks been downa. the
water."
Weel, weel, gudewife, sin e'en 'tis sae, and naething less
will please yc.
We'll see and set about it straucht— but losh it's no that easy,
40
For things are looking slaclv- , and cash — is no aplenty matter—
Ye'll needs douk twA-thioc times a-day— and fuddlR Lots o'
water.
I true the packing soon began — odds and ends galore, sirs —
VVi' jNIackintcsh's— pots and pans — and cordials a store, su-s;
Syne bundling a' aboard— the boat maist afi ere we wan at
her —
Her tether-tow maist stapp'd my breath and jouniey down
the water.
Hardly frae the Broomielaw, wife and weans a' sea-sick,
Ane booking here, anither there— their stomachs under
physic ;
And then the landing— rumbling — tumbling — swearin' like
a hatter,
And then to crown the job — mysel' maist drown 'd into the
water.
Rescued frae fear o' sudden death — we gather consolation,
And, joj-ous hope, our trouble's o'er, within our new loca-
tion;
An' now to see us pack'd and cramm'd like ony Yankee
squatter,
Nae less than five in ilka bed— that's high life down tho
water.
A grumbling night o'erpast— the mom, we grumbling don
our jackets.
In haste to seize our promised jaunt— tlie rain pours dovm.
in buckets ;
Ncist day's the i;ame— the neist— the neist— we 1: ear its cease-
less patter,
And sulky through the window glow'r— that's pleasure do\vm
the water.
At last ae sunny day is sent to cheer each drooj ing spirit,
In madden 'd joy we hail the morn— for a* ax^ downri'^ht
weari't ;
41
But mark ye how sic pleasure ends— our auldest, favourite
daughter,
Ran aff galanting, nane kent whaur— wi' some cliicl down
the water.
Wi' her restored— we journey back— in direfu' AVivith and
shame, sirs,
And vowing that we ne'er again shall jaunt sae far frae
hame, sirs : •
Or if we do, by sooth and troth— I'se no be sie a fauter.
As move like Patriai'chs of old — in fam'lies down the water.
Patrick Bcchan.
IT WAS NOT FOR THE DIAMOND RING.
Set to 3Iusic by John Clow, Esq.
It was not for the diamond ring upon your lily hand, —
It was not for your noble name, — it was not for your land, —
I saw no gem, no lordly name, no broad domain with thee.
The day you stole my trusting heart and peace of mind
from me.
You came — I knew not whence you cumc— we met— 'twas
in the dunce-
There was honey in each word of yours, and glamour in
each glance ;
Though many were around me then, I nothing saw but him
Before whose brow of starry sheen fresh-fallen snow were
dim.
You're gone ! — it was a weary night we parted at the burn ;
You swore by all the stars above, that you would soon re-
turn ;
That you would soon return, light love ! and I your bride
should be.
Hut backw.u'd will the burnie roll, ero you como back to
42
They say, that soon a smiling dame of lineage like to thine.
Will take thee by the fickle hand, thy falsehood placed in
mine;
The music and the rose-red wine to greet her vrill appear —
For -wedding-song, a sigh I'll have — for bridal -pledge, a tear.
O ^vould that thou had'st pass'd me by, in coldness or in
pride i
Nor wrought this deadly wrong to her, who on thy truth
relied :
The hunter's to the greenwood gone, his spear is in its rest.
But he'll not woimd the trusting dove, that shelters in his
breast.
William Kennedy.
THE FLITTIX' O' THE COW.
Air — " Tak' your auld Cloak about ye."
In summer when the fields were green,
An' heather bells bloom'd ower the lea.
An' hawthorns lent their leafy screen,
A fragrant bield for bird an' bee ;
Our Hawkie in the clover field
Was chewin' her cud wi' gratefu' mou',
An' our gudewife, wi' eidant hand.
Had just been out to flit the cow.
O, our gudeman's a leal gudeman,
But nane maun dare to say him na ;
There's nae a laird in a' the Ian'
Wi' higher hand mainteens the law.
Though he be poor he's unco proud.
An' aye maun be obey'd at hame ;
An' there, when he's in angry mood,
"VNTia conters him may rue the same.
" Gae flit the cow !" says our gudeman—
Wi' ready tongue the dame replies,
43
'• Gudeman, it is already dune"—
" Gae flit the cow !" again he cries.
" My will j'e'll do wi' hand an' heart.
If ye're a wife baith kind an' true ;
Obedience is the woman's part —
Make haste, gude^vife, an' flit the cow !"
" Gudeman, ye're surely clean gane gyte.
The cow's already flittit been ;
To see you fume an' hear yau flyte,
I fairlie meikle what ye mean.
What need to gang an' do again
The thing that I hae dune e'en now ?
Wliat idle tantrum's this ye've ta'en ?"
" I say, gudewife, gae flit the cow !"
*' Gudeman, when we were lad an* lass,
Your tongue was lik e a honey kaim ;
An' aye ye vowed ye'd ne'er prove fause.
But kythe like ony lamb at hame :
But now ye look sae dark an' doure,
\Vi* angry e'e an' crabbit mou',
Ye gar me af ten rue the hour"
" I say, gudewife, gae flit the cow I"
Syne he began to loup an' ban.
When out the wife flew in a huff—
" Come back ! come back !" cries our gudeman—
" Come back ! obedience is enough ! !
My sovereign will ye maun obey,
When my commands are laid on j'ou ;
Obedient, baith by night an' day,
An' ready aye to "Jlit (he cow!"*
Albxr. S.-mart, Edinburgh.
• We cannot but think that our friend, Mr. Smart, ha-s represented
• Head of the House" as carrying authority -with rather a high hand.
44
JOSEPH TUCK.*
I'm Joseph Tuck, the tailor's son,
A poor but honest blade, sirs,
And for these five-and-twenty years,
A roving life I've led, sirs ;
But as I mean to settle here,—
I'se tell you what my trade is, —
I'm barber, blacksmith, parish clerk,
Man-midwife to the ladies.
Bow, wow, wow, ri turn te edi.
I learn the bloods the way to box, —
I show them how to fence, sirs, —
I teach the girls the way to coax.
And also how to dance, sirs.
I'm skilled in everj' Highland Reel,
Strathspey, and Irish Jig, sirs,—
And I can shave a parson's beard,
And curl a lady's wig, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
My shop is stock 'd with London toys,—
Guns, wooden swords, and dolls, sirs,
Red herrings, treacle, blacking balls,^
Sweet gingerbread and coals, sirs.
I sell all sorts of ladies' ware,—
Rings, parasols, and muffs, sirs,
I alsD deal in sausages.
And other garden stuffs, sii's.
Bow, wow, wow, &e.
I keep all kinds of liquors, too,— •
Rum, brandy, ale, and porter.
* We have inserted this Song in our miscellany, though it has
In almost every collection of Comic Songs published ■within the la
quarter of a century. The Author's name -was never before given — it isa
early effusion of one of our contributors— Mr. ^Villiam Finlay, PaisleyJ
45
I light the lamps the whole year through.
Or take them hy the quarter.
I dress all kinds of leather, too,
And linens, fine or coarse, sirs,
I keep a school for singing psalms,
And tools for shooing horse, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
All kinds of sweetmeats, too, I sell, —
Soap, sugar, salt, and spice, sirs.
Potatoes, spunks, and periwigs, —
And traps for catching mice, sirs.
Ching's patent lozenges I sell,—
And Godfrey's cordial roots, sirs,
I also both can make and mend
All kinds of shoes and boots, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &o.
I also have on hand for sale.
All sorts of weaving ware, sirs,
Wheel-b.irrows, picks, and pouckin* pins,
And cheeses made in Ayr, sirs
All kinds of cobbler's tools I keep.
Umbrellas, brogues, and awls, sirs,
Flay'd pigeons, speldings, bacon hams.
And imitation shawls, sirs.
Bjw, wow, wow, &c.
Thus I have given you in full,
A statement of my ware, sirs.
My rings and ruffs— my dolls and muffs —
My leather and my hair, sir#.
But not to wear your patience out,
I here will make a stop, sirs.
And only hope j-ou'll take the hint.
And purchase at my shop, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, ri turn te edi
46
THE A^^DOW'S WONDERS.
" O Leezie but I'm wae for you, nae wonder that ye mane,
"Whaur will we fin' the like o' him that noo is dead and gane ?
The pictm-e o' guid nature, aye sae hearty and sae kin',
Nae wonder whan ye think on him your wits ye're like to
tine."
•' O Janet, Janet, say nae mair about him, honest man, 1
I canna weel forget him, though [ do tlie best I can ; I
He was a kin', kin' man to me, and when I see the ^vl■eck ]
O' a' my peace and happiness, my heart is like to break.
I was an orphan lassie left, and hadna mony freens,
And Janet, lass, I mind it weel when I was in my teens,
I didna think without a man that I my life v.-ould di-ee.
But aft I v>-oader't to mysel" wha's lassie I wad be.
At Lanrickfair, Imet wi' Pate, and few were like him then.
He had an unco takin' way — he was the waul o' men,
And on that daj*. whan he and I, did hauns thegither join — |
I wonder'fc, if there was on yL"th, a happier lot than mine.
But wark grew scarce, and mai-kets dear, and trouble on'
cam'.
And Pate tum'd ill that vera day that I lay in o' Tam,
I guided Pate, and mony a nic-ht as by his bed I sat,
I wonder 't hoo we could come through, an' bm-stit out and
grat.
Tam wither't like a sickly flower that frae its stalk does fi*';
And in a twaimonth after that, puir Pate was ta'en awa ;
And as I laid him in his kist, and closed his glazed e'e,
T wonder't if the yirth contain'd. -a lanelier thing than nae.
Noo I'm a waefu* wido'^' left, a' nicht I sich and grane.
And aften in my musin' moods when sitting here my lane
There's ae thing, I'll confess to you, 'bout vv^hUk I'm sair
ijerplext, —
f aften wonder Janet, now — wha's lassie I'U be next.
William Finlay, Paisley.
47
THE EAVE MILKER'S SONG.
Oh ! what is peace ?
'Tis the bleat of the lamb as it plays on the mountain ;
'Tis the sound of the stream as it falls from the fountain :
'Tis the soft evening breeze as it stirs among the trees,
And wakes the voice of melody to soothe and to please.
Oh ! this is peace.
Oh! what is fair?
'Tis the dew-laden primrose that droops her fair form ;
'Tis the harebell that glistens tho' dashed with the storm ;
'Tis Cynthia's pale car ; 'tis the mild evening star,
That spies the fond lovers, and gladdens from far.
Oh! this fair.
But what is love ?
*Tis the cry of the cushat as it coos in the dale ;
'Tis the voice of my Colin as he sings in th e vale :
'Tis the thick beating sigh : 'tis the fair melting eye.
That moistens with fondness when Colin is nigh.
Oh ! this is love.
"William Nichgl.
COME AFF AVI' YOUR BONNETS, HUZZA! HUZZA !*
Come aff wi' your bonnets, huzza 1 huzza !
The Provost is comin', huzza ! huzza !
" Come aJfwV your boimefs."^Tlih song -was written on the occasion
of his Majesty's visit to Scotland in 1822, -when the then civic dignitaries
paid their loyal and dutiful -respects to their Sovereign. A short
time before this, a certain Chief :iXagistrate of Glasgow Lad cal-
led a puhlic meeting of the inliabitants a little against the grain.
When he came to the meeting, he found the Town Hall full of people.
On his coming in, no notice was immediately taken of him, the people
keeping on their hats. Taking fire, at what he conceived a slight put
upon him, he began a lecture upon the proprieties, telling them they
ought to take*Sft" their hata to tiie Provost; hence there came among
48
The bailie? an' beddles, wi hammers an' treddles,
An' lingles, an' barrels, an' a', an' a'.
some a saying of, " Aff hats to the Provost," to which, the first line ol
the song alludes.
" The halHcs and 6e&W«."— The Church beadles -vrere taken to Edin-
burgh on the occasion, as livery servants.
'« Wi' hammers, and trethlles, and lingles and barrels — These varions
implements of trade are emblematical of certain individuals in the Ma-
gistracy, there being then among our civic rulers, a smith, a weaver, a
Bhoemaker, and a cooper.
" Gifin Embro' our dwelling ye saw," &c. — Those who wish to see an
a ccount of the splendour of this dwelling, may consult a pamphlet en-
titled " The King's Visit to Edinburgh, as fiir as the Magistrates and
Town Council of Glasgow were concerned," published in Glasgow, 1822,
and said to be from the pen of an LL.D. In it, among other things, we
learn that the dwelling in rjuestion, was at Xo. 66, Queen Street, Edin-
burgh ; that it contained ample accommodation, there being no less
than stabling for eighteen horses; and that the Provost of Ghvsgow,
" our ain Provost's name," was engraven on a br.oss plate on the door.
"We'll hing up our signs in a raw." — The signs of Glasgow were at
one time an object of no little pride to the citizens. S>'mptomsofa
change in tliis respect, however, begin now to manifest themselves.
Certain mercantile, and even manufacturing concerns in Glasgow, who
would very I.itely have sported their signs, content themselves now with
a small notice in black and gold at the side of the close or entry, m
" Bogle Mirrlees, first floor ;" and some of a still more uppish cost,
have no less than a front door like a dwelling-house to their placa of
business, with a brass-plate by no means so large as was " our ain Pro-
vost's name on the ca'," but smaller, and smelling much more of genti-
lity. Whether this feeling of disparagement respecting our signs, has
spread to the provinces or not, we cannot tell ; but we know, that as
late as the year 1821, the signs were objects of great worship and regard
to the country visitors of our good City. It is matter of history, that the
attractions of our many great and gilded signs, proved a sore hindrance
to the right discipline and effective order of the country troops, called In
to quell the Radical rising of that year. No sooner did the gallant yeo-
men enter our streets, than their eyes, to the neglect of every thing
else, were irresistably caught by the mass of gilded literature so abund-
antly spread over our walls ; and when, after the toils of^^ day, these
49
Gif in Emljro' our dwelling ye saw, ye saw,
WV our ain provost's name on the ca', the ca',
brave men were dismissed, bands of them ■were seen wandering every-
where, diligently reading the signs. It was proposed to the commander
of these troops (but whether carried into actual effect or not, the writer
of this cannot tell) that in order at once to gratify their taste foi- reading,
and to prevent them from wandering about in staring groups, to the
defiance of all ease and convenience in passing the streets and pave-
ments, each captain should convene his troop at a convenient place in
the morning, and read for their amusement and information, two ^t
three pages of the Glasgow Directory. And let those who are to come
after us, consider well before they mock at our signs, when they are
told, that when our Blagistrates, and those of the surrounding towns,
went to meet the King at Edinburgh, they erected booths by the high-
way, in which they arranged themselves to welcome him as he passed,
and that over every booth there was an inscription or sign. The in-
scription on the Glasgow sign was, " Let Glasgow Flourish ;" the one
next it, and in a line with it, " We come to welcome our King;" on
which, the writer of the pamphlet already mentioned, remarks — " These
two inscriptions being in a row, read together wonderfully well."
Hence, " 'We'll hing up our signs in a raw."
" Mak' flunkies o' sau/ies sue tran;."— The beadles, whom we have
already remarked, were made waiting-men to the bailies, are also, for
the most part, saulies, or serving-men at funerals."
" Wi' gorod an' wi' green." — The livery in which these beadles were
dressed, was green and gold, and very showy. The beadles, moreover,
were, for the most part well-made, well-fed, rosy fellows, and became
their liveries well. One of these, "Warrander Begerney, was uncom-
monly buirdly. He is said to have made the remark, "that the King
and he looked best in a' their processions; — an' nae wonner, for as to
processions, the King an' me are best used to them."
" Let Glasgow aye flourish area." — " Let Glasgow Flourish," the well-
tnown motto of the Glasgow Arms. Six coaches well painted and fur-
bished up for the occasion, by a certain ci-devanl Deacon-Convener, had
the arms and motto emblazoned in large upon their pannels. Twelve
copies of the arms and motto, therefore, appeared to " dazzle folk's
e'en," wherever the civic procession moved. A thirteenth copy of the
motto appeared on the sign over the booth. How could the writer omi6
" Let Glasgow aye flourish awa ? "
D
50
An* a' that aocords, ye wad tak' us for lords.
An' let them wha win, just laugh awa, awa.
Come aflF wi' your bonnets, &c.
We'll hing up our signs in a raw, a raw,
Slak' flunkies o' saulics sae braw, sae braw ;
"VVi' gowd an' wi' green, how we'll dazzle folk's e'ei
An' let Glasgow aye flourish awa, awa.
Come aff wi' your bonnets, ^c.
TAHien to 3IaJ9sty do^^'n we maun fa', maun fa*.
Ilk bailie sae gaucie an' braw, an' braw.
We canna weel guess how great George can do less
Than to mak' bits o' Knichts o' us a', us a'.
Come aff wi' j-our bonnets,' huzza ! huzza '
The provost is comin', huzza ! huzza !
The bailies an' beddles, wi' hammers an' treddles.
An' lingles, an' barrels, an' a', an' a'.
BESSY'S WOOING.
Tune—" The 7iiUs o' Glenorchy."
O GUESS ye wha's gane a becking an' bo^ving,
Guess ye wha's gane a billing an' cooing.
Guess ye wha's gane a coaxing and wooing,
To bonnie yoimg Bessy the flower o' the Glen.
Auld Souter Rabby, that dresses sae brawly ;
Auld Barber Watty, sae smirky an' waly ;
Auld Elder Johnnie, sae meek an' sae haly—
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the Glen.
Fat Deacon Sandy the heigh Council nabby ;
Wee Tailor Davie, sae glibby an gabby ;
Dominie Joseph, sae thre.id-bai-ean" shabby —
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the Glen,
51
Big Mason Andrew, sae heavily fisted ;
Jock Gude-for-naething, wha three times had listed ;
Lang Miller Geordie, wi' meal a' bedusted —
Hae a' gane a- wooing to Bess o' the Glen.
Gleed Cooper Cuddy, a' girded fu' tightly,
Red-nosed Sawyer Will, wi' his beak shining brightly;
The tree-leggit Pensioner, marching fu' lightly —
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the Glen.
They're sighing an' sabbing, they're vowing an* swearing ;
They're challenging, duelling, boxing, an' tearing ;
While Bess, pawky jaud, is aye smirking an' jeering —
There ae'er was a gillflirt like Bess o' the Glen.
But a young Highland drover cam' here wi' some cattle ;
Gat fou, an' swore Gaelic — gat fierce, an' gae battle ;
An' a' the hale pack did he lustily rattle^
Hech ! was nae that fun to young Cess o' the Glen ?
His braid manly shouthers, caught Bessy's black eye ;
Her heart gae a stound, an' her breast g.ie a sigh ;
An' now the bauld Drover's gien owre driving kye —
For troth he's baith Laird o' young Boss an' the Glen.
James Ballantine, Edinburgh.
BETSY BAWN.
Tune—" BlytTie, hlythe are we."
I LITTLE reck't that restless love.
Wad ere disturb my peace again :
I little reck't my heart would prove,
A victim 'neath his galling chain.
I've bribetl him o'er and o'er again,
And mony a plack, I ween, hae drawn ;
But a' in vain, I pine in pain
For crookit-backit Betsy Bawn.
52
Vou've heard o' cheeks o' rosy hue —
O' breath sweet as the bud's perfume ;
Ye've heard o' e'en whilk dang the dew
For brightness, on the lily's bloom ;
Ye've heard o' waist sae jimp andsma' —
^Vliilk ye nae doubt would like to Kpan ;
Far other charms, my fancy warms-
Red goud's my terms wi' Betsy BaM'n,
Right sad's the weary wanderer's fate,
\\Tien round him roars the tempest's din,
"\Mien howling mastiff at ilk gate.
Keeps a' without, and a' within.
I wot ! a harder fate they dree,
AVha' maun at drouthy distance stan'
Wi' langin e'e, j-et daurna pree
The barley-bree o' Betsy Bawn.
Sweet love, ye work us meikle ill —
Far mair than we daur sing or say ;
And wecl ye ken had I my will,
An horn- wi' me ye doughtna stay.
Yet for the sake o' auld langsyne,
I'll yet forgie ye — there's my han',
Gif wi' ane dart, ye pierce her heart—'
The flinty part o' Betsy Ba\vn.
Daft Beauty, swears her e'en's like deil's ;
Her humphy back, is sax times bow't ;
Her wither'd limbs, like twa auld eels—
Are roun' and roun', ilk ither row't.
Let love be cross 'd wi' spit and host,
A parchment skin, a horny ban' ;
Her purse is clad, sae I maun wed —
And eke maun bed wi' Betsy Ba\vn.
Alex. MacLaggan, Edinburgh.
53
THE SEA ! THE SEA I
A PARODY.*
The Sea ! the Sea ! Oh me ! oh me !
The pail— be quick ! I quail— I'm sick,—
I'm sick as I can he :
I cannot sit, I cannot stand ;
I prithee, steward, lend a hand ;
To my cabin I'll go, — to my berth will I hie,
And like a cradled infant lie.
I'm on the Sea — I'm on the Sea !
I am where I would never he ;
With the smoke above, and the steam below.
And sickness wheresoe'er I go ;
If a storm should come no matter, I wot ;
To the bottom I'd go — as soon as not.
I love, oh ! how I love to ride
In a neat post chaise, with a couple of bays,
And a pretty girl by my side :
But, oh ! to swing amidst fire and foam.
And be steam 'd like a mealy potato at home •
And to feel that no soul cares more for your v/o.
Than the paddles that clatter as onward they go,
The ocean's wave I ne'er moved o'er.
But I loved my donkey more and more,
And homeward flew to her bony back,
Like a truant boy or a sandman's sack ;
And a mother she was, and is, to me ;
For I was — an ass— to go to sea !
The fields were green, and blue the mom,
And still as a mouse the little house
Where I— where I was born ;
- This parody on Barry Cornwall's song of « The Sea," we have
taken, with permission, from Fraser's Magazine.
5-i
And my father whistled, my mother smiled.
While my donkey bray'd in accents mild :
Nor ever was heard such an outcry of joy ^
As welcomed to life the beautiful boy.
I have lived, since then, in calm and strife,
With my peaceable donkey and termagant wife ;
With a spur for the one, and a whip for the other ;
Yet ne'er have wish'd to change with another :
And a proverb of old will apply to me — •
*' Who is born to be hang'd will not die in the sea !'
THE SAILOR'S REST.
Whv search the deep
For those who sleep
Beneath its heaving billow ?
Is that blue sea
Now raging free
A more ignoble pillow.
Than their's who die
On shore — and lie
Where the green turf is spread !
Away ! away !
Let the Sleeper lay —
His — is a noble bed ! —
There let him rest
His weary breast.
Upon the lonely wave,
Whose glittering crest
The sunny west
Hath made a golden grave. —
Upon the sea
He will not be
The banquet of the worm ;
But food for things
With snow-white wings
That sport amid the storm
.55
He was not one
■Who looked upon
The consecrated grave —
As better spot
Wlierein to rot
Than on the deep sea wave.
His lot was cast
To brave the blast
Through life — and now laid low^
Methinks his rest
Would be unblest
^Vhe^e the tempest cannot blow.
O ! let his tomb
Be where his home
Was ever in his life —
Amid the wrath
Of Ocean's path,
And the wild surge's strife. —
The winds will be
Sweet melody
Unto his spirit near :
For their's was long
The only song
The Sailor cared to hear.
John Cross Bvchan^n.
THE HAPPY MEETING.
Air — " Guardian angeU."
Have you hail'd the glowing morning.
When the sun first gilds the plain ?
Or tie genial spring returning,
Alter winter's dreary reign ?
Then conceive, to me how dear
Wlien my Anna — ^faithful, fair,
56
After years of lonely pain,
Bless'd my fond eyes — my arms agalii.
Every charm more finely heighten'd,
Fix'd my raptured, wondering eyes I
Every grace divinely brighten 'd.
Held my soul in sweet surprise ;
O ! I could have gazed my last,
On her bosom heaving fast —
Met her eyes benignly bright.
With ever-growing new delight.
Who'd not bear a separation
Thus again to fondly meet.
And to find no alteration.
Save the heart's more ardent beat ;
Thus, the same soft hand to grasp.
Thus the same fair form to clasp.
Thus the same warm lips to kiss—
O, say, can Heaven give more than this ?
Alexander Rokger.
O THINK IT NOT STRANGE.
O THr>rK it not strange that my soul is shaken,
By every note of thy simple song ;
These tears, like a summoning spell, a^'aken
The shades of feelings, that slumber 'd long.
There's a hawthorn tree, near a low-roof'd dwelling;
A meadow green, and a river clear ;
A bird, that its summer-eve tale is telling;
And a form miforgotten — they all are here.
They are here, with dark recollections laden.
From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea ;
They speak of the time when I parted that maiden.
By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree.
57
We sever'd in Avrath — to her low-roof d dwelling,
She tm-n'd with a step which betray'd her pain —
She knew not the love that was fast dispelling
The gloom of his pride, who washer's in vain.
We met never more— and her faith was plighted.
To one who could not her value know ;
The curse that still clings to affections blighted.
Tinctured her life's cup with deepest wo.
And these are the thoughts which thy tones awaken.
The shades of feelings that slumber'd long—
Then think it not strange, that my soul is shaken
By every note of that simple song.
W. Kennetdy.
COME TO THE BANKS OP CLYDE.
Ajr—" 3Ia7xh to the battle field"
Come to the Banks of Clyde,
Where health and joy invite us ;
Spring, now, in virgin pride.
There waiteth to delight us :
Enrobed in green, she smiles serene —
Each eye enraptured views her ;
A brighter dye o'erspreads her sky.
And every creature woos her.
Come to the Banks of Clyde,
Where health and joy invite us ;
Spring, now, in virgin pride.
There waiteth to delight us.
Mark! how the verdant lea.
With daisies she is strewing ;
Hark ! now, on every tree.
The birds their mates are wooing :
Love wakes the notes that swell their throats.
Love makes their plumage brighter ;
58
Old Father Clyde, in all his pride,
Ne'er witnessed bosoms lighter ;
Mark ! how the verdant lea.
With daisies she is strewing ;
Hark ! how, on every tree,
The birds theii- mates are wooing.
Alex. Rodger.
WHAT THE BODY WANTED Wl' ME.
A CARL cam* to our town,
Wlian little we war thinkin",
Wi* a rung out ow're his riggin'.
Like a pedlar cam he linken'.
As he hanker 'd at tlie ha' door,
Sic pauky blinks he gae me, —
That I wonder 'd in my mind,
What the body wanted wi' me.
He said he was a lairdie,
O' riggs ::nd roughness plentj-,
His stack-j-ard, and his stable stow'd
Wi' corn and couts f u' dainty ;
And for a " serie something,"
Had he wauchled wast to see me —
Still I wonder'd in my mind.
What the body wanted wi' me.
He took me by the hand so shy,
And fain wud stoun a prievin,
But I started like a stunkart quey,
To see him sae behavin' :
*' Be kind," quo he, " my lassie leel.
Nor be sae fain to flee me ;"
Syne I hanker 'd in my mind,
\Miat the bod}' wanted wi* me.
59
I bade the cadgie carl devawl.
And aye his aim was spcerin* ;
'• I'll tarry nane to tell," quoth he,
" The ettle o' my eeran :
I'm coothly come yom- luve to win -
Frae dool and doubting free me ;"
And sighing said—" the bridal bed"
Was what he wanted wi' me.
When youth and beauty were my boast,
I then had lovers plenty.
But sair I've rued my scorn sinsyne.
When offers turn'd but scanty :
I laid a laithf u' loof in his—
But fiiin the fool was o' me.
Death left me lady of his Ian',
Before a towmond wi' me.
Now bnck comes beauty wi' a bang —
For walth the wrinkle covers;
As ance myser,my siller now,
Has charms, and choice o' lovers ;
But let them gang the gate they cam,
Their flattering winna fee me ;
I'll hugg my hoard, an' beet my banes,
Wi' what they're wanting wi' me.
G. MaoTndo,:.
JOCK, RAB, AND TAM;
NATURAL REQUISITES FOR THE LEARNED rROFESSIONS
" Oh what'll we do wi' Jock, gudeman?
It's like he'll ne'er do weel —
lie's aye at the head of a' mischief.
And just as cunnin's the Deil."
•* Ah ! hech I he'll yet be a man, gudewife,
O' whilk we'll baith be proud—
60
We'll gie the callan a while o' the schule,
An' he'll he a laA\Ter gude !"
" An' what'll we do wV Rab, gudeman —
An' how will he win his bread ?
To plow and saw, to shear and maw,
ITe hasna hands xayr head !"
•' Ah ! hech ! he'll yet be a man, gudewife,
O' whilk we'll baith be proud —
We'll gie the callan a while o* the schule,
An* he'll be a doctor gude 1"
" But what '11 we do wi' Tarn, gudeman.
It dings me maist of a' !
A gapLn', gloitrin*, witless coof.
He's gude for nocht ava'!"
Ah ! hcch ! he'll yet be a man, gude%vife,
O' whilk we'll baith be proud —
We'll gie the callan a while o' the schule,
An' he'll be a minister gude ! "
Alex. Laixo, Brechin.
THE LAKE IS AT REST.
Air — "Angel's whisper."
The lake is at rest, love.
The sun's on its breast, love ;
How bright is its water, how pleasant to see !
Its verdant banks showing
The richest flow'rs blowing —
A picture of bliss, and an emblem of thee :
Then oh ! fairest maiden.
When earth is array'd in
The beauties of heaven, o'er mountain and lea ;
Let me still delight in
The glories that brighten.,
For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.
61
But, Anna ! why redden ?
I would not, fair maiden.
My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray
The traitor ; the demon
AYlio could deceive woman,
His soul's all unfit for the glories of day :
Believe me then, fairest.
To me thou art dearest ;
And tho' I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree —
With flow'r-blooming momitains,
And crystaline fountains,
1 view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.
STREET ORATORY.
Air — " Bartholoinew Fair.'
'Tis a most amusing sight.
For a philosophic wight,
Through the streets of the city to stroll —
And mark the variation
Of this mighty population,
As the great tide onward doth roll.
What a bustle, what a noise.
What variety of cries,
Everj' one tries another to out-bawl ;
You would think the Tower of Babel
Had again let loose its rabble.
Such a clatter ne'er was heard since the Fall i
"VMiat a comical compound.
And diversity of sound,
From the motelj' group doth arise.
From your salt and whit'ning venders.
Fiddle scrapers, organ grinders.
And your sellers of yard-long shoe ties !
62
f?ee yonder crowd collected,
Every one with ears erected
Around the far-famed Jamie Blue ;♦
« Jamie Blue, (U!as Blue Thumts, alias P.D., so nick -named from
the circumstance of liis having vended button blue as indigo, and
pepper dust — as best black Jamaica pepper. The real name, ho-wever,
of this Goose-dub Cicero, was James M'Indoe, and the parish of
Killearn, county of Stirling, has a right to claim him as one of her
eons, as \rell as the classical George Buchanan. For many years our
orator -was a dealer in hardwares, and carried his shop on his shoulders
to country fairs, taking the houses and villages on his way to these marts
of cattle, com, and the et ceteras of husbandry. The edge of his ac-
quisitivedisposition was rather too keenly set, and he made no scruple
to make the most of his customers, as opportunity afforded. For
some misdemeanour committed during his peregrinations, he was sent
to board and berth in the Royal Xa\-y, wliich sentence, however, he
soon foimd means to contravene, by making his escape. ^Vhethe^ a
patriotic spirit burned within the pepper dealer, with cayenne inten-
sity, or an eye after the Government grant of enlistment money, we
pretend not to say, though we incline to adopt the latter as the influen-
cing motive ; but the man of button-blue, soon after, threw over his
shoulders, the scarlet uniform of his IMajesty's privates, in the 71st,
or Glasgow Regiment. To obviate the necessity of desertion, he con-
trived to commit some crime for which he was discharged by tuck of
drum, as an accompaniment to the Rogue's March. Our hero, after
this, for some time went round the country vending leeches, dropping
chains, and, for at least twenty-five years, he made shift to live by
editing and vending street Gazettes. We have, ourselves, heard Jamie
remark on the variety of occupation and life that he had led : "he now
kent a' the teeth in the wheel." Though of a robust build by nature,
the dissolute life wliich lie bad led shattered the walls of the clayey tene-
ment, an 1 he was compelled to seek an asylum in the Glasgow Town's
Hospital, where he resided for nearly the last two years of his life
When the cheering April sun of 1835 made its appearance, after the
tempestuous weather that had preceded, James begged to get out to
take pot luck with the world again ; remarking, " that he would just do
like the Robin, come back to them again in winter." James fulfilled
hispromise, and died in the Hospital, "Jith January, 1837 — During tho
63
The affair, depend upon't,
Of the which he gives account.
Is full, and particular, and true !
Mezzo Texorf.
Here you have a full and particular account of the execution of that
poor unfortunate man, Saunders Widdie, for robbing the butter and
potatoe market at Buchty Brae, on the seventeenth day of November
last.
Vou have an account of his behaviour during the awful period of
his confinement— after the fatal judgment was pronounced, till the
moment he ascended the scaffold for execution.
He was attended in his devotions, by the Rev. Mr.. Samuel Pouch-
the-penny, incumbent of that parish, but melancholy to relate, so little
effect had theadmonitions of the pious clergyman on the unfortunate cul-
prit, that he carried with him to the fatal drop, a pund o' butter in ae
hand, an' a potatoe in the other — ay, an' he threw the potatoe wi" sic a
birr, that it knockit doun an auld wiffie at the fit o' the gallows."
Blind Aleck next appears, »
AMiose head for many years,
A hot-bed of poesie has been :
With his violin in hand,
He now takes up his stand,
And thus his harangue doth begin : —
Air — "John Anderson my Joe."
" I'm the author of every word I sing,
A nd that you may very well see ;
The music alone excepted.
But just of the poetree."
time of his sojourn in that establishment, he conducted himself with
great propriety, and appeared to feel his moral sores as he drew nigh to
! precincts of the narrow house.
• See Note in first Series, page 61.
64
" Ladies and gentlemen ! — Anyof you that has a friend in the army —
jujt give me their chriatwn name, and the regiment to which they are
attached, and I'll make you a song as fast as my tongne can repeat ic"
(From the crowd)—" Well, Aleck, try your powers on the Glasgow
Volunteers, Colonels Hunter and Geddes, and Major Patersou-"' (St/nt-
phony) — fierce dash or two of the bow.
Recitative — Stacatto.
" For they're the men I do declare,
I maaath; Royal Lanarkshire Volunt^ere "
Air — " O'er Bogie."
" The first comes Colonel Hunter,
In a kilt see he goes.
Every inch is a man
From the top to the toes : —
He is the loyal Editor,
Of the HeraM news-pa-p?r —
And no man at tlie punch bowl.
The punch can better stir.
Like the fiery god of war.
Colonel Geddes does advance.
On a black horse, that belonred
To the murdered King of France.
Anl then comes Major Paterson,
You'll say he"s rather slim ;
But 'twill take a clever ball.
For to hit tiie like of him.
(Violin.) Tee ramp di damp, tee ramp di damp.
Tee ramp di damp ti dee ;
Tee diddledam Sddledam riddledam,
Liddledam, tiddledam fiddle-de-dee."
Thus ends Blind Aleck's song.
And from the list'ning throng,
A burst of applause is heard :
65
And the charitable section.
Of the crowd make a collection,
l-^oi- the comfort of the poor blind bard.
So the comedy goes on,
And the characters each one,
Have their parts made exactly to fit.
But who, ye powers of mirth.
From th.e canvass next steps forth?
'Tis Hawkie *— the orator and v.it.
» We suppose the name Hawkie, was bestowed on our Trongate
Pemosthenes, on account of his manner of articulating; a hawking-up-
throat-sawing tone, as iPthere were a war in the windpipe, and the an-
tagonist forces very nearly balanced:— were our orator, instead of rattling
pebbles in his mouth, to modulate the tone, to try the friction of a
bottle-brush in the passage, it were more likely to do good. This
character must be known to most of our readers; his real name is
William Cameron : — He was born n^ar Bannockburn. An accident be-
fel him while an infant, that rendered a crutch necessary from the first
Step in life, onwards; and this circumstance was attended with another
unhappy effect, the parents, instead of putting him under wholesome
discipline, and restraining his somewhat impetuous temper, petted
»nd indulged the boy; so that wlien he got into his teens, no check they
could impose would control hiin : taking the curb between his teeth,
he bade complete d jfiance to the reins of parental authority. Cameron
received an educati in more liberal than people in the situation of his
father usually bestow on their children, partly to compensate for the
defect in his limb, andalso, as he promised to be a boy of spirit, and
above average talent. He was apprenticed to a tailor, but would not,
lameashe w:is, content himself to squat with the cross-legged fraternity,
but made off with a gang of strolling players, with whom he remained
a considerable time. This moral wreck m.Tv be seen, almost every night,
in one or other of our principal streets, surrounded by a mob, haranguing
them on the topics of the day. Hawkie's readiness in repartee, istmjy
astonishing— and woe betide any of our whiskered-cigar-smokcrs who
attempt to break a lance with lum! the coarse sarco-^m with which he
assails them, is as easily borne as a ladleful of boiling pitch poured down
rhe h:.ck. H.-Jwkie is a ver>- extensive .Maniifaeturer of Fa«ts ; with a,
U
Ckoakinq Barritonr {Angtice—BaxTOvrtone) or Voicb.
" A-hey ! bide a •wee, bodies, and dinna hurry a-wa hame, till ye heat
what I hae gotten to tell ye ; do yoa think that I cam' out at this
♦ime _o' nicht to cry to the stane Mfa's o' the Brig" -gate for naething, or
for onything else than for the public guid ? — ^wearing my constitution
down to rags, like the claes on my carcase, without even seelving a
pension frae her ^Majesty ; though mony a poor beggar wi' a star o'er his
breast, has gotten ane for far less."
f Voice from the cron-d) — " Hawkie, ye should hae been sent to parlia-
mont, to croak there like some ither parliamentary puddocks till your
throat were cleared." (Reply) — " Tak aff your hat when ye speak to
a gentleman — it s no the fashion in this kintra to pat hats on cabbage
stocks— a haggis would loup its lane for fricht afore ye— ye'll be a
most copious vocabulary, the warp and woof of lus Munchausen fabrics,
are o( wonderful consisttncy. He is far superior in point of natural
talent to what Jamie Blue was, even in his best days, between whom
and Hawkie, there existed a most jealous rivalry. Jamie put in liis
claim as greatly Hawk;e"s superior in the Dialogue, indorsed with " It's
aboonhisfit." Hawkie, on the other hand, cut his rival as with a
butcher's saw, telling him that he knew nothing of the language, tliat
he addressed the public in, " come out to the street, and be a listener,
and in let you hear the Scottish language in its pith and purity ; y ken
as niuckle about it, as grumphiedoes about grammar." These feu'ls are
now at rest. It fell to Hawkie, as the survivor, to speak of his opponent,
when removed from collision in their respective callings, in the lines
concluding this somewhat lengthy note. To the credit of professional
jca'ousy must we attribute their severity :
Oh ! Clootie, if to thy het liame.
His hapless soul has happed ;
Tak' care o' a' your whisky casks,
Or faith they'll soon be tapped.
Chain ! cliain ! bin' fast, the drunken cove.
For, Clootie, ye've nae notion
Of Jamie's maw, gin he's let loose.
His drouth would drain an oceaa.
67
king whare a horn-spoon Is the emblem of authority !" (flMutne*)—
" Here ye hae tlio history of a notorious beggar, the full and particul;ir
account of his birth and parentage— at least on the mither's side."
" This heir to tlie -wallets, \ras born in the byre of a kintra farmer, an'
just in the crib afore the kye, and was ■welcomed to the -world by the
Dose of honest ha-wKie." (From Vie crowd/ — "Was this a sister of
youv's, Hawkie." (Answer)— " Whatnti kail yard cam' ye out o' ?
tliafs your brither aside ye, is't ? you're a seemly pair, as the co-w sa:d
to her cloots." (CunltKues) — " It ne'er conid be precisely ascertained
the hour o' this beggar's birth, though the parish records hae been rid
died to get at the fact. I maun also tell ye, for I dinna like to imi>ose
on my customers, that there is great doubt about the day o' the month,
an' even about the month itsel'; but that he -was born, hasna been
disputed, though it might hae been, if -we hadna an account o his life
and deatli, to convince the gainsayers. As to whether he -was a seven
months' bairn, or a nine months' bairn— the houdie has gi'en n.ae ithrr
deliverance, than that he was his father's bairn, and what her profession
required her to do ; but the public voice is strongly inclined to favour
the opinion, that he cam hame at fiill time, as he arrived sooner at the
years o' discretion than usual ; an' if ye dinna ken the period when a
beggar's bairn comes to his estate duly qiialified I'll tell you — it's when
he ceases to distinguish between ither folk's property and his ain."
(From the crowd) — " What a poor stock ye maun hae; ye hae been
yelling about that beggar, till the story is as bare as your ain elbows."
(Retort)—" Hech, man, but youre witty— when ye set out on the tramp,
dinna come to me for a certificate, for I really coudna recommend
ye, ye haveiia brains for a beggar, and our fxmds are no in a condition
to gi'e ony pensions the now." (Continued) — " Ve hae an account o*
the education, which he received riding across the meal pock; and
the lair that he learn't aff the loofs o' his mither, which was a' the
school craft he e'er received :— but sic a proficient did he himsel'
grow in loof lair, that like a' weel trained bairns, he tried his hands
on the haffits of his auld mither in turn, and gied her sic thunderin'
lessons, that she gied up her breath and business in begging, at
the same time, to her hopeful son and successor." (Voice from Hit
mpotvd)—"Yt should hae keepit a school aman^ beggars, and micht h&a
68
taen your stilt for the taws." f Retort) — " Oh man, I would like ithe?
materials to -work wi' than the like o* yoa ; it's ill to bring out what's no in ;
a leech would as soon tak' blood out o' my stilt, aabringony mairout
o' you than the spoon put in." i Resumes) — " Ye hae an account of his
progress in life, after he be^an business on his ain account, and what a
skilful tradesman he tum'd out — he could ' lay on the cadge' • better
than ony wallet eer that e'er coost a pock o'er his shouther."
" Ye hae an account o' his last illness and death — for beggars die as
weel as ither folk, though seldom ttirough a surfeit ; ye hae also a copy
of his last Will and Testament, bequeathing h's fortune to be dnmk at
his dredgy— the best action he e%-er did in his life, and which maks his
memory a standing toast at a' beggars' carousals — whan they hae ony
thing to drink it wi' ; and really, yon'll allow me to remjirk, if we had
twaor three mae pullic-spirited beggars in our day, that would do the
like, the trade might yet be preser%-ed in the couutry — for it has been
threatening to leave us in baith Scotland and England, in consequence
of the opening up of the trade wi' Ireland j and the prices hae been
broken ever since : we hae a' this to contend wi' to preserve the pocks
frae perisliing, for the sake o' our children." (Voice from the crotvdj —
"Och, AVillie, is it your own self that I'm hearin' this morning? and
how did ye get home last nigiit, :;fter drinking till the daylight w.akened
ye ? troth ye did not know yo\ir own crutch from a cow's tail." f Retort)
—"Oh man, Paddie, it's naething new tome to be drunk, but it's
a great rarity to you— no for want o' will, but the bawbees. What
way cam' ye here, Pa^ldie ? for ye had naething to p.ay for your passage;
and your claes are no worth the thread and buttons that hand them the-
gither ; — gin I had a crown for every road that your trotters could get
into your trowsers by, it would be a fortune to nie." " Take me over
said you, to your ould croak -in-the-bog; — I wish I had my body across
agin, out of this starvation could country, for there's nothing but earth
and stones for a poor man to feed on ; and in my own country, I'll have
the potatoe for the lifting." " Hech, man, — but the police keeps ye in
order— ana ye thought when ye cam' o'er, to live by lifting ? man I all
Skilful address in begging — Dh-i. of Buckish S/nng.
69
wV yo to your bogs — there's nae place like hame for ye, as the Deil
lid when he found himsel in the Court o' Session."
" Ye hae an account o' tlxis beggar's burial, and lus dredgy." (Boy's
voice from the ^roivd)—" Was ye there Hawkie? surely — if the stilt could
haud ye up !" " Och, sirs, are ye out already — you're afore your time —
you should hae staid a -wee langer in the nest till ye had gotten the
feathers on ye, and then ye would hae been a goose worth tlie looking
at." (Cun(iiiues) — " Sic a dredgy as this beggar had wad mak' our Lords
o' Session lick their lips to hear tell o' — thae gentry come down amang
us like as niony pouther-monkeys— with their lieads dipped in flour
pocks, to gie them the appearance o' what neither the school, or experi-
ence in the -world could teach them ; — gin hangie would gie them a dip
through his trap-door, and ding the dust aff their wigs — there's no a
beggar frae John O'Groafs to vhe Mull o' Galloway, that wadna gie
his stilts to Iielp to mak' a lx)nfire on the occasion."
" Ye hae the order o' tiie procession at the burial — il's the rank in the
profession that entitles to tak' precedence at a beggar's burial — ye never
hear tell o' blood relations elaimingtheir right to be nearest the beggar's
baues; we'll be thinking the world is on its last legs, and like to throw
aff its wallets too, when sic an event occurs.
(Interrtiytect) — "Your stilt would, nae doubt, be stumpin' at the
head o' them a'." (Reply) — " Stan' aside, lads, I'm just wantin' to sea
If he has rloots on liis trotters, for horns are sae common, now-a-days,
amang the gentry o' the blood, whar we should look for an example;
that they hae ceased to distinguish the class that nature intended them
for." (Goes on)—" First in order was Tinklers, the beggars' cavalry,
wha being in constant consultation with the gentry of the lang
lugs, hae some pretensions to wisdom; next Swindlers, wha mak
the best bargains they can wi' their customers, without pretendm' to
hae ony authority for doin't— no like our black coats, wha can only get
authority on ae side, to gang to a scene of mair extensive usefulness,
whar the preaching pays better — our brethren of the pock a' follow tliis
example; they never stay lang whar there's naething either to getorto
tak', — but I'm forgetting mysel ; — at their heels was Pickpockets, wha
just tak the hangman's helter wi' them, and gang the length o' their
tether — for hangie a.ye keeps the bank in his ain band. Next, Chain-
70
drappeis— the jeiFellers in the camp, wha are ready to sell cheap, or Jialf
the profits wi' every body they meet, and -wha are like mony o' our pub-
lic instructors — aye get mair than they gie -then Prick-the-loops, Mrha
are sae familiar -vri' the hangman's loop, that they've turned the idea
into business, and set up -wi' their garter — -which they can easily spare, as
they hae seldom ony stockings to tie on wi't : by tin's simple expedient,
they make large profits on sma' capital : Next, Chartered-beggars or
Blue-go'sras— -n-ha get a license frae the authorities to cheat and lie over
the -whole country. Next, the hale clanjamfrey o' Vagrants — for they're
a' but beggars bairns the best o' them — Randies, Thieves, Big-beggars
and AVee-beggars, Bane-gatherers and Rowley-po-n-leys— Criers o' Hang-
ing speeches — -wha, generally, should hae been the subject o' their ain
Etof y — some -wi' -weans, but a -wi' -wallets, broken backs, hal f arms, and nae
arms ; some only -wi' half an e'e — itiicrs -wi' mae e'en tlian nature gied
them — and that is an e'e after every tiling that they can mak their ain ;
snub-noses, cock-noses, slit-noses, and half-noses ; Roman noses, lang
noses — some o' them like a chuckie-stane, ithers like a jarganell
pear; hawk-noses and goose-noses; and minJ ye, I dinua find fault
^rith the last kind, for nature does naething in vain, and put it there
to suit the head : but -whatever the size and description o' the neb, they
could a' tak' theirpick ; for the hule concern, man and mither's son, had
mouths, and whar teeth -were -wanting, the defect -was mair than made
np iy desperate -^'illin' gn:ns."
" Some -were lame, though their limbs -were like ither folks ; there are
mae stilts made than lame folk, for I maun tell ye some gang a-begging
and forget their stilts, and hae to gang back for them, afore tliey can
come ony speed ; ithers had nae legs to be lame wi' ; a few like mysel"
had only ae guid ane, like the goose in a frosty morning, but made up
the loss by the beggar's locomotive, a stilt, which a poor goose canna
handle wi' advantage. "
The rear o' this pock procession, -was clossd by bands o" s-weeps, -wha
are ready for a' handlings, -wliar there's on>-thing to do for the teeth;
an' they hae the advantage o' us, for they're aye in Court-dress, and
like honest Colly, dinna need to change their claes.
"In the hame-coming there-wasa scramble, -wha should be soonest at
Ihc feast, and a quarrel, an' you'll maybe be snrprised that there -vm
71
btit ae quarrel, but I mann tell yon, that they were a* engaged Int, an-
maut o' them, kentna -what they -were getting their croons cloored
for, but just to be neighbour-like. The cracking o' stilts, the yelly-
hooings o' -wives and -weans, and the clatter o* tinkler's wives, wad hae
ca'm'd the sea in flie Bay of Biscay— do ye ken the distance at which
I beggar fights his duel ? — it's just stilt-length, or nearer, if his enemy
i« no sae ucel armed as himsel'."
" Te hae a return o' the killed and wounded— four Blind Fiddlers with
their noses broken — four Tinkler's wives -with their tongues split, and
if they had keepit them within their teeth, as a' -wives' tongues should
be, they -would have been safe — there's nae souder or salve that can
cure an ill tongue — five Croons crackit on the Outside — sixteen torn
Lugs — four-and-twenty Noses laid do-wn — four Left Hands with the
thumb bitten aff— ten Mouths made mill doors o' — four dizen Stilts want-
ing the shouther piece — twenty made down for the use of the family,
in ither -words, broken in twa ; an' they're usefu', for we have a' sizes o'
beggars. After a' this, the grand dredgy, but 1 havena time to tell you
about it the night ; but ye see what handlings beggars would hae if the
public -would be libonil."
"Buy this book, if ye hae nae bawbees I'll len' ye, for I'm no caring
About siller. I hae perish'd the pack alrrady, an' I am gaun to tak' my
Stilt the mom's morning, and let the C/editcrs tak wliat they can get.'
This is the end of all,
High and low, great and small ;
This finishes the poor vain show.
And the King, with all his pride,
In his life-time deified—
With the beggar is at last laid low.
MINISTER TAM !
Oh I ken ye his reverence, ^Minister Tam ?
Oh ! ken ye his reverenee, jMiuister Tam ?
Wi* a head like a hog, an' a look like a ram—
An' these are the marks o' Minister Tam.
72
Oh ! Minister Tarn's mistaen his trade—
Tiie parish beadle he should hae been made ;
The kintra clash i' the manse to tell.
To summon the Session, an' ring the bell !
He's gotten a kirk, but he's preach'd it toom ;
He ca's, examines, but nane -vv-ill come ;
His-elder bodies they dauma speak — ■
He's makin* an' breakin' them ilka week !
There's aye some will-o'-the-wisp in his pow.
That keeps the country side in a lowe ;
Tliere'll never be peace, an" that ye'll hear tell,
Till be hang as heigh as the parish bell !
Alex. Lain'o, Brechin.
BRIGHTLY IS THE STREA:N[LET FLOWIXG.
Am—" Merrily every bosom hoitndeUi."
Brightly is the streamlet flowing.
Brightly oh ! brightly oh !
To its mother ocean going
Briglitly oh ! brightly oh !
O'er its current, rapid, dancing,
Stately oaks their arms advancing.
Are the lovely scene enhancing
Brightly oh ! brightly oh !
Haste, then, streamlet to the ocean
Sweetly oh ! sweetly oh !
Kiss thy mother in devotion
Sweetly oh ! sweetly oh !
But no ray comes to illumine
]My poor heart in grief consuming,
Tho' the flow'ry banks be blooming
Sweetly oh ! sweetly oh !
But what sun illumes the bushes
Radiant oh ! radumt oh !
73
'Tis Matilda's glowing blushea
Radiant oh ! radiant oh !
Run then, streamlet, run, and never
From thy mother ocean sever ;
Oh ! Matilda's mine for ever,
Radiant oh ! radiant oh !
THE AULD BEGGAR MAN.
Ti'NE,— " The Hills o' Glenorchy."
The auld cripple beggar cam jumping, jumping,
I Tech, how the bodie was stumping, stumping,
His wee wooden leggie was thumping, thumping,
Saw ye e'er sic a queer auld man ?
An' aye he hircholled, an' hoastit, hoastit.
Aye he stampit his foot an" he boastit.
Ilka woman an' maid he accostit.
Saw ye e'er sic a hirplin crouse auld man ?
The auld wives cam in scores frae the clachan,
The young wives cam rinnin a' gigglin an' laughin.
The bairnies cam toddlin a' jinkin an' dathn,
An poocket the tails o' the queer auld man.
Out cam the yoxmg widows a' blinkin fou meekly.
Out cam the young lasses a' smirkin fou sweetly,
Out cam the auld maidens a' bobbin discreetly.
An' gat a bit smack frae the queer auld man.
Out cam the big blacksmith a' smeekit an' duddy.
Out cam the fat butcher a' greezy an' bluidy,
Out cam the auld cartwriglit the wee di-unken bodie.
An' swore they wad slaughter the queer auld ma;i.
Out cam the lang weaver wi' his biggest shuttle.
Out cam the short snab wi' his sharp cutty whittle.
74
Out cam the young herd w-i' a big tatty beetel.
An' fewore they wad batter the queer auldlnan.
The beggar he cuist aff his wee wooden peg,
An' he show'd them a bra%vny sturdy leg,
I wat but the carle was strappin an' gleg,
Saw ye e'er sic a brisk auld man ?
He thumpit the blacksmith hame to his wife,
He dumpit the butcher, who ran for his life.
He chased the wee wright wi' the butcher's sharp lcnlf3,
Saw ye e'er sic a brave auld man ?
He pufF'd on the weaver, he ran to his loom,
He shankit the saab hame to cobble his shoon,
He skelpit the herd on his bog-reed to croou.
Saw ye e'er sic a sti-oag auld man ?
The wives o' the town then a' gather'd about him,
An' loudly an' blythly the bairnics did shout him,
They hooted the loons wha had threaten 'd t ) clout him,
Kenn'd ye e'er sic a lucky auld man ?
Ja.aies Ballantf-n-e, Edinburgh.
COME, A SONG— A GLAD SOXG.
Come, a song — a glad song, when each heart with delight,
Like hx'd stars are beaming around us to-night,
When our faith is so ste idy, our friendship so strong,
Oh! who would not join in a soul-stirring sting ?
Sing on, happy hearts ! if j'our praises should be
I5reathed forth for the Isnd of tlie brave and the free.
Let the proud echoes swell Scotland's mountains among,
They're the altars of frecdoni ! the highlands of song !
Sing on, happy hearts ! and if love be the theme.
Then ore.ithe in glad music tlie bliss of the dream.
For the ladies, God bless them ! who seldom are wrong,
Say " love's sweetest breath is a soul-melting song."
75
Sing on, merry hearts ! and if auld mother wit.
Be the prize you would aim at, the mark you would hit,
Go bathe your glad souls in the blood of the vine,
Till your hearts overflow with the lays o* langsyne.
Song— song was the joy of our boyhood's glad time ;
Song— song still shall cheer the proud home of our prime,
And when bent with old age, wc go hirpling along.
We'll beat time with our crutch to a merry old song.
Then a song — a glad song, wlicn each heart with delight,
Like fix'd stars are beaming around us to-night.
When our faith is so steady, our friendship so strong,
Oh! who would not join in a soul-stirring song ?
Alex. MacLagsax, Edinburgh.
SIMON BRODIE.
Hfard ye e'er o' our gudeman,
The gaucy hiird o' braid Dunwodie,
The wale o' cocks at cap or can.
Honest, canty Simon ]5rodie:
Auld farren canty botlie.
Winsome, pra^nksonia, gloesomo bodia.
The crack o' a' the kintra side.
Is auld canty Simon IJrodie.
Simon he's a strappin' chiel.
For looks wad nioU wi' ony body,
In height an ell but an' a span.
An' twice as br lid is Simon Brodie :
Troth he is a canty bodie.
An auld fanen canty bodie.
An' tho' his pow's baith thin and grey,
Ye'd hardly match me Simon Brodie.
Simon Brodie had ane wife,
I wat she was baith proud and bonny.
76
He took the dishclout frae the bink.
And preen't it till hei cockernony I
Wasna she a thrifty bodie,
The braw, braw lady o' Dunwodie,
In claes sae fine to dress and dine,
Wi' sic a laird as Simon Brodie.
An' Simon had a branded cow,
lie tint his cow and conldna find her.
He sought her a' the lee lang day,
But the cow cam hame wi' her tail ahind her.
Yet think na him a doited body,
Think na him a davert body.
He has walth o' warld's gear,
Maks men respect auld Simon Brodie.
THE DEACON'S DAY.*
Air—" Kchbockstane Weddin'."
O RISE man Robin, an' rin your wa's.
The sun in the lift is bleezing brightly,
Put on the best o' your Sunday braws,
And your gravat tie round your thrapple tichtly :
Then whip on your castor, and haste to the muster,
The Trades i' the Green hac this hour been convenin'.
And our wits we man use, a good Deacon to choose ;
'Tis a day " big with fate," at your post then be leanin'
Now Robin has risen, and aff he has gane.
To meet wi' the leaders o' ilk Corporation —
And awa they parade wi' their banners displny'd —
There has ne'er been it's like sin' the Queen's Coronation :
* The Deacon Convener, in Glasgow, is head of the Incorporated
Trades, and presides over the meetings of these chartered crafts — he is
also entiiled, ex-officio, to a seat in the City Council.
77
There were Tinklers and Tailors— and Wabsters and Nailers,
And Barbers and Blacksmiths, and Gardeners sae gaudy;
A' life to the heels, and asguid-looking chiels
As e'er cam to light by the help o' a howdie.
" Gentlemen,— We hae this day met for the purpose of electing a
head to our Master Court. It is true tliat new-fangled notions hae taea
possession o' men's minds since the date o' our charter, and niair parti-
cularly since the date o' our late IMajna Charta— the Reform Bill ; but
■will ony man jjossessed o' his seven senses argufy me into the belief, that
the Incorporation of ^Vrights, that I hae, during the currency o' the last
twalmonth, been the head o' — or rather, I may say, the centre upon which
a' its hinges turned — has not been productive of substantious and ma-
nifest advantage to the public in general, and to the craft in particular.
Noo, Gentlemen, to keep to the square o' my speech — rough and knotty
though it be, and micht be a' the better o' astripfrae a jack plane — I like
to be special in a' my specialities, and to keep to the dove-tail o' the
matter — I therefore, before proceeding to the election, have to request
that yon will allow me to say a word or twa touching the matter in
hand. Althoiigh I am yet the tongue o' the trump, it would-, neverthe-
less, and notwithstanding, be unwise, as weel as ill-bred, to tak' up much
o' your time at the present inoment, seeing how much we have before
us this day, independent of what we have to o'ertak", and tak'-o'er,
too— the better tak' o' the twa — before bed-time ; therefore, I will be
exceedingly brief, for I'm beginning to fear that ye'll think me a boring-
bit ; to use the words of my frien', the late Deacon Convener, I will
be ' very whuppy in the matter o' my speech.' — Weel, Gentlemen, we
, have all heard o' my friend and brother in the management o' his ain
corpor.ation — Geordy Wriggles, present Deacon of the Incorporation of
Weavers. Our man is nae man of mere thrums, or a piece of veneer
manufacture— put the wummle through him, ye wad find the same piece
outside and in — nane o' your fley-the-doos, but a man o' means and mea-
sures, and who will dress up and keep in thorough repair, a' tlie build-
ing about our Corporation — Wha seconds Deacon ^Vriggles?" " Me,
Deacon," answers Deacon Snipe the Tailor. " Weel, lads, I see my
friend is carried unamous (at least I'm unamous) by a great majority.
— Cheer the Deacon till the kehars shake."
A. shout of applause which rent the air,
Was heard at the grand blaster Deacon's election
And awa to his dwelling they now repair,
Tliat his friends may rejoice in the happy selection.
His comely guidsvifhe sprang out in a jiftie,
And stood at the door in her best every steek on ;
Joy danced in her e'en as she welcomed them in
To dine, and to drink to the health o' the Deacon.
The dinner was tasty, their appetites guid—
For tradesmen hae stomachs as weel as their betters,
And they syneddounthesnppy, substantial food,
Vv'i' a capfu' o' yill, and a glass o" strong waters :
Then up raise the auld Deacon, a subject to speak on.
For which he lamented his poweis were not fitting ;
But he scarted his lug, gied his wig a bit rug.
And thus, after hoasting, broke forth to the meetings
" After what I hae this day spoken in anither place, there's nae oc-
casion again to put the bit througli the same bore, or to run the plane
o"er a dressed plank, sae I'll gie ye Deacon CoaTenor Wriggles good
health, no forgetting wife and sproots — they'll be a' trees belyve— and
may every guid attend him and them ; and may he aye be able to keep a
gnid polish on the face o' our Corporation affairs, and leave them -with-
out a screw loose to his successor — Umbrells' to Deacon Wriggles."
The health was drunk affwi' three times three;
And the roar and the mfling a' fairly subsided —
The young Deacon blubh'd, and sat fidging a wee,
For he sa'»v that a speecii couldna weel be avoided.
He scarcely, we reckon, for gospel was takin',
A' that the auid Deacon had said on his merit ;
But like a' men in place, he received it with.grace,
Then raise up to his feet, and address 'd them in spirit.
Toast drunk off and glasses invorted.
" Really, friens. It's out o' the power o' speeeu or language, whethw
ill print or out o't, to tell ye the feelings o' my heart Did ever a bairn
0' \\'illie Wriggles' think to come to such preferment — really if I
c aid speak there's plenty o' room lor scope, but my heart is tumbling
t'le wuUcatj and I canna trust the tongue in my aiu head. I doubt
tl at I'll no be able to ca" a pirnfa' o' waft into the wab o' my discourse
on this occasion, but liae to gather up the ends afore I begin ; but ulti-
mately in the end, and in the middle o' the meantime, my gratitude and
respect for ye a' will never hae done, for the lasting, permanent, and
never-ending honor ye liae conferred on me this day. 1 expect to learn
my duty as 1 get mair into the marrow o' our Corporation matters—.
you'll no expect me to be perfited in ao day. My father used to say to
me, " Geordy, my man, keep aye a canny hand— just get on by degrees
gradually," whilk I hae aye tried to do; for when I took langer steps
than the length o' my limbs would allow, I aye spelder'd mysel' and
cam' down to my knees, and lost my time and my standing — forbye
being laught at: I ca' canny, and never draw back my shuttle till it
is clear o' the selvedge — and this preserves my wab o' life free o' ciuds
and scobs, a'ways even. I would advise ane an' a' o' ye to do the like,
and then the fabric o' your wark in the ways o' the world will be a
pattern for ithej-s ; and when your shaft is at the beam-head, you
may cut your wab by the thrum-keel, wi' credit to yoursel'. I hae
now gotten to the hill-tap o' my ambition ; and to think o' me being
ad vane, d to be Deacon o' Deacons, is an honour that's reserved for
but few: It hasna cost me a great strussel either, sic preferment
-but this may be floeching mysel', but I canna help it— ye a' ken
it's true ; nae doubt the watering-can* has been gaun about, an' been
gayan often filled sin' I set my e'e on the Deacon's chair, but I hae
itood my water and corn brawly. (Nui»e in the street.) Dear me, freens,
what's that I hear, the very weans on the street crying— gude day to
you, Deacon. " No, no. Deacon, it's Hawkie crying a hanging speecli,
or maybe his cure for ill wives." " Is that a' ? Weel, lads, that wad
be better than Solomon's Balm— for wise as he was, he couldna help
Gill-stoup.
80
himsel' when he got his wab misbet — I was saying, was'nt I, that 1
had stood my com and water ? aye lay in your corn lirst, and ye'll be
the better able to stand a tap dressing— do like the Kilbarchan calves,
drink wi' a rip i' your mouth. Mony a time, and often, hae I gaen, or
was taen, hame, wi' as mony great thochts in my head, working like a
croak fu' o' sour dressing, as would sair ony o" our town's ministers to
work wi' for a towmond ; but when I lifted my e'e neist morning, the
warp o' my ideas had lost the lees ; — I couldna mak onything o' them ;
but had ony body been able to put it through a right ravel, they wad
hae benefited mankind an' oeen the very best stroke ever drawn
through a reed. Xoo, ultimately in the end— as 1 am on my last pirn —
I may just relate to you for your encouragement, frae what a sma' be-
ginning I hae come to tlus pinnacle o' honour and prosperity, as ye see
this day, so that nane o" ye may be discouraged, although ye begin wi' a
wab o' ill yam ; and it's possible you may get up the ladder o' prefer-
ment — yea, e'en to the last step, gin ye put on your feet steadily, and
aye put the richt ane first ; this thing and that may gie ye a jundie, but
keep a firm grip wi" baith hands o' the ladder rails, and your e'e fixed on
the tap, and nae fear. Weel, after I was done wi' my 'prenticesLip —
and mony a time my stomach thocht my wizen was sneckit during that
time — for what wi'.gauze parritLh, and muslin kail — ae barley-pile a hale
dressing frae the ither, and dancing curcuddie in the pot a-boil — I
thocht mony a time my heart wad ne'er been able to send a shot mair
through the shed ; but I got through, and then tried a bit shop in the
Kirk-raw, wi' the house in the ben end, and a bit a garter o' garden
ahint ; sae en 1 wrocht as my father advised, by degrees gradually, and
made a fendin' o't, and bettered my condition ; and by-and-bye, I say?
to my laird— man, couM ye no put ' ack the yard dykes a bore, and gie me
mair elbow room, for I could yerk my shuttle in at the ae side, and
catch't at the ither without stressing mysel' ; thafsthe very words I said
to him, but he laughed me aff frae ae Martinmas till anither, till at las*
—for the bit property was only his in name — a burden o' debt that lay
on its back, brack down the shouthers o' the laird, and landed it on mine
— whilk I could easily bear, for mair has been added till't since, and the
ehouthers hae stood it a". Noo ye see what can be done ; — keepProvidence
81
»ye on ae side o' yc, and a consistent life on the Ither— and you'll •woiV
yoar last thrum into the very heddles wi* comfort to yoursel', and leave
an example to the youngsters wha are just beginning to put their feet
on the treddles."
At length in his chair the Deacon sat down,
And the sweat for a wee frae his haflBts he dichtet ;
The glass and the song, and the joke gaod roun*
Till ilk a ane's wit by his neighbour's was lichted :
Sic laughin' and daffin', androarin' and ruffin' —
Care couldna a hole see to stap his cauld beak in;
And when they broke up, the glorious group
Gaed hobblin' hame—hiccupin'— Health to the Deacon.
THE BRITISH HERO.
Up with our native banner high ! and plant it deep and
strong !
And o'er the empire let its folds in glory float along ;
For a thousand years have come and gone, and a thousand
years shall go.
Ere tyrant force, or traitor wile, shall lay that haimer low.'
And come, my friends, your goblets fill, till the wine o'er-
swell the brim.
And pledge me in a willing cup of gratitude to him,
Who, when the bravest shrank appall'd, that banner lifted
high,
Till, where'er hestepp'd, it waved above a field of victory !
Whose arm was like the thvmderbolt to do whate'er his
mind —
Swift as the lightning-flash, had once imagined and com-
bined ;
Whose soul no timid doubts could stay, nor coward feara
could quell,
Not calmer in the festive hall than 'mid the battle's yell !
V
82
Who shall forget, that felt the joy, when every morning's
sun,
Was hail'd with rattling guns, to tell another field was won ;
When, after years of doubt and gloom, one universal roar
Proclaini'd through Europe's gladden'd realms that the ty-
rant ruled no more ?
Then here's to him, the foremost man of all this mortal
world,
VTho down to dust the ruthless foe of earth and mankind
hurl'd !
Long may he live to wield and grace the baton of command,
That marshali'd kings and nobles once in his unconquer'd
hand !
.And never in a worthier grasp the leading-staff was worn —
Fur ever honour'd be his name to a,?es j'et unborn.
And be it still the proudest boast, when a thousand years
are gone.
To he a native of the land that rear'd a Wellington-.
E. P'NKERTON.
TA OFFISH IN TA MORNING.*
Tu.vE— " Johnnie Cope.'
Her nainsel' come frae ta hielan' hill,
Ta ponnj' to\\-n o' Glascow till.
But o' Glascow she's koten her pelly fill.
She'll no forget tis twa tree mornin'.
She'll met Shony Crant her coosin's son.
An' Tuncan, an' Toukal, an' Tonal Cunn,
An' twa tree more — an' she had sic fun.
But she'll turn't oot a saut saut mornin'.
• This graphic piece of Celtic humour, was -written hy one of our con-
tributors, and has obtained great local popularity — we have reprinted it
»n for collection, the current version being very incorrect.
83
Sae Sliony Grant, a shill she'll hae
O' ta fera cootest usquapae,
An' she'll pochtet a shill, ay an' twa tree mae,
An' she'll trank till ta fera neist mornin'.
She'll sat, an* she'll trank, an' she'll roar, an' she'll sang,
An' aye for ta shill ta pell she'll rang,
An' she'll maet sic a tin fat a man she'll prang,
An' she'll say't — ' Co home tis momin'.
Ta man she'll had on ta kreat pig coat.
An' in her lian' a rung she'll cot,
An' a purnin' cruzie, an' she'll say't j'ou sot
She'll maun go to ta Offish tis mornin'.
She'll say't to ta man — " Be an diaoul shin duitse?"*
An' ta man she'll say't—" Pe quiec as ta mouse.
Or nelse o'er her nottle she'll come f u' crousc,
An' she'll put ta Offish in you in ta mornin'."
Ta man she'll dunt on ta stane her stick,
An" fan she'll pe sheuk her riL'k-tick-tick,
An' fan she'll pe catchet her by ta neck,
An' trawu her to ta Offish in ta mornin'.
Ta mornin' come she'll be procht pefore
Ta shentleman'spraw, an' her pones all sore,
An' ta shentleman's say't, " You tog:, what for
You'll maet sic a tin in tis mornin'."
She'll teukit afF her ponnet and she'll maet her a poo.
An' she'll say't, " Please her Crace she cot hersel' foo.
But shust let her co and she'll never to
Ta like no more in ta mornin'.
But fan she'll haet to ta shentleman's praw
Ta Sheordie frae out o' her sporan traw,
* Pronnnncf-d- D? an dia\il shean loose. Anglice—Whstt the Devil'*
that to yon ?
84
An* shell roart out loot—" Do an diaoul a ha C gra ?*
Oh hone O ri 'tis momia* !"
O fan she'll pe sait ta shentlemans, " shell no unterstoot
"What fiire she'll pe here like ta lallan prute,
But she'll mact her cause either pad or coot,
Fur she'll teak you to ta law this mornin*."
Ta sheiitleman's say't " respect ta coort.
Or nelse my koot lat you'll suffer for't,
Shust taur to spoket another wort,
And she'll send her to ta Fischal in ta mornin'.
Oich ! she didna knew -what to do afa,
For she neler found herself so srna'.
An' khit she was right to kot awa,
Frae oot o' ta ofiBsh in ta momin'.
Oh ! tat she war to ta Ilielans pack,
Whar ne'er ta pailie's terc to crack,
An' whar she wad gotten ta sorro' a plack,
Frae n'oot o' her sporan in ta mornin*.
An* tat there was there her coosin's son.
An' TuBcan, an' Tookal, and Tibial Curm,
An' twa tice more, she wad haet sic fun,
And no he plaiget wi' pailies in ta momin*.
Alex. Fisbteb-
I
ROLL, FAIR CLUTHA.
Air—" Ride Britannia."
When Nature first, with mighty hand,
Traced Clyde's fair windings to the main,
'Twas then the Genii of tlie land.
Assembled round, and simg tliis strain :
• PTonoi2nce<l— Tee an dici:l a hov cn». AngUct—Vklxii the devil
■^. yo'i say ?
83
" Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea.
And be thy banks for ever free."
For on thy banks in future times,
A brave and virtuous race shall rise,
Strangers to those unmanly crimes.
That taint the tribes of warmer skies.
" Iloll," &c.
And stately to\vns and cities fair.
Thy lovely shores shall decorate ;
With seats of science, to prepare
Thy sons for all that's good and great.
"Iloll,"&c.
And on thy pure translucent breast,
Shall numerous fleets majestic ride ;
Destined to south, north, east, and west.
To waft thy treasures far and wide.
" Roll," &c.
And up thy gently sloping sides.
Shall woods o'er woods in gi-andeur tower ;
Meet haunts for lovers and their brides,
To woo in many a sylvan bower.
"Roll," &c.
And early on each summer morn.
Thy youth shall bathe their limbs in thee ;
Thence to their various toils return
With increased vigour, health, and glee.
"Roll,"&c.
And still on summer evenings fair.
Shall groupes of happy pairs be seen.
With hearts as light as birds of air,
A-straying o'er thy margin green.
"Iloll,"&c.
And oft the Bard by thee will stray,
When Luna's lamp illuuaes the sky.
86
Musing on some heart -melting lay,
Which fond hope tells him ne'er shall die.
" Roll, fair Clutha/fair Clutha to the sea,
And be thy banks for ever free "
Alex. Rodgsr.
THE nOWDIE.*
Tune—" Jenny Kettles.
AiBLiNS ye'll ken Jeanie Glen,
Jeanie Glen , .Jeanie Glen ;
Gif no, it's little loss— d'ye ken ? —
She's an auld drucken howdie 1
O wow but she's a rantin' queen —
Her like was never heard nor se^i
wow but she's a rantin' queen,
The auld drucken howdie.
1 gat her unto my wife Bet,
My wife Bet, my wife Bet —
I vow that morn I'll ne'er forget.
The auld drucken howdie :
The ne'er a fit she'd leave her hame.
Till twa het pints were in her wame ;
The ne'er a fit she'd leave her hamc,
The auld di-ucken howdie.
I brought her 'hint me on the meer.
On the meer, on the mecr —
She maist brack Bess's back I swear —
The auld drucken howdie :
• This portrait is drawn by 'William Ferguson, journeyman plumber
in Edinburgh, and is but too true a picture of these country petticoat
practitioners, -who, with possets, caudle-cups, and panado, really turn
the house upside down If the colouring is strong, the subject admits
not of delicate tints.
87
A wallet wore she round her waist.
Would haud a bow o' meal amaist —
The pouch that hung about her waist ;
The auld drucken howdie.
Mutches wore she, nine or ten,
Nine or ten, nine or ten,
Shapet like a clockin' hen,
The auld drucken howdie :
In her breast a sneeshin' mill,
I wadna like to hae't to fill —
Her siller-tappit sneeshin' mill—
The auld drucken howdie.
My trnnth she kept the house asteer.
House asteer, house asteer ;
Sic a dust, the guid be here ! —
The auld drucken howdie ;
Auld an' young she drave about,
Wi' rowing pin, or auld dishclout ;
Auld an' young she drave about.
The auld drucken howdie.
Aj-e she sought the titlier dram,
Tither dram, tither dram —
An' flate like fury till it cam'.
The auld drucken howdie.
She turn'd the hale house upside down,
Swagg'ring like a drunk di-agoon.
She turn'd the hale house upside down.
The auld drucken howdie.
Ne'er a preen she cared for Bet,
Ciired for Bet, cared for Bet —
lio-AT, she might, like rivers met.
The auld drucken howdie.
When the wean was brought to licht,
I wntslie was a dais'd like sicht.
88
When the wean ^vas brought to licht.
The auld drucken howdie.
She could neither stand nor gang,
Stand nor gang, stand nor gang —
Yet up she got a caidgy sang,
The auld drucken howdie.
The sweat was hailin' owre her brow.
An' she was dancin' fiddler fou,
The sweat like sleet, fa 'in' fraeher brow,
The auld drucken howdie.
She gat the wee thing on her knee.
On her knee, on her knee —
An' roar'd like wiid, to mask the tea 1
The auld drucken howdie.
Neist she cut the cheese in twa,
Trouth she was neitlier slack nor slaw.
At whangin' o' the cheese in twa,
The auld drucken howdie.
Seven cups o' tea an' toast,
Tea an' toast, tea an' toast.
Her wally wizen glibly cross'd.
The auld drucken howdie.
•* She'll ne'er be done," cried little Jock,
" The cheese we'll in the aumry lock,"
" She'll ne'er be done," roar'd little Jock,
*• The auld drucken howdie."
Aye the tither whang she took.
Whang she took, whang she took,
'Twad sair'd a sober chiel' an' ook,
The auld drucken howdie.
*• She'll eat us up," quo' Bet my wife !
•• That pang gaed thro' me like a knife.
She'll eat us up," quo' Bet my wife,
" The auld drucken howdie."
89
♦' Tell her that the bottle's toom f
Bottle's toom, bottle's toom,
She'll drink else till the day o' doom !
The auld drucken howdie."
" The deil be in your maw," quo* I,
*' I'm sure ye're neither boss nor dry ;
The deil be in your maw," quo' I,
" Ye auld drucken howdie."
*' She swore I was a nithor't loun,
Nither'tloun, nither't loun.
Said, she'd clour my cuckold crown.
The auld drucken howdie."
At last she spak' o' gaun awa*,
O* what joy it gied us a' !
Whene'er she spuk* o' gaun awa'.
The auld drucken howdie.
A hale hour sat she langer still,
Langer still, langer still,
Iler tongue gaun like a waukin' mill,
The auld drucken howdie. • •
At length she took her hood an' cloak,
Syne to see how she did roclc,
Wlien she got on her l;ood an' cloak.
The auld drucken howdie.
Says she, " Gudeman, I'll soon ca' back.
Soon ca' back, soon ca' back" —
I look't right queer, but naething spak —
The auld druektn howdie.
Igir'd the callant yoke the cart.
An' set her on't wi' a' my heart,
Right glad was I wi' her to part,
The auld dinicken howdie.
90
MEARNS MUIR MAGGY,
A MEARXS MUIR TRADITIOX.
T.v a ^vild track o' country, the lang jNIeams Muir,
Whaur the sky is sae bleak, and the soil is sae puir,
Whaur the rain fa's in floods, an' the wind gurls chill,
And as the Flood left it, sae Nature stands still^
There deep in a dell, down below a steep craggj-.
There liv'd an auld wifie, ca'd Mearns Muii- Maggy
She was w>lie wi' ^^^t, she was laden wi' lair,
Could charm awa sorrow, or fley awa care, —
Could smooth do«Ti sick pillows, wi' sic soothing skill.
That nae weanie grew sick, nor nae wifie fell ill.
But the Head o' the House had to mount his best naggy,
An' bring hame ahint him auld Meams Muii- ^laggj'.
Ae night when the muir was half deluged wi' rain.
An' the cauld gowlin blast swept athwai't the wild plain,
A lonely black female, sair laden wi' pain.
Cam into Meg's cot, an' gae birth to a wean,
Ere the morn she was gane, an' had left a gowd baggie
Wi' the bairn to be nursed by auld Mearns Muir ]Maggy.
Years pass'd, and the callant grew up to a man.
An' the clashing still gather'd, the rumour still ran.
That the loun was nae canny, that Meg an' his faither,
Whoevtr he was, were acquaintit wi' ither.
An' some wha wad fain hacn her burnt for a haggie.
Ca'd Auld Nick the lover o' Meains Muir Maggy.
liut scandal still quail 'd 'neath her mild beaming eye,
The Kirk never miss'd lier in wat day or in dry.
An' the strong burlj' black, as if bound by a chann.
Cam' aye kindly leading auld 3Ieg in his arm,
Tho' mony a braw lassie wad said her last raggie.
To hae clung to the arm, that led Mearns Muir Maggy.
91
But auld Maggy died, and the Black left alane
Roam'd like a wild spirit owre mountain an' plain,
Bright freedom, his charter, true courage his targe,
Daur ca* him a poacher, he'd scowl at the charge,
Till warm wi* his wand'ring he shot a proud staggie,
That belong'd to the landlord o' iNIearns Muir Maggy.
The lord, a rich nabob, had come frae afar,
I'was said he had fought in the wild Indian war,
An' come hame fortune laden, frae these sunny climes,
\Miaur fortune's like his aft are purchased wi' crimes,
For grasping an' greedy, heart stinted an' scraggy,
AVas the judge o' the orphan o' Mearns Muir Maggy.
The judge e'ed the poacher, the poacher the judge.
As if they bore ither some lang gather'd grudge,
The pannel, a miniature tore from his neck !^
'Twas the judge fondly pressing a sweet female black !
The old sinner shook as if seized with an ague—
His son was the black rear'd by iMeai-ns IMuir Maggy.
And whaur was there e'er sic a baron of old ?
As the Black Knight of IMearns Muir, burly an' bold ?
There's mony brave nobles hae sprung frae his reins,
That hae held braider sway o'er auld Scotland's domains,
But nae friend was mair manly, nae foemen mair j;iggy.
Than the comely black foundling o' IVIeanis ^luir Maggy.
James B.allantixe, Edinburgh.
HIGHLAND COURTSHIP.
*' OxcH will you had ta tartan plaids?
Or will you had ta ring, mattam ?
Or — will you had a kiss frae me—
An' tat's a petters ting mattam ?"
(Reply — piano of voice.)
*• Oh baud awa ! bide awa !
Haud awa frae me, Donald ;
I'll neither kiss, nor hae a ring —
Nae tartan plaid for me, Donald."
•' Oich tear— ay— whafs noo ?
O see you not her praw new hose —
Her fleekit plaid, plue green niattam,
Ta twa praw hose — an' prawer spiog,
An' ta shouthor-pelt 'peen a' mattam."
•' O hand awa ! bide awa —
Hand awa frae me, Donald ;
Your shouther-knots, and trinkabouts,
Hae nae gre;\t charm for me, Donald.
" No ! it's a terrible potheration — eh — no !
Her can pe shaw ta petter houghs,
Tan him tat wear ta crowTi mattam —
Nainsel' Iiae phistol an' claj-more.
Wad fley ta lallan loon, mattam."
" No haud awa — bide awa,
Ilaud awa frae me, Donald ; ,
Gae liame and hap your highlan' houghs,
An' fasli nae mair wi' me, Donald."
" Ay, laty, is tat ta -way yon'H spoko-put— yc-s maybe for all tat.
Uersel' hae a short coat— pi pocht
No ti-ail my feet at rin, mattam,
A cuttio-sark o' goot harn-sheet.
My mithcr he'll pe spin, mattam."
" Just haud awa — bide awa — •
Haud awa frae me, Donald ;
Awa and deed your measled shanks,
An' screen them 'boon the knee, Donald.
♦' Oich after all, surely and moreover — my tear.
You'll ne'er pe pitten wi-ocht a turn.
At ony kin' o' spin, mattam ;
Nocht— shug your laeno* in a skull
An' tidal highland sing, mattam.
Noo heard you tat ?"
• Laeno — child.
93
" Just liaud awa — bide awa.
Hand awa frae me, Donald";
Your jugging skulls, and liighlan' reels—
They'll soun' but harsh wi' me, Donald,"
•• It's a perfect Restoration — hoo^never surely— after all III spoke.
An' in ta mornings whan you'll rise,
You'll got fresh whey for tea, mattam—
Re:mi an' cheese, as much you please !
Far cheaper nor pohea, mattam,
Noo, I'm sure I— ah— yes — "
" Hand awa— bide av/a —
Bide awa frae me, Donald ;
I wadna quit my morning's tea —
Your whey could ne'er agree, Donald."
"Weel— -vreel- -n-eel— I'll tliocht that's all— put—
naper-gaclic ye'se pe learn ! —
Tats ta pretty speak, mattam ;
You'll got a cheese and putter-milk —
Come wi' me gin ye like, mattam.
Oh yes— I'll saw your face noo."
' ' Na— hand awa — bide awa^
Hand awa frae me, Donald ;
Your gaelic sang, and Highland cheer,
"Will ill gang down wi' me, Donald."
*' Never more yet — oich ! — oich I — it's an awfu' this.
I'll got for you a sillar prooch—
Pe piggar as ta meen, mattam ;
Yes ! you'll ride in curroch 'stead o' coach —
Tan wow but you'll pe fine, mattam !
Tat'sta thing noo, my ponniest dautie— you'll not say no— no more for
ttT — oh yes — "
But— baud awa — bide awa —
Hand awa frae me, Donald ;
For a* your Highland rarities,
You're no a match for me, Donald."
94
•• What ! ! tat's ta ^vay tat you'll be kin*!
Praw pretty man like me, mattam !
Sae lang's clajinore hung py my pelt,
I'll never marry thee, mattam.
A. shcntleman to be disdain !"
" Oh come awa — come awa—
Come a\va wi' me, Donald—
I ^adna lea my Highlandman !
Frae lallands set me free, Donald."
Tat's my doo — noo al-ways for ever and never."
BANKRUPT AND CREDITORS.
Hae ye heard o' Will Sibbald— my trouth there were few.
That had less in their pouch, or had mair in their pow ;
A master for lang he had faithfully sair'd.
Till he thocht as he ae nicht sat straiking his beard :
" Through wat and through dry a' my life I hae di-udged,"
And to work late and early I never have grudged ;
I've been a man's slave since my name I could spell —
What think ye though noo I should work for mysel' ?
So he took a bit shop, and sell't gingebread and snaps,
Spunks, treacle and brumstane, and 1 lif-bread and baps ;
But a' wad na do— at his wares nane wad look,
So a wide gaucy shop in the main street he took :
Ilk day like a gin-horse he eidently wrocht —
IMakin' siller like sclate stanes, as a' body thocht.
Till ae day wi' a dunt that astonish 'd tlie town,
The great AVillie Sibbald— the barrow laid do%vn.
O' his freens and acquaintance a meeting was ca'd,
And a lang face sly Willie put on to the squad ;
" My gude worthy freens," he then said Avd' a grane,
I have naething to show you— for books I keep nane ;
95
My father ne'er learnt me to write my ain name.
And my master, I'm sure I maun say't to his shame.
Ne'er made up the defect, sirs— but keepit me ticht,
Tween the trams o' a barrow frae morning till nicht."
i lie freens then on Willie began to leuk queer,
i<l ane tliat sat next him then said wi' a sneer-
Ian Will, I'm dumfouner't — ye wrooht air an' late—
~ iiiething gude''might be surely brought frae your estate ;
" Estate, man," quo' Willie—" I's3 tell ye my freen.
Ilk maik through my fingers has noo slippit clean —
And for an estate, I can solemnly iswear,
Gif I had had that, faith I wudna been here."
'Mang AVillie's rare talents, an' these were not few.
By the virtue of which mankind's noses he drew,
He could sing like a mavis— and ane o' his freens,
Wha to AVillie's guid fortune had furnish 'd the means.
On his creditors' list he just stood at the tap.
So he looks in Will's face, and says he — " My auld chap.
The best way I ken ye'il get out o' this fang.
Instead o' our siller— just gie's a bit sang."
THE DIVIDEND.
** Ai.ACK ! ■what ■will come o' me noo I hae been stricken sair,
I never drank like ither men, nor fed on costly fare —
I -wTocht aye till 'twas late at e'en, raise wi' the morning da\m.
And yet ye see the barrow-trams hae drappit frae my haun.
Ye've socht a ■wee bit sang frae me, but brawly ye may see
I'm no, ■whatever some may think, in ony singing key ;
But your promise o' a free discharge I trust ye winna shift.
For 'twema wi' the hope o' that, my lip I couldna lift.
I wonner ■what gart fock suppose that I could siller mak —
They ne'er saw ony signs o't on my belly or my back ;
M y -waistcoat aye was o' the plush— my coat o' coarsest drab —
1 keepit naie estal 'lishment — nae servants, horse, nor cab.
96
Ye talk o* putting me in Jail, but trouth ye needna fash,
Ye'll only lose your temper, and -what's Traur — ye'll lose your o i-
For neither house nor ha' hae I — norgrun', norguids, nor gear,
Or, as I said before to ye — ye wudna seen me here.
thocht when auld I \rad have had a giiid rough bane to pike.
And nocht to do but streek me on the lea side o' the dike ;
But I ha'e disappointed been — my boat has gane to staves.
And left me bare and helpless to the mercy o* the waves.
"\V.M. FiNLAY, Paisley.
THOU CAULD GLOO:.IY FEBERWAR.
Thou caiild gloomy Feberwar,
Oh ! gin thou wert awa 1
I'm wae to liear thy soiighin' winds,
I'm wae to see thy snaw ;
For my bonnie braw young Hielandman,
The lad I loe sae dear.
Has vow'd to come and see me.
In the spring o' the yeai'.
A silken ban* he gae me,
To bin' mj' gowden hair ;
A silLar brooch and tartan plaid,
A' for his sake to wear :
And oh ! my heart was like to break,
(For partin' sorrows sair,)
As he vow'd to come and see me.
In the spring o' the year.
Aft, aft as gloaming dims the sky,
I wander out alane.
* The first verse of this song is a fragment of the hite lamented Tan-
nahill— the suiplemrnt by Patriol; Bucban, the oldest son of Mr. Pet«
Biichnn. with whf m thf readpr is already fttmiliar.
97
\Miare buds the bonny yellow whins.
Around the trystin' stane :
TTwas til ere he press'd me to his heart.
And kis3'd awa' the tear,
As he vow d to come and see me.
In the spring o' the year.
Ye gentle breezes saftly blaw.
And deed anew the wiids ;
Ye lavrocks lilt your cheery sangs,
Amang the fleecy cluds ;
Till Febej war and a' his train,
Affrichted disappear —
I'll hail wi* j-ou the biythsome change.
The spring.time o* the year.
PUSH ROUN' THE BICKER.
Ye, wha the carking cares of life,
Have rift times caused to claw your haffet^
Leave for a while the bustling strife,
And worldly men and matters laugh at:
Let fools debate 'bout kii-k and state.
Their short livrd ('«> let patriots flicker;
Let Outs and Ins kick ither's shiiif ;
Ne'er mind, my boys— push roun' the bicker,
A' things that glitter are not gowd,
Then push the stoup roun'— lads be hearty;
\Vha e'er had fortune at his nud.
Like that bauld biikie, Bonaparte ;
lie tumbled kings— thae costly things,
Wha thocht they on their stools sat sicker ;
But his croNvn at last to the yirth was cast—
And the vision past — push roun' the bicker.
And wha could cope wi' Philip's son?
The greatest hero that we read o'.
98
How did he hound his armies on,
To conquer worlds he had nae need»o',
His beast he rade with thundering speed.
And aye his pace grew quick and quicker,
TUl down lie sat — poor fool, and grat — •
His pipe was out — push roun' the bicker.
Then let us drive dull care adrift,
Life's day is short, even at the langest ;
■•'' The race is no aye to the s^\^ft,
Nor is the battle to the strangest !"
'Bout kirk and state let fools debate.
Their short lived day let statesmen flicker;
Let Outs and Ins kick ither's shins.
Ne'er fash your beai ds— push roun' the bicker.
William Finlay. Paisley.
JOHN GUN.
He's a bauld beggarman, John Gun, John Gun ,
He's a bauld beggarman, John Gun ;
O far he has been an' muckle he's seen.
An' mony an ill deed he's dune, John Gun,
An' mony an ill deed he's dune.
He's been 'mang the French, John Gun, John Gun,
He's been 'mang the French, John Gun ;
But sune he came hame — he made little o' them.
They had vagrants enou' o' their ain, John Gun,
They had vagrants enou' o' their ain.
The fouks a' fear John Gun, John Gun,
The fouks a' fear John Gun ;
Wlien he comes in, ye'll hear nae din,
But our breath gaun thick out an' in, John Gun-
But our breath gaun thick out and in.
An' how does he fend ? John Gun, John Gun,
An' how does he fend ? John Gun —
99
He feuds unco weel, he gets milk, he gets meiil^
But no for his guid but his ill, John Gun —
But no for his guid but his ill.
Alex. Lai:-jg, Brechin.
THE PIRATE'S SERENADE.
.'•l y boat's by the tower, my bark's in the b.-\y,
". nd both must be gone ere the dawn of the day ;
•' moon's in her shroud, but to guide thee afar,
tiie deck of the Daring's a love-lighted star ;
-n wake, lady ! wake ! I am waiting for thee,
And this night, or never, my bride thou shalt be !
Forgive my rough mood ; unaccustom'd to sue,
1 n 00 not, perchance, as your land-lovers woo ;
My voice has been tuned to the notes of the gun,
Tiiat startle the deep, when the combat's begun ;
And heavy and hard is tlie grasp of a hand
Whose glove has been, ever, the guard of a brand.
Yet think not of these, but, this moment, be mine.
And the plume of the proudest shall cower to thine ;
A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave,
.And the chief of a thousand will kneel as thy slave ;
Thou shalt rule as a queen, and thy empire shall last
Till the red flag, by inches, is torn from the mast.
islands there are, on the face of the deep,
"Where the leaves never fade, where the skies never weep j
And there, if thou wilt, shidl our love-bower be,
When we quit, for the greenwood, our home on the sea ;
And there shalt thou sing of the decdp that were done.
When we braved the last blast, and thd last battle won.
Then haste, lady, haste ! for the fair bro;->zes blow.
And my ocean-bird poises her pinions of snow ;
Now fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine.
They are meet for such feet and such fingers as thine t
100
The signal, my mates — ho ! hurra for the sea !
This night, and forever, my bride thou shalt be.
Wm. Kennkdv.
MEG :meikle.johx.
Vk kentna IVIeg ::\Ieiklejohn, midwife in jMauchlm ♦
Slie was the widow of lilticock Lauchlan ;
He was a bodj' gaed rockin and rowin' —
His ae leg was stracht— its neibour a bow in't.
ISIaggy was boussie frae croon to tlie ciusey,
Lauchie was gizen'd *s an auld girnal bassie ;
And as for their features, folk said it that kent them.
If nature meant sour anes, she needna repent them.
Of the stark aquavitas they baith lo'ed a drappie,
And when capernutie then aye unco happy ;
Of a' in tlie parish this pair was tlie bauldest,
As bums brattle loudest when water's the shaulest.
Whiles Lauchie wad spuni at the whisky like poison
But after he preed it, wad drucken an ocean ;
JSIaggy, too, had a fell tippling gateo't.
An aye took a drappie whene'er she could get it
Lauchie had looms, but was lag at the weaving,
His fingers and thumbs though, were active in thieving ;
Lauchie had looms that but few could hae wrought on.
For Lauchie had schemes that but few wad hae thought on.
Lauchie had secrets wcel worthy the keeping.
For Lauchie made siller while ithers were sleeping,
Lauchie a second sight surely had gi'en him,
An' siw things wi' less light than ithers could see thcni.
But Lauchie did dee, and was welcomely yirdet,
The folks said his conscience was unco ill girdet;
When it took a rackin, it beat a' description,
Hig oily gaun tongue, too, was fu' o' deception.
lul
Now Lauchie's awa', and the bodies in Mauclilin,
Wish ileg in her kist, an' as deep sheugh'd as Lauchlati ;
Ikit Lauchie for cunning surpass'd a' his fellosvs,
He die't just in time for escaping the gallows.
David Webster.
THE TREE OF LIBERTY.*
Tone, — " Up an' tvaur them a', Willie.'*
ITeard ye o' The Tree o' France ?
I watna what's the name o't—
Aroun' it a' the Patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't :
It stands whare ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man.
When superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.
Upon this Tree there grows sic fruit.
Its virtues a' can tell, man ;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak's him ken himsel', man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bite.
He's greater than a lord, man ;
An' wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.
• This song is said to be a production of the Ayrshire Ploughman,
and altliough it is not equal in concentrated power and vigour to some
of his avowed poems, it must be admitted to be a piece of no ordinary
merit, and a most successful imitation of his manner. We have sub-
mitted it to a gentleman of the highest respectability, to whose opinion
Burns i)aid great deference, and to whom he was in the habit of show-
ing his compositions, and he had never lieard the Poet allude to " The
Tree of Liberty." Burns, too, who outlived the stormiest period of
the French Revolution, would doubtless have qualified many of the ex-
pressions, had he given them, after having seen some of the effects of
that dreadful political hurricane wliich deluged that unhappy country
vitli blood.
102
This fruit is worth a' Afrie's wealth.
To comfort us 'twas sent, man.
To gie the sweetest blush o' health.
An' mak' us a' content, man :
It clears the e'en, it cheers the heart,
IMak's high an' low guid frien's, man :
An' he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chiel
"SVha pitied Gallia's slaves, man.
An' staw'd a branch, spite o' the De'il,
Frae 'yont the Western waves, man.
Fair vii-tue water'd it wi' care.
An' now she sees, wi' pride, man.
How weel it buds an' blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.
But vicious folk aye hate to see
The works o' virtue thrive, man.
The courtly vermin bann'd the Tree,
An' grat to see't alive, man.
King Louie thocht to cut it do\\'n,
When it was unco sma', man ;
For it the watchman crack'd his crown.
Cut atf his head an' a', man ! ! !
A ^^icked crew sjTie on a time.
Did tak' a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish in its prime —
I wat they pledged their faith, m_u ;
Awa' they gaed, wi' mock parade.
Like beagles huntin' game, man ;
But sune grew weary o' the trade.
An' wish'd they'd been at hame, mau.
For freedom standing by the Tree,
er sons did loudly ca', man ;
103
B)e sang a sang o' Liberty,
\Miich pleas'd them ane an' a*, man.
By her inspir'd, the new-bom raca
Sune drew the avencfin' steel, man.
The hirelings ran — her foes gi'ed chaie,
An' barg'd the despots weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar, an' her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
An' o'er her neibours shine, man ;
But seek the forest round an' romid,
An' soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree cannot be found
'Tween Lon'on an' the Tweed, man.
Without this Tree, alake ! t'uis life
Is but a vale o' woe, man,
A scene o' sorrows, mix'd wi' strife ; —
Nae real joys we know, man :
We labour sune, we labour late.
To feed the titled knave, man,
An a' the comfort we're to get.
Is — that ayont the giave, man .'
Wi' plenty o' sic Trees, I trow,
The warld wad live in peace, man ;
The sword wad help tomak' a plough.
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each ither smile, man,
An* equal riglits an' equal laws.
Wad gladden every isle, man.
Wae worth the loon wha wadnaeat
Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man—
I'd gi'e the shoon frae aff my feet
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
104
Bj-ne let us pray, aiild England may \
Sane plant this far-fame 1 Tree, man;
An' blytlie we'll sing, and hail the day
That gave us Liberty, man.
KITTY O'CARROL.
O TALK not of tattles and wars,
"Where nations and monarc-hs will quarrel ;
Of Venus, and Cupid, and ilars,
I'm for Kitty O'Carrol .'
Kitty's the joy of my soul,
SImj has made my poor heart to surrender ;
That heart,' once as sound as a coal,
Is now almost burnt to a cinder.
Och ! my darlin', every eye in your head is mild and lovely, and every
thing lociVin' o-.it of them tliafs grn-d and natural in ths world. Ah', my
je\rel, but every morsel of your purty body, hands and feet, body and
ihoulders, month and nose, all illiyance itself intirely. Oh ! you crea-
ture of all creatures aneath the stars and the moon, not forgettin' the
great sun himself! I'nj sure the very daisy that you tread upon wii]
lift its head and look after ye, cryin", my dew-drop, 'when shall I l:nv8
another kiss of yourpurty toes.
O when I get up in the morn,
Her image is standin' 'fore me,
Sliuder, but I am forlorn —
Kitty I live to adore ye !
Jlorning, or evening, or noon,
Eatin', ordrinkin", or sloepin',
Mine you will surely be soon.
Or else I will kill me wid weepin .
Love lias been compared to a giddiness ; faith ! I think it is rather like
law, or a rit-trap ; when once you get into it, there's no getting out
•gio ; or the great bog of Allen the f;irther in the deeper. Surely the
105
iiiust relent some time ; there is nothing in this world like perseverance,
Bs the Cat said >frhen she scratched her -way into the milk-house. Och,
v.liat is really to become of me — it is better to die at once than be kilt
intirely, from mornin' till nisht; och, sure and my body is lavin' my
brines altogether. ^ly clothes are beginnin' to wonder what has beconia
of me— and they'll be after seekin' some other carcase to cover them-
selves wid — ar'n't they rnarin' murder at every corner of my bones?
I'm good for nothing now but slanin' amongst the praties whan they're
comin" forward to be iLseful to the mouth, and cryin' to tlieni black-
nosed thieves, be after takin' your body away gin the feathers will carry
you. Master Horny-beak, and lave the blessings to the people that have
some naturality in them, for it will be better for me to be stuck up
among the swate pratie blossoms, and purtcctin' the fruit, than runnin'
about like a walkin' bone-fire among the bogs.
Oh Kitty I live but for j'oii.
For you, love, I daily am dyin'.
My lieart you have bored throwgli an' through.
And kilt me with groaning and cryin'.
Consent now, and say you'll be mine,
For I know you are full of good nature.
To me you are all but divine,
You murtherin', coaxing young crature !
'TWAS MORN.
Air — '• Wtihin a mile of Edinburo'n Town."
'TwAs morn— and the lambs on the green hillocks played.
The laverock sang sweetly on high,
The dew-draps bespangled ilk green spiky blade.
And the woods mng wi* music and joy ;
When young Pati ■ down the vale
Met fair Kitty wi' her i)ail,
lie clasp'd her hand and blythely speered,
" Dear lassie, where to now ?"
1C6
•' A wee bit doNvn the glen," quo' she»
" To milk our bruckit cow."
" O Kitty ! I've lo'ed you this towmond an' rauir,
A nd wha lo'es na you canna see.
There's nane on our plains half sae lovely and fair,
No ; — nane half sae lovely to me :
Will you come, dear lass, at e'en.
Up the burnie's bank sae green ?
And there beneath the beechen shade.
You'll meet a lover true."
" Na, na," she cried, " I canna come
At e'en to meet wi' you.
" My mither will flyte and my father will ban.
Gin here meikle langer I stay,
Come cease wi' your wheezin', and let gae my ban'.
It's daft like at this time o' day."
* ' Dearest lassie, ere ye gang,
Tell me shall we meet ere lang ?
Come say't an' seal't wi' ae sweet smack
O' that enticing mou' ;"
" Haud aff," she cried, " nor think that I
AN'as made for sport to you."
" Then fareweel, proud lassie, for since ye're sae siij-,
Nae langer I'll press you to bide ;
E'en show aff your au-s, toss your head and look high,
Yoiu- beauty demands a' your pride ;
I may find some ither where,
Ane mair kind, although less fair."
He turned to gang— she laughing cried,
" Stop, lad, I've ta'en the rue.
Come back and set the tryst wi' me.
And I will meet wi'you."
Alex. Rodger.
107
BEACON SONG.
There's fire on the mountains, brave knights of the north,
Mount, mount your fleet steeds and away ;
There's fire on the mountains, mount knights of the north,
For our beacons blaze bright as the day.
Haste away, haste away.
Let your war-flags wave wild on the blast of the night.
To the notes of the bold bugle horn ;
Though your steeds may get warm in your fiery advance,
They'll gi'ow cool in the dews of the morn.
Haste away, haste away.
Hot foot comes the foe from his home in the south,
To ravage our dear native land ;
Haste away, haste away, brave knights of the north.
And meet him with buckler and brand.
Haste away, haste away.
From litter, from loch-side, from corry and glen,
The mountain-men come to your aid.
With broadsword and axe newlj' ground for the fray,
And all in their tartans arrayed.
Haste away, haste av.-ay.
Haste away, haste away, brave knights of the nortli.
There's glory, there's fame to be won ;
Berwick law, Berwick law, is your mustering ground,
Oh ! shame if the conflict's begun.
Haste away, haste away.
The foe you now meet, you have oft met before,
And oft driven him back with dismay ;
Tliough his spear-heads, in thousands, gleam bright to om
fires.
Clap spurs to your steeds and away.
Away, haste away.
J. 1>. CAnntc.K.
108
FIRST LOVE.*
Thou tliink'st that nought hath had the power
This heart to softness move;
Thuu'it wrong— no knigiit more faithfully
Eit; wore his Indy's glove,
Than I within my breast have borne
A lirst, an only love,
Iler form — I cannot paint her form —
In life I was but young,
Even when I last knelt at her feet.
And on her accents hung.
I would not swear her beautiful,—
Yet such Hhe must have been, —
And in my dreams of paradise
She mingles in each scene.
Tliis present time, in crowded halls.
Surrounded by the gay,
I follow, in forgetfulness.
Her im.ige far away ;
And if 1 list a touching voice
Or sweet face gaze upon,
'Tisbut to fill my memory
With that beloved one.
For days— for months— devotedly
I've lingered by her side.
The only place I coveted
Of all the world so wide ;
And in the exile of an hour,
1 consolation found,
• We have,wit)i the niithor's kind perm issiotl, taken this exquisite
ballad from " Fitful Fancies," liy William Kennedy, from -whicli 'wo
have already extracted so liberally. It is, perhaps, tlie mo-.it finished
piece published in modern times — whetiicr as respects the intensity ot
feeling, or the clissical elegauce of eipresiiou.
I
109
Where her most frequent waTiderings
Had marked it holy gi-ound.
It was not that in her I saw
A Section's sovereign maid.
In beauty and j'oiing innocence
Bewitchingly arrayed ;
'Twas more — far more ; — I felt, as if
Existence went and came,
Even when the meanest hind who served
Her father, breathed her name.
I longed to say a thousand things,
I longed, yet dared not speak.
Half-hoped, half-feared, that she might read
iSIy thoughts upon my check.
Then, if unconsciously slie smiled,
My sight turned faint and thick,
Until, with very happinesF,
My reeling heart grew sick.
O days of youth ! O days of youth I
To have these scenes return.
The pride of all my riper years
How gladly would I spurn !
That form— the soul of my boy-life—
Departed, and none came.
In iifter-time, with half tlie charm
WJii^h cleaves unto her name.
Nor vanished she, as one who shares
The stain of human birth.
But, like an angel's shade, that falls
In light, upon the earth ;
That falls in light, and blesses all
Who in its radiance lie,
But leaves them to the deeper gloom
Whene'er it passes by.
110
RnVMIN'G RAB THE RANTER.*
When Scotia's pipe had tint her tune,
Lang reestin' in the reek, man.
And pipers were sae faithless grown,
They scarce could gar her squeak, man ;
A doughty chielcam' doA\Ti the hill,
Ca'd Rhymin' Rab the Ranter—
But pipers a' their chafts might claw,
AVhen he blew up the chanter.
He blew sae sweet, he blew sae shrill,
He blew sae loud and lang, man.
♦ This Bong was produced on the Anniversary of the Ivilbarohan
Burns' Club.
It may not be kno-vm, generally, that Kilbarchan was the birth-place
of Habbie Simson, rival to Rab the Ranter. There is a tradition that
Habbie, who could not bear a rival, was fairly beat by Rab in a trial of
their musical powers, and that, determining to be avenged, he put his
hand to his sword, and aimed a most drealful blow at his successful
rival, turning away his head at the same time to avoid seeing the dead,
ly gash that his weapon had inflicted. Taking the direction of Blaclcstone
Moss, he bogged himself for tliree days in one of the hags. The sto-
mach, ever selfish, and not caring about the sympathies of the neck,
put in her irresittible alternative, " Better be hanged than starved;"
so the combative piper returned to a friend's house, who was anxious
about him, and could not account for his absence. Habbie, relating the
detail of the murder, claimed his protection against the fangs of justice.
" Gae wa', ye daft gouk ! my certie, Rab's baith meat and claith hke ;
I saw him this verra day, and there didna appear to me the .scart o' a
Oreen :i bout his face." Habbie, though relieved from fear, would not
have cared though his rival's drone had been for ever silenced. On
examining the scabbard of his sword, he found the blade sleeping
quietly and bloodless ; the hilt having come away in the haste and fury
of the enraged piper.
A statue of Habbie graces a niche in the Kilbarchan church steeple,
blowing with as rouchexpressiou .as rudely chiselled freestone can givej
at. l^-ast t-»-n b?^fuls of spare wind in hii iutlated oheekg.
Ill
Haith hill and dale can tell the tale.
They ne'er gat sic a sang, man ;
Fame heard the soun' a' Scotland rouu'.
My sooth he didna saunter,
Like fire and flame flew fast the name,
O Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
From John o'Groats to cross the Tweed,
And round the Englisli border,
Was heard the rant o* Rabble's reed,
Sae weel 'twas kept in order.
To shepherd knowes where shamrock grows,
Wi' sic a stound he sent her,
Auld Erin's drone her hood put on.
To shnn the Scottish chanter.
Our lasses linket to the lilt.
The lads they lap and caper 'd,
The carlins coost their crummies tilt,
Sae vauntingly they vapour "d,
Auld gutchersgray streek't up their clay,
To club the merry canter ;
Whilst wood and glen prolong'd the strain,
O' Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
But Scotia weel may wail her skaith,
And break her drones an a' man.
For death has marr'd her piper's breath,
Nae langer can he blaw, man.
She e'en may sit her down and sigh.
And wi' a greet content her,
Slie'll ne'er again on hiil or plain.
Meet Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
Here's health to Scotland and her lair,
Her heighs and hows &ae scraggie ;
Her doughty sons and dochters a'.
Her haggis and her coggio.
112
And •when the wee drap's in her e'c,
To 'fend her fraemishanter,
Her toast triumphant still shall be,
Here's Ivhymin' llab the L'anter.
G. IMacixdoe.
FRIEXDS AROUND THE TABLE SET.
Air,— Scots tchahae tci' Wallace bled.
Friends around the table set,
niyth am I to sec you met.
See that your ills ye a' forpet,
And sing your sang \vi' glee.
Nae doubt but j-e have a' some grief.
For ae night wont ye tak' relief,
For ae short night your <«iils unreef.
And take the tide so free.
"Wh a would sit in sullen gloom,
For sic a anc wc hae nac room,
Wi' gude peat-reek your brain perfume.
And let us merry be.
Wha never grumbles, stan' or fa'
However fortune rows the ba',
But aye weol pleased his cork can draw,
Tliat's the man for me.
Then tak' your tumbler while its warm,
A wee drap drink can do nae hann,
It cheers the heart, and nerves the arm—
At least it's so wi* me.
Man's life is but a wee bit span,
And is it no the wisest plan.
To be as happy as we can.
And aye contented be 7
113
THE TINKLE H'S SONG.
Air, — •' Allan-a-Dale."
O WHO are so heai*ty, so happy and free.
Or who for the proud care so little as we ?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command.
Like free passage-birds we traverse sea and land ;
And still to the comfort of all we attend,
By singing out ' ' caldrons or kettles to mend."
Each climate — each soil, is to us still the same.
No fix'd local spot for our country we claim ;
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for — the world it is ours ;
Superiors we know not — on none we depend.
While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend.
The law says we're vagrants — the law tells a lie, *
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
Then tho', through the earth, for employment we roam
How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home ?
Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend.
While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend.
No rent, tithes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay.
We take up our lodgings wherever we may.
If people are kind, we show kindness to them.
If people are churlish, why we are the same ;
But those who are friendly fare best in the end.
While their pots, bellows, caldrons or kettles we mend.
Not even the parson, the squire, nor my lord,
A daintier supper than we can afford.
For nature profusely each blessing doth grant.
Then why should her children be ever in want ?—
Let them share with each other whate'er she may send.
Like us — while we've caldrons or kettles to mend.
Then fill to the stranger a cup of the best.
And when he is wearied conduct him to rest,
H
114
For the poor lonely wiinderer, homeless anO bare.
Should ever the wanderers' sjinpathy share ;
Now we've one consolation — whate'er be our end,
While the world remains wicked — ne daily do mend.
Alex. Rodger.
COW KATE,
AS AXNAXDALE STORY.
Seckiiu; a Tune.
There's a green velvet hollow, amang MofiFat hills,
Ca'd the Deevil's Beef Pot, where in three little rills
The Tweed, Clyde, an' Annan, sweet babbling arise
Amang bald mountain-tops, that brave cauld gowlin skie8 ;
There nature — wild nature — reigns glorious an' great,
An' there by the Annan dwells bonnie Cow Kate.
Cow Kate was brought up by a rich Border Laird,
Wha'd moriy braid acres o' -Annan's best sward,
Nae worliin', nor daffin', her mettle could tire,
For the lassie wrought hard in the fields an* the byre.
An' simmer an' winter, an' early an' late.
Aye ujj to the oxters was bonnie Cow Kate.
She grew like a tree, and she bloom'd like a flower,
Wi* her growth there cam' grace, wi' her beauty cam' power.
An' she tripped up the hill, an' she strade down the glen,
Envied by the lasses, adored by the men ;
Vet tlie farmers were shy, an' the herdsmen were blate.
An' nane cam a-wooing to bonnie Cow Kate.
There's changes in a' thing, e'en fortime will change.
An' faces look fond, that were wont to look strange.
An' hunders o* wooers baith stalwart an' braw.
Cam round her when death took the auld laird awa'.
An' the clatter gacd round he had left his estate
To his ae strappin daughter, our bonnie Cow Kate.
K&to kilted her high, an' she stood in the byre.
Bent her wooers to Annan to drown out their fire.
115
Ca'd her sheep to the tryst, an' her kye to the fair,
Ne'er ae better drover or herdsman was there,
An' mony a jockie was fam to retreat,
Wi' his wit for his winning frae bonnie Cow Kate.
The shyest are catch'd, when they're catch 'd wi' a start,
The head may be cool, but waes me for the heart,
Even Katie fand out, 'mid a mirk wreath o' snaw
That a herdsman had stoun a' her heart's peace awa',
Wrapt warm in his bosom, he barehame elate.
An' had for his valour our bonnie Cow Kate.
James Ballantine, Edinburgh.
HURRAH FOR THE THISTLE.
Music by Mr. Turnbiill, Glasgoiv.
Hurrah for the Thistle !— the brave Scottish Thistle,
The eve'-green Thistle of Scotland for me ;
A lig for the flowers, in your lady built bowers ;
The strong bearded— weel guarded, Thistle for me.
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might (
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the greater the tempest, the greener it grows.
Hurrah for the Thistle.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land,
On the bonneted brow — on the hilt of the brand-'
On the face of the shield, 'mid the shouts of the free.
May the Thistle be seen, whare the Thistle should ha
Hurrah for the Thistle.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause,
Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause,
How then can it fade, when sic cheils an' sic cheer.
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the Thistle are here.
Then hurrah for the Thistle !— the brave Scottish Thistle,
The evergreen Thistle of Scotland for me ;
116
A fig for the flowers, in your lady built bowers,
The strong bearded — weel guarded Tliistle for ine.
Alex. JIacLaggan, Edinburgh
WHA DAUR MEDDLE WI' ^lE ?
Hough, sturdy, beard j', fire-crown'd king,
Tliou jaggy, kittly, gleg wee thing,
Wlia dares to brave the piercing sting
O" Scotia's thistle.
Soon scamper aft", hap stap an" fling,
Wi' couring fustle.
'Midst scenes o' weir, in days o' yore.
When the grund s%vat wi' life's red gore.
And Scotia's land frae shore to shore,
Groan'd sail* wi' wacs.
Thy fomi dim seen, 'midst battle's roar.
Aft scared her faes.
When Wallace, sturdy patriot wight.
His trusty broad sword glancing bright,
Gar'd Southron reivers scour like fright
Frae Scotland's braes,
Thou snelly s!\ot thy horns o' might,
An' brogged their taea.
When Bruce at Bannockbm-n's red field
Made Edward's doughty army yield,
An' Southrons down in thousands reeled,
Stark, stiflFan' dour.
The %'era weans did thistles wield,
An' fought like stour.
Since then no foe hath dared to tread
Upon thy guarded, crimson head.
But proudly from thy mount' i in bed
Thy head thou rear'st.
By flowing springs of freedom fed,
No blast thou fear'rt.
117
Thy native land is free as air,
Her sons are boid, Tier daughters fair,
Bright soul'd, warm hearted, fond to sharo
The social smile,
Pure love, true friendship, glorious pair.
Adorn the soiL
Rear high. thy head, thou sjTnbol dear,
Sae meek in peace, sae bauld in weir,
IMine e'e dimm'd wi' a full proud tear,
I bow before thee.
An' while life's pulse beats warm, I swear
Still to adore thee.
James Ballantixe, Edinburgh.
THE BUIKIN O' ROBIN AND MIRRBN.
Tune, — " Brose and Butter."
Gae bring me my rokeley o' grey,
]My mutch and red ribbons sae dainty.
And haste ye lass fling on your claes,
Auld Rab's to be bulked to aunty.
Ac gloamin' last ouk he cam wast.
To speer for my auld lucky daddie,
Tho' sair wi' the hoast he was fash'd,
Ae blink o' auld aunt made him waddie.
Sae mak yoursel' braw, braw.
And busk yoursel' tidy and canty,
Guid luck may as yet be your fa'.
Sin' Rab's to be bulked to aunty.
The body cam hirplin ben,
Tho' warstlin wi' eild, he was canty.
And he o'erly just specr'd for the men.
But he cadgily cracket wi' aunty.
Or e'er he had sitten a blink.
He sang and he ranted f u' cheery.
118
And auld aunty's heart he gar'd clink,
Wi* " Jlirren, will ye be ray deary ?"
I'or I'm neither sae auld, auld.
Nor am I sae gruesome or ugrgin,
I've a score o' guid nowt i' the fauld,
And a lang neck'd purse o' a moggin.
At this ISIirren's heart gae a crack,
Like the thud o' a waukin mill beetle.
And she thocht, but she ne'er a word spak,
*' Weel, I'd e'en be contented wi' little."
For Mirrcn, tho' tliree score and ane,
Had never had *' will vc," speer'd at her.
So she laid a fond loof in his ban',
And quo' " Robin that settles the matter."
Sae busk ye lass braw, braw,
Busk and let's aff, for I'se warren,
We'se hae daffin and laughin an* a',
At the buikin o' Robin and IVFirren.
Patrick Bucha!*.
MY AIN COUNTRIE,
Tune,—" The Brier Bush."
How are ye a' at hame.
In my ain countrie ?
Are your kind hearts aye the same.
In my ain countrie ?
Are ye a' as fu' o' glee,
As witty, frank and free.
As kind's ye used to be ?
In my ain countrie.
Oh ! a coggie I will fill
To my ain countrie !
Ay and toom it wi' gude will
To my ain countrie i
Here's to a' the folk I ken,
•Mang the lasses and the men.
119
In ilk canty butt an' ben,
O' my ain countrie .'
Heaven watch tliou ever o'er
My ain countrie!
Let tyrmts never more
Rule in^' ain countrie !
Jlay her heroes dear to thee—
The bauld liearts and the free—
Be ready aye to dee,
For tlieu- ain countrie !
May a blessin' licht on a*
In my ain countrie !
Baith the grit folk an' the sma
In our ain countrie !
On whatever sod I kneel —
Heaven knows I ever feel —
For the honoiu- and the weal
O' my ain countrie !
Alkx.. MacLaggan, Edinbnrfjh,
THE HIGHLAND MAID.
Tune,— "42d March."
Again the lavVock seeks the skj',
And warbles dimly seen,
And summer views wi' sunny joy,
Jlsr gow'ny robe o' green.
But ah ! the summer's biyth return
In fioweiy pride array'd,
N.'ie mair c in cheer the heart forloin,
Or charm tne Higliland maid.
My true love fell by Charlie's side,
AVi' m(.ny a clansman dear,
A 2;allant youth, aii ! wae bctido.
The cruel Southron's spear.
120
His bonnet blue is fallen now.
And bloody is the plaid,
Tliat aften on the mountain's brow
Has wrapp'd his Highland maid.
Jly father's shieling on the hill,
Is cheerless now and sad ;
The passing breezes whisper still,
" You've lost your Highland lad."
Upon Culloden's fatal heath
He spak o' me they said.
And faulter'd m' his dying breath,
" Adieu! my Highland maid."
The wearj' night for rest I seek.
The langsome day I mourn.
The smile upon my wither'd cheek
Ah ! never can return.
But soon beneath the sod I'll lie,
In yonder lowly glade,
Where haply ilka passer by
Shall mourn the Highland maid.
SIR BENJAMIN BUFFSTRAP.*
Air,—" Black Jock."
Have you heard of Sir Benjamin Buffstrap, the Brond,
That knight of the razor so outre and odd—
The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar ?
*f This clever, little, facetious, bustling personage, is a particular
friend of the author ; is considered a great accession to every social
party — and is as ready at repartee as the celebrated Jemmy Wright.
He still resides at Barro-n-field bar, Bridgeton— is barber, toll-man,
•pirit- dealer, farmer of ladle-dues, draff and sand contractor, punster,
and poet. The term barbarous, has only an alliterative application ;
the -K-orthy polisher of chins is as smooth and agreeable in his msinner!
•u the edge of his own bludes.
121
Sure a sharper short shaver has seldom heen seen,
With his buflfstrap so black and his blades all so keen.
And his suds in his soap-box as white as the snow —
How closely the crop of the chin he can mow !
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.
Though a barbarous barber Sir Benjamin be.
Yet, like his neighbour shaver, no Savagef is he.
The barbarous barber at Burrowlield bar :
For all his barbarities tend but to smooth
The wrinkles of age do%\'n to dimples of youth.
While the blood of his victims he studiously spares,
And only cuts oflf" stiff rebellious hairs —
The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar.
This barbarous barber's a wonderful wight,
For his breadth is exactly the length of his height ! —
The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar ;
And his broad bluffy face is so pregnant with glee.
And his wild wit comes flashing so fearless and free,
That to see and to hear him, I'm certain would make
A whole congregation of Quakers' sides ache —
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.
Tis said, too, that he can disguise so the truth.
As to give to old age the resemblance of youth—
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar ;
Can make the dark countenance lively and fair.
And give the bald pate an exub'ranee of hair ;
Nay, more— by the help of his combs and his curls.
Can transform mouldy maids into gay giddy girls —
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.
Long may this sharp shaver successfully shave
The chin of the just man — the cheek of the knave—
• Savage is the name of a neighbour strap
122
But while light sweeps his hand o'er the honest man's chin,
Ne'er causing wry faces, nor scratching the skin,
Jlay the cheek of the villain severely be stung
By the rough rugged razor, or keen cutting tongue,
Of the barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.
Alex. Rodger.
THE BLACK SHEEP.*
Am,— " John Anderson my jo."
Oh John, what can be keeping you — how lang man, will ye ]-\
bide,
Ye surely hae mista'en your ro.ad, and dauner't into Clj-de ;
Here weary by the ingle side, a lanely wife I sit —
I'm sure that's Twa that's chappit noo, and nae word o' yj
yet.
Of our John's reformation I lang hae tint a' houp, *
He never thinks o' rising while a drap there's in the stoup :
Wi' gaunting and wi' gaping, my puir he:id's like to split—
I hear his voice upon the stair — and surely that's his tit.
(John snlUoquising on the stair.) " That's no our stair— no the ane
that I piiig "P to my nest on — I tliink it's coming down to meet me —
and it's gaun round about too — there's no twa stanes in't like Sne
anither — some o' them wad hand twa feet, and ithers a sparrow coiildna
get fittin* on. AN'eel, gin I were at the head o't, and on the inside o' my
ain door, I'll raise a skellihewit wi' .lanct, it will I — because, gin 1
dinna do't wi' her, she'll do't wi' me — an" a man should be :iye mnst.r
in his ain house, right or wrang ; it's a' the same wliether the parritch is
ready or no — on the fire or aft — cauld or het, I maun be het ; — if she's pou-
* This piece of eiquisite humour is a contribution of the late John
Carrick, to the second series of the Laird of Lo^n, and we have
thought that it is not out of its element in this collection.
! 123
I term' at the fire, and keeping it in for me, I'll tell her she had nae busl-
I ness staying up— she ncight hae been aneath the blankets, for she would
i liouter a while, afore the fire could len" ony light for me to come hame
wi' ; — and if she be in her bed, I'll make her lugs stoun' wi' her care-
lessness about her half marrow— that he might hae been robbed or mur
dered for ony care she had o'liim, but lying tliere snoring li'xe a dog in?
tod's ^ole But there she is— I hear her,— can I really be angry wi"
her?— Yes; I maun be angry at something."— /"CAa/)*.; (Eniitiires)~
"■VVha's that?" "Open the door, and ye'U see— it's ill to ken folk
through a twa-inch plank." " I would 'like to ken wha it is, before I
open my door to ony body." "AVeel, Janet, you're perfectly right —
there's naethinglike being cautious." " Is'tyou, John, after a' ? siccan
A night as I li.ae spent, tliinking a' the ills on earth had happened to
you; whar liae ye been, John ■•" " Oli, .Janet, dinna be in sic a
hurry." "In a hurry, John, near three o'clock in the morning!"
" Janet, it's the first time since you and I cam thegither, that I hae
seen you wasting ony tiling '." " Me wasting, John !— the only thing
I'm wasting is mysel." " Xa, Janet, tliat's no wliat I mean ; what's
the use o' burning twa crusies to let ae body see— an' ye might hae lighted
half a dizen an' they a' couldna let me see to come hame?" John, John,
you're seeing wi' mae eenthan your ."Maker gied ye this night — your een
are just gaim tliegither." " I'm no a hair fley'dforthat.mydoo, Janet,
ss lang's my nose is atween them." " Ou ay, John, but ye haVna tell't
me whar ye liae been till this time in the morning '" " Did ye ever
hear sic a high wind as is blawin' frae the lift this night ? the cluds will
be blawn a' to rags — tliere '11 no be a hale comer left in them to hand a
shower in, afore the mornin' — no a g.is-lanip blinkin' in the Trongate;
gin ye get uj" wi' the ducks in tlie mornin', Janet, you'll see tlie (jreen
scattered ower wi' the kye's Iiorns, for they couldna keep their roots in
siccan a win'— an' ye'U get them for tlie gatliering." " Ay, Jolin, it's
a high wind, but for any thing that I hear, it's blawin' nae higher than
your ain head ; whar was ye ?" " Dear me, did I notell ye, Janet ? I'll
liae forgotten then ; I might hae tell't ye — I'm sure I was nae ill gate
(hat's a lang an' no vera tenty stair o' ours to come uji ; I maist missed
my fit this night coming up it mair than ance— we'll hae to flit next
term I doubt ; ye maun pang and look after anither ane the mom, an
124
I'll gang vri' ye — twa heaJs are better than ane, i^uo' the wife, gaun wi'
her dog to the market." " Come, come, John, nane o' your palavers,
ye needna think to draw the blade ower an auld body's e'e ; the stair,
John, atweel's nane o' the best, but the stair that would suit you best
this night, is ane wi' nae steps in't ; — but wli^vr was ye ? and wha was ye
•wi' ?" " Janet, ye hae little pity forme ; if 1 should crack ane o' my pins
(limbs) ye maybe think because I'm a sharer o' corks, that I can easily
mak' a new ane but, Janet, fu* o' curiosity too ! woman, it's a dan-
gerous thing to be ower inquisitive— ye mind what the mither o' us a'
got by't ; besides, ' Gied,' as honest Rabbic Bums says, ' the infant world
a shug, maist ruined a" — oh, but it is a pithy word that slttig! there's no
a part o" speech in the English tongue like it." " 'Whaurwas ye, John,
n-kaurf I doubt "ye hae been in ill company, this night — ye never put
me aJF this way before ; will ye no tell me, Jolin ?" " Weel, weel,
Janet, dinna be sae toutit about it— I was awa' at a burial." "At a
burial, Jphn !— what burial could there be at this hour ? It could be
nae decent body, I'm sure, that had to be huddled awa' at sic an un-
timeous time o' nicht." " 'Deed, Janet, you're richt there ; she was a,
very troublesome kind o' body, and raised mnckle discord amang fami-
lies; we were a' saying, she's weel awa' if she bide." "But wha is she ?"
" Just our auld frien' Annie, and she never cam about the house but
ill meather -was sure to follow; now, I think ye may guess." "Ay,
puir body ! —has she win' awa' at length, pnir creature. Annie ! Annie ! —
oh aye, but whan I mind — there's mae Annie's than ane — was it
Annie Spittle ?" " Oh no, it wasna her, poor body!" " Was it Annie
Dinwiddie'" " Xo ; that woman's din is enough to drive ony man to
the vniddie." "'Weel, John, I ken nae mae o' the name; but I see
you're just trjing, as usual, to niak' game o' me. Waes me ! it's a hard
thing to be keepit sae lang out o' my bed to be made a fou man's fool."
Says John, " no ane that ye Ixae nam'd 's the lassie that I
mean —
Ae Annie yet, my dearest doo, ye hae forgotten clean ;
We buried Ani-mosity— and trouth I thought it fit,
That whan we had her in the yird, a skixifu' I should get."
I
^!)=(]]gT[Li°©aiMKOii
THE ORIGTN'AL OF '■ JOHNME M'GILL."
THIRD SERIES.
©iJi'^a© K^lEKirSOK), (SLA8<B®Wfl
WHISTLE-BINKIE.
THIRD SERIES.
OUR FAIR YOUNG QUEEN.
Air—" Caledonia."
O I Scotland's hills are bonny hills,
A' clad wi' heather bells,
And music warbles in the rills
Which sport adown the dells ;
And there be glens in fair Scotland
Where foe hath never been,
And wild and free we'll keep them yet
For om- young Queen !
O ! wad she cross the Tweed some day.
Our Scottish glens to view,
Our fairy lakes and streamlets grey.
Lone isles and mmin tains blue.
And see auld Scotland's goodly bands,
Wi' belt and buckle sheen.
In proud array come forth to greet
Their fair young Queen !
For Scotland has her yeomen leal.
And sturdy loons they be,
That whirl, like willow wands, their Bteel,
When raarshall'd on the lea.
Au I should a foe invude oiir soil.
No braver band, I ween,
Would fight beneath the banners broad
Of our young Queen J
And Scotland has her clansmen brave,
^Vlio bear the targe and brand ;
Who'd spend their dearest blood to save
Their own romantic laud.
And they would leave their hills of mist.
And glens of lovely green,
To form a living bulwark round
I'heir fau- young Queen !
And Scotland has her lovely ones,
A beauteous train are they ;
But much she mourns her tuneful sons.
Her bards and minstrels gray.
For they who wak'd her sweetest lyres,
Sleep 'neath the turf so green.
We've few to sing the welcome now
Of our young Queen !
We've heard of merry England's scenes.
And trusty souls are there ;
And Erin boasts her green domains,
Rich woods, and prospects fair.
But Scotland boasts her stormy hills,
"WTiere freemen aye have been,
O come and let us doat on thee.
Our fair young Queen !
/■
'C^U^t-^^^^--;^^^
OUR BRAW UXCLEL
Set to Music by Peter M'Leod, Esq.
My auld uncle Willie cam doun here frae Lunnon,
An' wow but he was a braw man ;
An' a' my puir cousins around him cam rinnin',
Frae mony a lang mile awa, man.
My uncle was rich, my uncle was proud—,
lie spak o' his gear, and he bragg'd o' his gowd ;
An' whate'er he hinted, the puir bodies vow'd
They wad mak it their love an' their law, man.
He staid wi' them a' for a week time about,
Feastin', an' fuddlin', an' a', man,
Till their pantries and patience he baith riddled out,
An' they thocht he was ne'er gaun awa', man.
And neither he was ; he had naething to do.
He had made a' their fortunes and settled them too ;
Though they ne'er saw a boddle they'd naething to say.
For they thocht they wad soon haeit a', man.
But when our braw uncle h.ad stay'd here a year,
I trow but he wasna a sma' man.
Their tables cam down to their auld hamilt cheer.
An' he gat himsel' book'd to gae 'wa', man.
Yet e'er the coach started, the hale o' his kin
Cam to the coach -door, maistly chokin' him in.
And they prest on him presents o' a' they could fin*.
An' he vow'd he had done for them a*, man.
And sae did he too ; for he never cam' back,
My sang ! but he wasna a raw man.
To feast for a year without paying a plack.
An' gang wi' sic presents awa', man.
6
An' aflen he bragg'd how he cheated the greed
O' his grey grnppy kinsmen be-north o' the Tweed.
The best o't, when auld uncle Willie was dead,
He left theva— Just naething ava, man.
WILLIE WINKIE. *
A I^urscry Rkpme.
Wee Willis Wivkie rins through the toon,
Up stairs an' doon stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock,
♦' Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock ?"
•' Hey Willie Winkie, are j'e eomin' ben ?
Tlie cat's singin' grey thrums to the sleepin' hen,
Tlie dog's spoldert on the floor and disna gie a cheep,
But here's a waukrife laddie, that tcunnafd" asleep."
Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow'ring like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin', tumblin' roon about, crawin'like a cock,
Skirlin like a kenna-what, waukenin' sleepin* fock.
'* Hey Willie Winkie, the wean's in a creel,
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vcrra eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug and raveling a' her thrums—'
Hey Willie Winkie — see there he comes."
• The Scottish Xursery Morpheus,
y
Wearit is the mither that has a Btoorie wean,
A wee, stumpie, stousie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e —
Buta kiss frae aff his rosy lips, gies strength anew to n?.e.
a^yir^
THE E'ENING DRAPPIE.
Air—" Wlien the kye come home."
While drinkers revel in excess, let tenty folk abstain,
The spendthrift meet the knave's caress, the miser hoard
his gain,
AVe scorn excess in ilka form, and keep theline between,
Aye steerin' clear o' calm and storm, when o'er a glass at e'en.
Wi' it the auld heart canty grows, the waefu' cease to
mourn.
Within ilk breast a feeling lows, that heats but disnabnrn.
The niggard's hand it opens wide, and makes thu simple
keen, ♦
A magic change that winna hide, springs frae a glass at
e'en.
When nith'rin cares begin to bite, and life's gay sprirg
runs dull.
Afore sic showers o* life and light, they tide it fresh ar.d
full.
Ilk clud frae aff the mind it blaws, and leaves the soul se-
rene.
An' ilka frosty feeling thaws, outowre a glass at e'en.
The tale that's told o' ithers* wo oomes wi' a sharper thrill,
And melts and moulds wi' kindly glow, ilk passion to its
will,
Our very feelings, tliaw'd wi' it, to virtue's side will lean,
It waukeus pity, shiirpens wit, a canny glass at e'en.
The stane that plumbs the sleeping pool, an eddy frae it
springs.
Till owTe the surface nought is found but wavy winiiilin
rings,
And so the stagnant, selfish heart, where feeling ne'er was
seen,
Wi' kindness circles and expands, when owre a glass at e'en.
\Mien round the fire we tak our sup, ilk feelin' brighter
beams,
The ills o' life a' bundled up, leave nought but pleasant
dreams,
Ilk object bears a warmer tint, af^re that wasna seen,
Ane likes the warld and a' that's in't, wlien o'er a glass at
e'en. ^
THE ROYAL UXTOX.
There's joy in the Lowlands and Highl mds
There's joy in the hut and the hi' ;
The pride o' auld Britain's fair ialanos.
Is woo'd and wedded an' a':
She's got the dear lad o' her choosing —
A lad that's baith gallant and braw ;
And lang may the knot be a-loosing
That firmly has bucklec? the twa.
Woo'd an' wedded an' a'.
Buckled an' bedded an' a",
The loveliest lassie in Britain
Is woo'd an' wedded an' a'.
]\Iay heaven's all-bountiful Giver
Shower down his best gifts on the twa ;
May love round their couch ever hover.
Their hearts close and closer to draw.
May never misfortune o'ertake them,
Nor blast o' adversity blaw ;
But every new morning awake them
To pleasures unsullied as snaw.
Woo'd an' wedded an' a', &c.
Then here's to our Queen an' her Marrow,
May happiness ay be their fa', ,
May discord and sickness and sorrow
Be banished for ever their ha".
So, fy let us coup aff our bicker,
And toast meikle joy to the twa,
And may they, till life's latest flicker.
Together in harmony draw.
Woo'd and wedded an' a', &c.
J^
/ly
u- ^^ aoo
A:
Tirr: AULD GUDEWIFE AN' HER FOUR GUDE
KYE.
Am. — " Cutty-xpoon an' tree-ladle."
The auld gudewife gade out at e'en,
An' owre the craft her leefu' lane,
An' sought her kye and cried them hame.
An ca'd them ilka ane by name.
10
Come hame, ye jauds ! the byre is clean.
Your lair is made o' the breckans green,
An' the yellow clover fills your sta ;
Come hame, j'e jauds ! — come here awa*.
Come hame, &:c.
"VNTiat hands the house i' saip an' saut,
What buys the houps to brew the maut,
An' mony a needfu' thing forbye ?
Atweel its just my four gude kye.
Better kye there's nae i* the braes,
Brownie for butter, Brandie for cheese,
Hawkie for milk, Ilornie for whey ;
I wat f u' weel I'm proud o' my kye.
Better kye, &e.
^iud<:u^
OH! AND XO.
'* 3Iary, Mary, long have I
Heaved for thee the weary sigh."
"Oh !" said she,
* Canst thou not some kindness shew
Him that doteth on thee so ?"
" No!" said she.
' Hast thou not, upon my breast,
Love as warm as mine confessed ?"
" Oh!" said she.
' I charge thee, then, if thou art true,
Do as love would have thee do. "
"No!" said she.
' By that cheek, whose living red
Shames the tint o'er rose-leaves shed!
*' Oh !"said she,
11
" Let that cheek, I charge thee, know-
Love's deeper, richer, warmer, glow ! "
" No !" said she.
*' By thine eye, whoso dazzling blue
Dulls the light of heaven's own hue !'
" Oh '." said she,
" Let, I charge thee, love inspire
That holy eye with subtler fire !••
" No!" said she.
"Still one plea remains at least.
Might not we go seek the priest ?"
♦' Oh!" said she,
*' If I asked you there to fly.
Could 3'ou still my suit deny ? —
" No :" said she.
DRINKING SONG.
Air. — " Fake away."
See, see that each glass, and each jug he full,
Each j ug be full !
■\Ve must have a strong, and a powerful pull.
Drink away !
And I'll tell you to-night, if you all agree,
A bit of my mind in a melodie.
Then drink away, boys, drink away !
Steadily, readily, drink away!
I know there are fools in this v/orld who sneer,
In this world who sneer.
At our merry songs, and our hearty cheer,
Drink away .
12
But wine is good is wise Solomon's say,
To fill up the cracks in our thirsty clay,
Then drink away, boys, drink away !
Cheerily, merrily, drink away !
See, see that ye fill, boys ! for time and tide,
For time and tide.
The old sages say, will on no man bide,
Drink away !
But what care we how the tides may go.
When the rivers of.wine beside us flow ?
Then drink away, boys, drink away !
Steadily, readily, drink away ! ^
1 wish that the wise in their solemn schools.
In their solemn schools,
Would mix with their mournful, some merry rules.
Drink away •
And if ^v^sdom, old lady, wont dry her tears.
We must pack her off with our roaring cheers:
Tiien drink away, boys, drink away !
Cheerily, merrily, drink away !
See, see that you fill, boys ! come now a toast !
Come now a toast !
Here's a health to the lass each lad loves most !
Drink away !
And thick be the thorns on his life's highway,
VVho would a sweet lass, or a friend betray '■
Then drink away, boys, drink away!
Steadil}', readily, drink away :
13
DRINKIN' BODY.
Air. — ' 'Daintij Davie "
O ' MONY ills we ken thee bie,
Drinkin' body, blinkin' body ;
And fearfu' ills I wat they bo,
Auld drinkin', blinkin' body.
O ! mony ills we ken thee bie.
Thy tremblin' han', and sunken e'e.
The sad effects o' barley-bree,
Poor drinkin', blinkin' body.
Thou's scarce a dud upon thy back.
Reckless bodj', feckless body !
Whilk ance was clad right bein, alaok!
Auld reckless, feckless body !
Thou's scarce a dud upon thy back,
Just like a house without its thack !
And yet thou'lt fuddle ilka plack.
Poor reckless, feckless body.
Thou boasted ance thy lands to plough,
Tauntin' body, vauntin' body;
Thy sax guid yads as ever drew,
Auld tauntin', vauntin* body ;
Thou boasted ance thy lands to plough ;
A butt, a ben, and aumry fu'.
But whar the mischief are they now ?
Poor tauntin', vauntin' body.
Now, thou's neither milk nor meal,
Senseless body, mensless body.
Buttered cake, nor kebbuc-heel,
Auld senseless, mensless body.
Now thou's neither milk nor meal,
Weel stock'd byre, nor cozy beil ;
Thou's dancin' daily to the deil !
Poor mensless, senseless body.
Gif sober housewife say tbou's wrang,
Tutter'd body, batter'd body.
When 'gainst her winnock thou com'st bancr,
Auld tatter'd, batter'd body.
Gif sober housewife say thou'3 wrang,
Thou bids her for a witch gae hang,
'Syne dings her wi' a roguish sang,
Poor tatter'd, batter'd body.
Forgudesake mend while yet thou can.
Witless body, iitless body ;
Foresake thy drouthy, clouty clan,
Auld witless, fitless, body.
For gudesake mend, if yet thou can ;
'Tis human nature's wisest plan,
To sink the brute and raise the man 1
Poor witless, fitless body.
MAY, SWEET MAY.
! May, dear JTay,
A thousand welcomes, May !
A t sight of thee my spirit springs
Aloft, as it were borne on wings !
Nor care, nor toil-,
1 reck the while
I'm basking in thy glorious smile,
Upon thy bosom, May.
O ! May, dear May,
Fond, flowery-bosom'd May !
15
Thy briery-scented breath again
Plays round my cheek, as fresh as whoii
Upon the green,
From morn till e'en,
With dallyings of love between,
I danced with thee, young May.
O ! May, dear May,
Blithe, song-inspiring May !
I'hy joyful presence setteth free
The slumb'ring founts of melody.
And young and old,
The dull, the cold.
Their summer songs and hearts unfold.
To greet thy coming. May.
O ! May, dear IMay,
Sport, laughter-loving May !
Hie we to thy woodbine bowers.
Nor idly spend the fleeting hours.
For soon, too soon I
The waning moon
Will bring thy buxom sister, June,
And banish thee, sweet May.
O ! May, dear :May,
Ripe, rosy lipped May,
•Tho' brief the while thou ling'rest here,
I'll woo thee all the coming year ;
For she, sweet life !
My promised wife.
With every charm of nature rife.
Thine image is, my May.
O ! May, dear May,
filine own loved natal May,
Thy blessed light it was which first
Upon mine infant eyelids burst ;
And when they close,
With all my woes.
And I am laid to long repose.
Light thou my grave, loved May.
THE DAINTY BIT PLAN.
Air—" Brose and Butter. "
OiR May had an e'e to a man,
Nae less than the newly-placed Preacher ;
And we plotted a dainty bit plan
For trapping our spiritual teacher.
O, we were sly, sly ! O, we were sly and sleekit !
But ne'er say a herring is dry until it be reestit and reekit.
"SVe treated young Mr 31'Gock,
We plied him wi' tea and wi' toddy ;
And we praised every word that he spoke,
Till we put him maist out o' the body.
O, we were sly, sly ! <kc.
And then we grew a' unco guid —
Made Img faces aye in due season ;
When to feed us wi' spiritual fuid.
Young Mr ^NI'Gock took occasion.
O, we were sly, sly ! &C.
Frae the kirk we were never awa'.
Except when frae hame he was helping ;
17
And then May, and often us a',
Gaed far and near after him skelping.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
We said aye, which our neighbours thought droll,
That to hear him gang through wi' a sermon.
Was, though a wee dry on the whole.
As refreshing as dews on Mount Hermon.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
But td'iome to the heart o' the nit—
The dainty bit plan that we plotted
Was to get a subscription afit,
And a watch to the minister voted.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
The young women folk o' the kirk,
By turns lent a hand in collecting ;
But ISIay took the feck o' the wark.
And the trouble the rest o' directing.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
A gran' watch was gotten belyvo.
And May, wi' sma' prigging, consentit
To be ane o' a party o' five
To gang to the Manse and present it.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
We a' gied a word o' advice
To May in a deep consultation.
To hae something to s:iy unco nice,
4nd to speak for the hale deputation.
O, we were sly, sly ! &c.
Taking present and speech baith in hand.
May delivered a bonny palaver.
To let Mr M'Gock understand
How zealous she was in his favour.
O, wo wero sly, sly ! <.Vc.
18
She said that the gift was to prove
That his female friends valued him highly.
But it couldna express a' their love ;
And sheglintit her e'e at him slyly.
O, we were sly, sly, ! &c.
He put the gold watch in his fab,
And proudly he said he would wear it ;
And, after some flattering gab,
Tauld May he was gaun to be marryit.
O, we were sly, sly ! O, we were sly and sleekit !
But 3Ir M'Gock was nae gowk wi' our dainty bit plan to be
cleekit.
May cam' hame wi' her heart at her mouth,
And became frae that hour a Dissenter ;
• And now she's renewing her youth,
Wi' some hopes o' the Burgher precentor.
O, but she's sly, sly ! O, but she's sly and sleekit !
And cleverly opens ae door as soon as anither ane's steekit
TA KRAN KIGHLAN' PAGPIPE.
You'll may spoke o' ta fittle, j-ou'll may prag o' ta flute.
Ay an' clafer o' pjaias, pass trums, claimet an' lute, '
Put ta far pestest music you'll may heard, or will fan.
Is ta kreat Hielan pagpipe, ta kran Hielan pagpipe, ta prite
o' ta laa'.
O ! tere is no one can knew all her feelin', her thought,
Whan ta soon o' ta piprnch, will langsyne to her prought,
jNn' her mint whirl rount apout wi' ta pleasure once fan,
Whau she hears ta kreat pagpipe, ta kran, &c.
19
A teefishal lee is tolt apout Orpus, poor shiel,
^^'ho went awa' toon to peg her wife pack frae ta teil,
Tey'll tolt tat she sharm'd Satan wi' a lute in her ban'.
No such thing, 'twas ta pagpipe, ta ki-an Hielan, &c.
Ij; is lang since ako, tey'll spoke o' music ta got,
(Apollo tey ca' her) put she'll thocht fery ott
Tat tey'll paint her, so ponny, wi' a lyre in her han',
When tey'll knew 'twas the pagpipe, &c.
Fan ta Greek wi' him's pibrochs sharmed Allister Mhor,
And made him's heart merry — and made him's heart sore,
]\I:ide him greet like a childrens, and swore like a man,
Was't his lyre ?— 'twas ta pagpipe, &c.
"WTian ta clans all pe kather't, an' all reaty for fought,
To ta soon o' ta fittle, woult tey march, tid you'll thought ?
IS'o, not a foot woult tey went, not a claymore pe trawn.
Till tey heard ta kreat pagpipe, ta kran, &:c.
'Whan ta funeral is passin' slow, slow through ta Men,
Ta hearts all soft wi' ouskie, what prings tears from ta men ?
Tis ta Coronach's loot wail soonin', solemn an' kran,
From ta kreat Hielan pagpipe, ta kran Hielan, &c.
Whan ta wattin' teuks place, O I what shoy, frolic, an' fun.
An' ta y)eoplei all meetit, an' ta proose has peen run,
Tare's no music for tancin', has yet efer peen fan.
Like ta kreat Hielan pagpipe, ta kran Hielan, &c.
O, tat ehe hat worts to tolt all her lofe an' telight
She has in ta pagpipe, twoult teuk long, long years to write;
Put she'll shust teuk a trap pefore her task she'll pegan ;
So here's to ta pagpipe, ta kran Hielan pagpipe, ta prite o*
ta l;in'.
* 20
THE LONELY DWELLIN'.
O ! I ha'e seen the vrild flowers blaw
On gentle Spring's returnin*,
! I ha'e seen the sere leaves fa'.
And Nature clad in mournin' :
But even then, my heart was light,
I knew nor care nor sorrow ;
For Fancy painted a' things bright,
And Hope smiled on the morrow.
Now, waes my heart ! the flowers may blaw,
The fleeting seasons vary ;
1 only mark the leaves that fa'
Around the grave o' Tvlary •
The moaning winds of Winter rise.
And on the ear come swellin' ;
■\\Tiile crisp and cauld the cranreueh Ilea
Upon her lonely dwellin'.
^^
AS I "vVEXD THROUGH THE WILD WOOD.
The gloamin' is gloomin', the daj'light awa',
Adown the lang loanin' the owsen eomeslaw,
Lowne sings the mavis on yonder auld tree,
And the lark leaves the clud for its nest on the lea;
As I wend through the wild wood, the dark wood, sae
eerie,
As I wend through the lang wood to meet thee, my
dearie.
21
The auld crazy mill seems to deepen its din.
While louder the burnie rairs o'er the wee lin,
And the howl of the mastiff, sae lang and s.;e drear,
'Maist dauntens my heart as it fa's on my car.
As I wend, &c.
Nae moon climbs the dull lift, sae bare and sae blue,
Whare ae little starnie looks glimmering through ;
And the saft westlin' breeze as it passes me by.
Lifts the locks frae my brow wi'a pitifu' sigh.
As I wend, &c.
Ilk wee bird lias faulded its wing for the night.
And the howlet belyve, frae yon auld turret's height,
V»''hare it dozes its lane, will be hootin' awa'
To the wanderins; sterns as they rise and they f;i'.
Then haste through the wild wood, the dai ic wood sa«
eerie,
Haste, haste through the lang wood to meet me, uiy
dearie.
^/^'^.-t^c-^^-^J
THK BOROUGH BAILTK
To our borough my lord in bis chariot rolled.
And his flunkies weie gleaming in purple and gold ;
And the smile on his face, and the glance of his e'e
Seemed as fair to my sight as the flowers on the lea.
Like bees round their hives when the summer is green.
The councillors all round the tavern were seen ;
Like bees when the leaves of the forest are strewn,
ThafiTiarty by midnight were all overthrown.
22
For the steam of the alcohol rose to their hrains,
And the window-frames shook with their bacchanal strains,
And in bumpers they drank to his lordship's success.
Till they dropt on the carpet like pears on the grass.
And there lay the butcher in holiday pride,
Not a cowl on his head, nor a steel by his side,
And the sugh of the sleeper waxed noisier still,
Though the shoemaker bawled for ^finishing gill.
And there lay the tailor dejected and wan,
A shriveled abortion,— a fraction of man ; —
And the room is all silent, the carpet all wet ;
The tumblers demolished, the tables upset.
And the matrons were angry and loud in their wail.
That their doves had imbibed so much whisky and ale ;
But a compliment kindly and decently shored,*
And they melted in smiles at the glance of my lord !
J
THE TOWN PIPER'S LAY.
Air—" Will ye gang to the ewe-bitghts, Marion 9 '
NArN'SEL frae ta hills wad pe flittin'.
An' come to a toon on ta coast :
An' as it was proper and fittin',
She soon got a shentleman's post.
Her cousin ta laird o' Petgrunsel
A letter did send in a crack ;
An' syne frae ta proves' an' council
She got a iaon-coat on her back !
23
}-^he disna pe drink in ta mornin",
Except it be trams ane or twa ;
An' when ta lord proves' gies warnin',
She aye studes his henchman fu' piu".
She disna pe drink in ta e'enin'.
Unless it pe four or live cann ;
An' if she pehaves where she's peen in,
She'Jl soon pe ta proves' pest m.j.11.
She marches ilk week to ta preachin',
An' shoulders her halbert like daft ;
An' aye while ta minister's teachin',
She sleeps in ta magistrate's laft.
But though she's o' shentle connexion.
She scorns for to prag or to phiw ;
Weel may ye deshest your refection !
Goot nicht, Sirs, an' shoy wi' ye a' !
LAUCHIE ERASER'S PROMOTIONS.
Air— *' Johnny Cope."
^'AiNSEL she was porn 'mang ta Hielan' hills,
Tang ta goals, an' ta sheeps, an* ta whiskee stills,
11* ta brochan, an' brogues, an' ta snuishin' mills,
Oich ! she was ta ponnie land she was porn i
^"or a' ta lads there will be shentleinans porn,
Vn' will wear skean-dhu an' ta praw snuishin'-horn,
\ ti' ta fine tartan trews her praw houghs to adorn,
An" mak' her look fu' spruce in ta mornin".
24
Nco, ta Bhentlemons will no like to wroughtin' at a*.
But she'll sit py ta grieshach her haflfets to claw;
An' pe birsle her shanks, till they're red as ta haw.
An' a fu' o' measles ilka niornin'.
But her nainsel' at last to ta Lalans cam' doon.
An* will got her a place 'mang ta 7nhor Glaschow toon ;
Whar she's noo prush ta-poot, an' -pe polish tashoon.
An* pe shentleman's flunkie in ta mornin'.
But at last she will turn very full o' ta proud.
An' she'll hold up her heads, an' she'll spoke very loud,
An' she'll look wi' disdains 'pon ta low tirty crowd.
Tat will hing 'pout ta doors ilka mornin'.
Noo, her nainsel is go to have one merry ball,
Whar she'll dance Killum Galium, hoogh ! ta best o'them cU,
For ta ponniest dancer she'll pe in ta hall.
Ay, either 'mang La evenin' or mornin'.
Ither lads will have lassies, hersel will have 710,
It pe far too expense wi' ta lassie to go ;
So, she'll shust dance hersei', her Une preedings to show.
Tat she leai-n 'mang ta place she was pom in.
Then talads will cry " Lauchie, where from did you'll cam'.
Tat you'll not give ta lassie ta dance an' ta dram ?"
But te're a' trouster mosachs, every one shust ta sam'
They wad spulzie all her sporran ere ta mornin*.
Noo, she's thochtin' she'll yet turn a praw waiter's pell.
When she wear ta fine pump an' pe dress very well ;
An' py Sheorge '■ ere she'll stop, she'll pe maister hersel,
In spite o' a' their taunts an' their scornin'.
Syne wha like ta great Maister Fraser will pe.
When she'll hing up ta sign o' the " Golden Cross Key,"
An' will sit in her parlour her orders to gie
To her waiters an' her boots in ta mornin' ?
25
RHYMING RAR O' OUR TOUN.
DoDN bj', near our smiddy, there lives a queer boddio.
As couthia an' canty's the simmer day's lang ;
An' aula funny story sets him in his glory.
For aft he knocks 't into some pithy bit sang.
Tho' aye ha'fiins modest, his cracks are the oddest
That ever were heard thro' the hale kintryroun'.
Aye tauld afi sae freely, sae pauky an' sleely,
lie's far an' near kent, Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
Tho' deep read in pages o' aiild langsyne sages.
As meikle 's micht maist turn the pows o' us a'.
Bent soon to the shuttle, his schule-craft 's but little.
Yet auld mither Nature him kindness did shaw ;
Vv'i" first glint o' morning he's up, slumber scorning,
Enraptur'd to hail ilk melodious soun*
"Whar clear wimplin' burnie trots slow on its journey.
Ye 're sure then to see Rhyming Rab o* our toun.
When e'en bit a younker, he'd cowr in a bunker
Wi' 's beuk, daft gafiawers to mixna amang,
It pleas't him far better than gowk's sillie clatter.
The deeds o' our gutchers in auld Scottish sang.
When e'ening's clud's fa'in', and cauld win's are blawin'.
His fireside 's the shelter o' ilk beggar loun,
Wi* kimmer or carle he'd share his last farle,
A. warm-hearted chiel's Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
He's free o' deceivry, the basest o' knavery,
An's blythe aye the face o* a cronnie to see ;
Wi' him the lang mouter, mysel' an' the souter,
Hae aften forgather't an' had a bit spree ;
There 's naething we crack o' but he has the knack o".
When we owre the stoup an' the cauppie sit doun,
Tho' chiel's we've had clever, the equal we never
Had yet o' this bauld Rhymin' Rab o' our toun.
26
There 's nae gothic chaumer, whar deils their black gla'
Hae niflfert wi' auld wives langsyne, late at e'en ;
Nae cave, crag, nor cairnie, by time-blasted thornie,
Owre Scotland'3 braid borders that he hasna seen.
But this Monday eomin' we meet at the gloamin,
In wee Andro Sibbal's, our sorrows to droun,
Sae gin, my auld hearty, ye're ane o' the party,
Ye'll baith see an' hear Rhymin Rab o' our toun.
^7^^
SWEET MAY! SWEET MAY!
Air—" Miss Graham of Inchbraickie."
Sweet May ! sweet May ! revives again
The buds and blossoms of the year ;
And, clad anew, each hill and plain
Tn emerald green appear.
IJow bright the view from yonder bank.
Of primroses and daisies fair.
Where high o'er head the joyous lark
Makes vocal all the air ;
And round and round the spangl'd mead
. The bounding lambkins frisk and play,
And little rills, like living light,
Gleam in the sunny ray.
But what were nature's fairest scenes,
Though grac'd with all her gayest flowers,
Unless we lov'd, unless we felt.
One fond, fond heart, wore ours!
Then come, my own dear Mary, come,
My all on earth I prize most dear;
And in j'on blooming hawthorn shaa-'.
The glowing landscape near,
I'll tell to thee my hopes and fears.
And all my heart to thee confess,
And if thou giv'st me love for love,
I'll own no higher bliss.
^^^;7^^yz^c^^^^
OUR PUIR COUSIN.
To an original Air, hy Peter M'Leod, Esq.
]\Iv j'oung cousin Peggy cam doun frae Dunkeld,
Wi' nae word o' lawlants ava, man,
But her blue speakin' een a' her kind meaning tald.
An' her brow shone as white as the snaw, man ;
She cam here to shear, and she stay'd here to spin,
She wrought wi' the fraumit, an' liv't wi' her kin,
f he laid nnething out, but she laid muckle in,
An' she livit upon naething ava, man.
An' wow but the lassie was pawky an' slee.
For she smiled an' she smirkit till a', man.
Growing a' bodies' bodie, baith muckle an' wee.
An' our folk wadna let her awa, man,
r'or when there was trouble or death in the house.
She tended the sick-bed as quiet as a mouse.
An' wrought three folks' wark aye sae canny an' douco,
Ye wad thought she did naething ava, man.
28
Khe grew rich inbeauty, she grew rich in c[car,
She learnt to speak lawlants an' a', man ;
Her wit it was keen, and her head it was clear,
My san J, she was match for us a', man ;
She was trysted to suppers, and invitit to teas.
Gat gude wappin' presents, an' braw slappin'fees.
An' een my ain billies sae kittle to please,
She tickled the hearts o' them a', man.
But the sweet Highland lassie, sae gentle and meek.
Refused them for gude an' for a', man.
Aye gaun to the auld Highlan' kirk ilka week,
AYhile the minister aft gae a ca', man ;
O his was the fervour, and her's was the grace.
They whisper'd sweec Gaelic, he gazed in her face.
Like light, true love travels at nae laggard pace —
She's the star o' his heart an' his ha", man.
I
y^^,.^^^.,^ d/^l^t^^^oi££.i^Z^^i^<J
THE BORRISTOUX.
Wr'Men to an unpublished Gaelic Melody.
•TwAs on a cauld an' rainy day,
When coming owre the hills o' Dee,
1 met a lassie young an' gay,
"\Vi' rosy cheelcs an' lily bree ;
An* laith that sic a flow'r should bloom.
Without the bield o' bush or tree ;
I said, my lassie, will ye come
An' dwell in Borristoun wi' me ?
29
O wha may think to stay the hand
That turns the page o' destinie ?
The broken ship has come to land,
The stately bark has sunk at sea.
But fain to woo, and free to wed,
I'll bless the doom I hae to dree
That ettled her, my Highland maid,
To dwell in Borristoun wi* mc !
PETTICOAT AVOOING.
Air—' ' Braes of Bogie. "
Yk'll come to the wooin', dear laddie,
Yc'll come to the wooin' at e'en ;
An' gin ye can win my auld daddie,
We'se sune mak a bridal, I ween.
'Tis true we hae baith a beginnin',
Tho' nane o' his siller we see ;
But the gudewill is aye worth the winnin*
AVhan there's mair than gude wishes to gie.
Your luve you may hang i' the widdie —
Y'our sighs you may stick to the wa' ;
They'll do wi' the dochter, my laddie,
But no wi' the daddie at a' :
Yell crack awa doucely an' cannie,
Of markets, of farmin', and flocks ;
Ye'U ruse up the days o' your grannie,
Auld fashions, an' auld-fashion'd fo'ks.
30
An' whan ye man wish him gude-e'enin',
I ■ninna be far out o' view,
111 come frae my dairy or spinnin',
An' gang out the loanin' wi' you<
An' gin the auld bodie's nae gloomin',
Gin nane o' his tauntin' he flings,
Niest Friday ye'il ca' i' the gloamin',
An' overly speak about things.
But gin ye see like a storm brewin',
Ye'Jl to your auld stories again ;
An' we'll tak anither week's wooin',
An' try him mair cannily then.
I've heard my ain mither declarin",
An' wha cou'd hae kend him sae weel ?
My father wad lead wi' a bairn ,
But wadna be ca'd for the de'il.
^/^^ictda^^
THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.
MEiKLE bliss is in a kiss,
AVhyles mair than in a score.
But wae betak the stouin' smack
I took ahint the door.
' O laddie, whisht ! for sic a fright
1 ne'er was in afore,
Fu' brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door.
The wa's are thick, j'e needna fear.
But gin they jeer and mock,
I'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or >vyte the rusty lock.
O meikle, &c.
31
We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin* coal,
An', as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole :
The mother lookt, saff' s how she look't !
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
O meikle, &c.
The douce g.udeman, tho' he was there.
As weel mieht been in Rome,
For by the fire he fuff 'd his pipe.
An' never fashed his thoom.
But tittriu' in a corner stood
The gawky sisters four,
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.
O meikle, &c.
' ' How daur ye talc' sic freedoms here ? "
The bauid gudewife began ;
Wi' that a foursome yell gat up,
I to my heels an' ran ;
A besom whiskit by my lug.
An' dishclouts half-a-score,
Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
At kissing 'hint the door.
O meikle, &c.
T. C. Latto.
WHEN THE BUTTERFLY.
When the butterfly swung on the rose's fair breast,
And zephyrs would steal from the sky,
^Vllen each bird had for pleasure forsaken the neat,
F.iir Rosa in anguisli would sigh ;
Yet ev'n she was lovely as e'er was the thought
Of innocence smiling in sleep ;
And happy — till love in her hosom hnd sought
A birth-place, and left her to weep.
When the halls of old Samia echoed the song,
And the dance and the music were there ;
When pleasure and revelry reign 'd in the throng,
Fair Rosa would sigh in despair ;
Yet once would her presence give bliss to the spot
Where the hours did in revelry fly ;
Yet soon were her name and her presence forgot,
And alone she unheeded would sigh.
•The roses of health and of beautj' soon fled.
Youth's noon was benig'nted with care ;
Old Samia's sepulchre yawned for tlie dead.
The priest with his missal stood there ;
And peaceful and lone in the daric house she sleeps.
Where love enters not to annoy,
And nought save the wind o'er the dismal spot weeps ;
But Rosa will waken in j y.
THERE'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.
Music by Peter M'Leod, Esq.
There's a thrill of emotion, haK painful half sweet,
When the object of untold affection we meet,
But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief
As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
^^^Jen a frowTi o'er the fair face of beauty is spread ;
But she smiles— and away the disturber is borne,
Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of mom.
33
There's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love !
AVhioh, like son,!?s of our childhood, to memory clings ;
The longest, the last, of terrestrial things.
SCOTLAND'S GUID AULD CHANNEL STANE.*"
AiK—^^ Highland Harry."
Of a' the games that e'er I saw,
JLan, callant, laddie, birkie, wean.
The bravest far aboon them a',
Was aye the witcliing Channel Stane !
O for the Channel Stane !
The fell gude game, the Channel Stane !
There's no a game amang them a'
Can match auld Scotland's Channel Stane i
I've played at quoiting i' my day.
And maybe I may do 't again.
But still unto mj'sel' I'd say,
O this is no the Channel Stane !
O for, &o.
I've been at bridals unca glad ;
In courting lassies wondrous fain ;
But what was a' the fun I've had,
Comparit wi' the Channel Stane!
O for, <Vn..
' Another name for the Curling Stone.
S4
Were I a sprite in yonder sky.
Never to come back again,
I'd sweep the mune an' starlits by.
And beat them at the Channel Stane.
O for, die.
We'd boom across the Milky Way,
One tee should be the Northern Wain,
Another bright Orion's ray,
A comet for a Channel Stane !
O for, &o.
I
THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE TODEAVE U^,
Am— " J>, let us a' to the Bridal."
The poets, what fools they're to deave us.
How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ;
The first ane's an angel, and, save us !
The naist ane you meet wi's divine*
An' then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet,
Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ;
An' the moon or some far awa planet 'a
Compared to the blink o' her een.
The earth an' the sea they've ransackit
For figures to set aff" their charms, *
An' no a wee flower but's attackit
By poets, like bumbees in swarms.
What signifies now a' tliis clatter
By chiels that the truth winna tell ?
Wad it no be settlin' the matter
To say — Lass, ye're just like yoursel ?
35
An' then there's nae end to the evil.
For they are no deaf to the din,
That, like me, ony puir luckless deevil
Daur scarce look the gate they are in !
But e'en let them be wi' their scornin',
There's a lassie whase name I could tell,
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin',
But whisht ! I am ravin' mysel'.
But he that o' ravin' 's convickit.
When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on.
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket
Than that buckled on by Mess John !
An' he wha, though cautious an' canny.
The charms o' the fair never saw.
Though wise as king Solojion's grannie,
I swear is the daf test of a'.
THE LOSS OF THE ROECUCS.
How oft by the lamp nf the pale waning moon,
■\Vould Kitty steal out from the eye of the town ;
On the beach as she stood, when the wild waves woilld roll,
Iler eye shed a torrent just fresh from the soul ;
And, as o'er the ocean the billows would stray,
Iler sighs fo 1 .w after as moanin;; -.s t'lcy.
6(J
I saw, as the ship to the harbour drew near,
Hope redden her cheek, then it blanch 'd with chill fear ;
She wished to inquire of the whispering crew,
If they'd spoke with the Roebuck, or ought of her knew ;
For long in conjecture her fate had been tost,
Nor knew we for certain thelloebuck was lost.
I pitied laer feelings, and saw what she'd ask,
(For Innocence ever looks through a thin mask,)
[ stept to Jack Oakum, his sad head he shook,
And cast on sweet Kitty a side-glancing look :
" The Roebuck has founder'd— the crew are no more—
Nor again shall Jack Bowling be welcom'd on shore!"
Sweet Kitty, suspecting, laid hold of my arm :
" O tell Kie," she cried, " for my soul's in alarm ;
Is she lost ?" I said nothing ; while Jack gave a sigh.
Then dosvn dropt the curtain that hung o'er her eye ;
Fleeting life, for a moment, seem'd willing to stay.
Just flutter'd, and then tied for ever away.
So droops the pale lily, surcharg'd with the shower.
Sunk down as with sorrow, so dies the sweet flower j
No sunbeam returning, nor spring ever gay.
Can give back the soft breath once wafted away ;
The eye-star, when set, never rises again.
Nor pilots one vessel more over the lauin 1*
* From a fortlicoming volume of Poems and Songs by Miss Susanna
Blstnire, for the first time collected ; with alMemoirand someccccunt
(■{ her writings, by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, Edinburgh. Miss Blamire
MATTHEW M'FARLANE,
THK KFLBARCHAV RKCRUIT.
Air. — " Kenmure's on an' awa', S;c,"
Whare cam' the guineas frae, Matthew, my dear *
I trow thdu had nane till the sodgers cam here ;
If they be the king's, or the sergeant's, my son,
Gi'e them back, for thou never maun carry the gnn.
Could thou e'er think to gang o'er the braid sea,
To lea'e the loan-head, the auld bigging, and me ;
The smith and the smiddy, thy loom, and the lass
That stands at the gavle and laughs when ye pass ?
Mind, Matthew! for thou likes thy belly fu' weel.
There is naething abioad like our hearty aitmeal,
Nor guid sheephead-kail, for nae outlandish woman
Has the gumption to ken that they need sic a scummin',
In thy lug the' that wild Highland sergeant may blaw,
And talk o' the ferlies he's seen far awa,
And the pleasures and ease o' a sodgering life,
Believe me, it's naething but labour and sti-ife !
was a native of Cumberland ; she w:\s born at Thackwood, in the
parish of Sowerby, in 1747, and died in Carlisle in 1795. She has long
been favourably known as the author of "What ails this licart o'
mine," " The Nabob's Return," " The Chelsea Pensioners," and lately
has been proved to have written that exquisite Scottish lyric, "An'
ye shall walk in silk attire." Her songs amount to between thirty and'
forty, many of them of surpassing beauty; and her poems bear the
Impress of a highly gifted poetical mind.
88
If thy fit should but slip in the midst o' the drilling.
The ranking and rawing, and marching and wheeling,
The sergeant would cry, " Shoot the stammering loon !"o:
else,
•' Tie the scoonerel up to the halberds, ye scoonerels !"
And when our king George to the wars wad be prancing,
AVi' the crown on his head, and his sceptre a' glancing,
Wi' chariots, and horsemen, and cornels, a host o* them.
And Sergeant M'Tavish as proud as the best o' them ;
Sly son, and the rest o* the puir single men would be
Trudging behint them wi' their legs twining wearily ;
Laden like camels, and cringing like colly dogs,
Till the Frenchmen in swarms wad come bizzen about
their lugs.
Then to meet Bonaparte rampaging and red
To the verra e'en-holes wi' the spilling o' bluid !
O, maybe the fiend in his talons wad claught thee !
And rive thee to spawls without speering whase augh
thee !
Thou maunna wear claes o' red, ^Matthew M'Farlane !
Nor ringe wi' twa sticks on a sheep's-skin, my darlin' 1
Nor cadge wi' a knapsack frae Dan to Beersheba, nor
Dee like thy father at wearifu' Baltimore !
Bide still in Kilbarchan ! and wha kens but thou
May be some day an elder, and keep a bit cow,
And ha'e for thy wife the braw through -ither lass
That stands at the gavle and laughs when ye pass.
But if thou maun sodger, and vex thy puir mither,
It's ae comfort to me, should I ne'er ha'e anither,
AATiaever may shoot thee, their prey when they raak' o'thee«
"NVill e'en get a gude linen sark on the back o' thee I
Wm. Cross.
i
89
THE CURLERS' GARLAND.
Curlers, gae hame to your spades, or your ploughs,
To your beuks, to your planes, or your thummills
Curlers, gae hame, or the ice ye'U fa' thro';
Hame, swith ! to your elshins, or wummills.
The curlin's owre, for the thow is come ;
On x.Iistilaw the snaw is meltin',
His hetherie haffets ky the black in the win'.
And the rain has begun a-peltin'.
A lang fareweel to greens and beef.
To yill, to whisky, and bakes:
Fu' o' cracks is the ice, but we'll smuir our dule
By gorblin* up parritch and cakes.
"We'll nae mair think o' the slithery rink,
Nor the merry soun " Tee high,"
Nor " Inwick here," nor " Break an egg there,''
Nor •' He's far owre stark, soop him bye."
We maunna think o' the slithery rink.
Nor of hurras a volley ;
The ice is dauchie, nae fun can we get.
For ilka stane lies a collie ;
Nor roar " Besoms up, he's a capital shot ;"
" Now Jock, lie here, I say ;"
" He's weel laid on, soop him up, sooj) him up,"
" Now guard him, and won is the day."
But we trow when winter comes again,
Wi' a' its frosts and snaws,
We'll on the ice ance mair forgether,
Before life's gloaniin' close.
40
—Curlers, gae hame to your spades or your ploughs.
To your pens, to your spules, or your thummills j
Curlers, gae hame, or the ice yell fa* through —
Tak'your ellwands, yourelahins, orwummills.
When writing these verses, the author had in his eye Castlesemple
Loch in Renfrewshire, a famous place for curling. Mistilaw is a con-
fpicuous hill in the neighbourhood.
HALKERTON'S CALF.
TiTNE— " Tlie Corby and Pyetr
An ill-deedy lininier is Ilalkerton's cow,
An' owre mony m:;rrows has Ilalkerton's cow ;
But the auldest greybeard sin' he kent a pickstaff,
JTe'er heard o' a marrow to Halkerton's calf.
Ne'er heard, &c.
Whan the kailynrd is ( ut o' its best cabbage stock,
An' the hairst-rig is short o' a thrave or a stouk.
An' the stack has been eased o'the canny drawn shaif,
The mark o' the cloven foot tells o' the thief.
The m:irk, &c.
He's doure i' the uptack the deil canna teach.
This wonderfu' calf has the rare gift o' speech ;
Has scripture by heart, as the gowk has its lied.
An' fechts wi' his tongue fur a kirk an' a creed.
An' fechts, &c.
At alohoiise an' smiddy he rairs an' he cracks,
•Bout doctrines, an' duties, an" statutes, and acts ;
At blythemeat, an' dredgy, yulefeast, an' inf..re.
He's ready aff-hand wi' a grace or a prayer.
He's ready, &c.
(J^jcdci^'^y
41
^^ EEN AUTUMN HAS LAID HER SICKLE BY
Music by P. 2I'Lcod, Esq.
When Autumn has laid her sickle by,
And the stacks are theekit to baud them dry ;
And the sapless leaves come down frae the trees,
And dance about in the fitfii' breeze ;
And the robin again sits burd-alane.
And sings his sang on the auld peat stare.
When come is the hour of gloamin grey,
Oh ! sweet is to me the minstrel's lay.
Vv'hen Winter is driving his cloud on the gale.
And spairgin about bis snaw and his hail,
A nd the door is steekit against the bl;is<^,
And the winnocks wi* wedges are firm and fast.
And the ribs are rypet, the cannel alight.
And the fire on tlie hearth is bleezin' bright,
And the bicker is reamin wi' pithy brown ;iie ;
O dear is to me a sang or a tale !
Then I tove awa by- the ingle-sidc.
And tell o' the blasts I was wont to bide.
When the nights were lang, and the sea ran high.
And the moon hid her face in the depths of the sky.
And the mast was strained, and the canvas rent,
By some demon on message of mischief sent ;
O I bliss my stars that at hame I can bide,
For dear, dear to me is my ain ingle-side!
^^
42
THE SOCIAL CUP.
Air— " Ayidro and his cutty gun."
Elythe, blythe, and merry are we,
Blythe are we, ane and a' ;
Aften hae we cantie been,
But sic a nicht we never saw !
The gloamin' saw us a' sit down,
^nd meikle mirth has been our fa' ;
Then let the sang and toast gae roun*
'Till chanticleer begins to craw !
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we.
Pick and wale o' merry men ;
■N\'liat care we tho' the cock may craw,
"We're masters o' the tappit-hen !
The auld kirk bell has chappit twal,
Wha cares tho' she had chappit twa !
"We're licht o' heart and winna part,
Tho' time and tide mayrin awa!
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we,
Hearts that care can never ding ;
Then let time pass— we'll steal his glass.
And pu' a feather frae his wing !
Now is the witchin' time o' nicht,
"When ghaists, they say, are to be seen j
And fays dance to the glow-worm's licht
"\Vi' fairies in their gowns of green.
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we,
Ghaists may tak their midnight stroll
Witches ride on brooms astride,
"WTiile we sit by the witchin bowl F
^it ! never speir how wears the mom,
The moon's still blinkin i' the sky.
And, gif like her we fill our horn,
I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry J
43
riytbe, blythe, and merry are \vc,
Blythe, out-owre the barley bree ;
And let me tell, the moon bersel'
Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea.
Then fill us up a social cup.
And never mind the dapple dawn ;
Just sit a while, the sun may smile
And lieht us a' across the lawn !
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we ;
See ! the sun is keekin hen ;
Gie Time his glass— for months may pass
Ere we hae sic a nicht again !
y>C^
6IMMER DAYS ARE COME AGAIN.
Air.—'- Cameron's got his icifeagain."
The simmer days are come again,
The rosy simmer's come again,
The sim blinks blythe on hill and plain.
The simmer days are come again.
A gowany mantle deeds the green,
The blossom on the tree is seen.
And Willie saw a bat yestreen,
I'm sure the simmer's come again.
The simmer days, &c.
The hazle bushes bend nae mair
Beneath the lades that crushed them sair.
And Tweed rows past her waters fair,
The cheerfu' simmer's come again.
The simmer days, he.
44
The glens are green that looked sae ill.
The blast that shored our lambs to kill.
The wind has gliff 'd it owre the hill.
And gladsome simmer's come again.
The simmer d iys, &c.
Ye little birdies, ane and a',
Aloud your tunefii' whistles blaw;
The wind's gane round, and flea's the snaw.
And lightsome simmer's come again.
The simmer days, &c.
Now, simmer, ye maim use us weel,
AVi' shower and sunblink at its heel ;
AVe're unco glad ye're come, atweel,
Ye're doubly welcome back again.
Then welcome simmer back again, &.c.
For Spring, ye see, ne'er minds us now.
To nurse the lambs, or tend the plough.
Theie's nane to tak our pairt but you,
And wow ! we're glad ye'ie back again !
Then welcome simmer back again,
Rosy simmer back again,
The wuds sail ring wi'mony a strain,
To welcome simmer 1 ack again.
♦^
^43
%
mould'ybrugh.
I KENT a wee toon, and a queer toon it was,
Auld Moiildybrugh, that was its name ;
A dreiio' dull village, wi' battered gray wa's,
\Vhere ony thing new never came ;
Just twa or three houses, a' dismal and black.
And twa or three shoppies sae sm:i';
A market, where whiles the folk gaTthered to crack,
-And drive a bit bargain or twa.
Besides an auld jail, wi' the court-house hard by,
A cross, and a mossy stane well ;
A kirk and a steeple, that dinlit the skje
Wi' a clinkin'auld timmer-tongu'd bell.
While the brown battered tower on the hoary hill tap,
That frowned owre the silly auld toon,
Tald o' its a"uld pith, for a bold baron chap
Had biggit it ne'er to come doun.
The hills lay in silence behind the auld toon,
A bleak heathery moor lay before ;
There we sported oursels in the days that are flown.
And dearly we lov'd the grey moor.
Ah ! thou wort an Eden— yea, truly a land
Of milk and of honey to me;
Where we herded the kye, a happy young band.
And harried the bike of the bee.
So quiet was the toon, and so douce were the folk,
Tliey lived in a kind o' a dream ;
But at last ftiey were roused wi' a desperate shock,
By that vapourin' article steam.
For wha wad liae thocht it ? A railway was mace
Across the lang heather sae dreary ;
The canny auld toonsfolksgrew perfectly wud,
Aa' a* thing was turned tapsalteery.
46
Auld Mouldybrugh fairly was rowed aff its feet,
And naething gat leave to stand still ;
They pulled doon the houses, and widened the street,
And biggit a muckle brick mill.
And droves o' new comers, that naebody kent,
"Were workin', they kentna at what ;
The bodies were just in a perfect ferment.
And didna ken what to be at.
Sic smashin' and chappin' was a' round about,
Sic clankin', sic rattlin', an' din ;
Wi' rocks blaun like thimder frae quarries without,
And smiddiei an' reeshlin' within ;
And wheelbarrows drivin' a' hours of the day,
Wi' Eerishmen swearin'like Turks ;
And horses were fechtin' wi' cartfu's o' clay.
And piaister and stanes fox- the works.
Soon a' kinds o' traders cam flockin' in shoaLs,
The railway brocht wonders to pass ;
Colliers cam howkin' to sair us wi' coals.
And gas-bodies cam to make gas ;
And butchers, sae greasy, wi' sheep, beef, and pigs,
A nd schoolmasters cam for the teachin' ;
And debtors wi' doses, and barbers wi' wigs.
And kirks were ereckit for preachin'.
Eut dearer to me is the auld biggit toon,
Wi' its cottages hoary and grey,
WJiere naething is altered, and naething dung doan,
Except by the hand of decay.
And oh for the bodies sae simple and plain,
Aye faithfu', and kindly, and true ;
And oh for the days that we'll ne'er see again.
When they dreamt na of onything new :
B. H.
47
THE PRIDEFU' TAID.
AfK,— " Nancy's to the greemvood gane."
Wow me .' for sic a pridefu' taid
Our Tibbie's grown, thehizzie;
She cuts sic capers wi' her head,
'Twad ding a bndie dizzie.
D'ye think it's her braw clouts o' ciaes
That mak's her look sae saucy ?
Her bannet's but a bunch o' straes,
Does she ken that ? vain lassie !
A cauldrife silken tippet's neist
Aboon her shoulders wavin' ;
A lang white ribbon, round her waist.
Hangs like a crookit shavin* !
What tho' her slender sides shine braw
Wi' dashin' duds o' muslin,
Her share o' mither wit's but sma'.
As yon new cleckit gosliu'.
On Sunday, see her trip to kii-k
Wi* rhymin' Rab, auld Nan's son ;
Neist day, she's aff wi' this gay spark.
To some grand ball o' dancin'.
Sae Tibbie means to let her life
Dance down the paths o' pleasure.
An' thinks, nae doubt, soon for his wife.
The chield will gladly seize her.
But, thoughtless Tib, my bonnje doo,
I'm fley'd ye'll be mistaken ;
For promise never yet prov'd true
Frae chiels wha gang a rakin'.
48
The days o' peace j'our breast now feels,
Will chnnge to months o' mournin' ;
Frae aae wha kens sIl- flighty chiels,
Dear Tibbie, tak a w.^ruin'!
THE HAPPY PAIR.
Air— " Jfl/iJiJH'e M'GiU."
Low down in a valley fu' snugly and braw,
There liv'd a blythe bodie o' saxty an' twa ;
Nae wranglin' to deave him, nor sorrow to grieve him,
He aye was contented an' happy wi' a'.
On his ain snnar bit craftie, delishted fou aft he
Belabour'd frae mornin' to e'ening awa ;
Sae cheery an' dainty, he s mg like a lintie,
Till gloamin, when darkness began for to fa'.
For Bessie his wifie, to comfort his life aye,
Wad deed him fu' cozie, in time o' the snaw ;
And tho' she was fifty, sae tidy and tlirifty.
She aye made her hallan to shine like a ha'.
Near han' was a weddin', the bodies war bidden,
An' there they were buskit. fu' cleanly an' braw ;
But fu' o' rejoicin', they thocht na o' risin',
Until that the daylight began fur to daw.
Their auld favourite doggie, a wee sleekit rogie.
Had toddled ahint them, when they gaed awa,
For aye he was tirnefu' to get a gude wamefu',
Altho' that he hadna ae tusk in hia j iw.
i
49
Sae strong was the whisky, the carlie grew frisky,
For seldom he'd toom'd sic a drap in his maw ;
But while he was cheerfu', his Bessie was fearfu'
That ony mishanter her Juhnnie should fa*.
The drinkin' o' toddy, it made the auld bodie
The white o' his e'en, like the parson, to shaw;
Wi' arms high uplifted, he roar'd an' he rifted,
" I'm up in the happy place— Bess, come awa !"
FAREWELL TO SCOTIA.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,
To ilk bonnie preen glen whar tlie mnuntain stream rows.
To the rook that re-echoes the torrent's wild din.
To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet snng.
For trifles grow dear whan we've kenn'd them sae lang ;
Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, whan a* others hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, tho' they're forced far away.
Hut its dool to Ihe spirit whan haffcts are grey;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
"Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and d^e.
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined,
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts and sicken the mind.
50
Jfo, my spirit shall struy whar the red heather gi'ows '.
In the boanie green glen whar the mountain stream rows;
'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
'Mang the graves o' my sires, roimd the hearths o' my kin.
^ (^. c^^r ^^
THE \yiDO\V MALOXE.*
Did ye bear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone \
Who lived in the town of Athlons
Alone ?
Oh ! she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts.
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone !
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more ;
And fortunes they all had galore
In store ;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown ,
All were courting the Widow 3Ialor.e,
Ohone !
All were courting the Widow Malone.
• We acUnowledge most eratpfully our obligations to the Publishers
of'CHABLBs 0':M ALLEY, the Irish Dragoon," foi permission to ex-
tract from that work this most exquisite Irish ballad, by Dr Charles
Lever, the author.
51
But so modest was ]\frs Malone,
'Twas known
No one ever could see her alone,
Obons !
Let them ogle and sigb,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone ;
So bashful the Widow Malone.
'Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare,
How quare !
It's little for blushing they care
Down there,
Put his arm round her waist.
Gave ten kisses at laste,
" Oh !" says he, " you're my Molly Malone,
r»fy own ;"
" Oh !" says he, " you're my Molly Malone.
And the Widow they all thought so shy.
My eye I
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh.
For why ?
But " Lucius," says she,
" Since you've made now so free,
You may marry your IMary Malone,
Ohone !
You may marry your Mary ?.Ialone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong ;
And one comfort it's not very long,
But strong :
52
If for widows you die.
Lam to kiss, not to sigh ;
For they're all like sweet ^Mistress Malone,
Ohone !
Oh ! they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.
RANDY NANNY.
I SING ye o' a wife
Wha carried a' our water ;
Cause o' muckle strife
Was her clasliin' clatter.
Ilka wee bit faut
A' the warld kenned o't ;
Gin ye gat ye're maut,
Ye ne'er heard the end o't.
Aye clashin', clashin',
Nanny was nae canny ;
Wives plashin', washin',
IVIatched nae Water Nanny.
Nanny had a man,
A drunken market caddy ;
Connaught cock-nosed Dan,
A swearin', teai'in' Paddy.
Sic a knuckled han'.
Sic an arm o' vigour ;
Nan might scold an* ban,
But brawly could he swigg her.
53
Aye smashin', smashin',
Danny was nae canny ;
Few could stani a thrashiu*
Frae stieve-tisted Danny.
They lived up a stair
Down in the Laigh Calton ;
Siccan shines were there,
Siccan noisy peltin' ;
Danny with his rung
Steekin' ilka wizen ;
Nanny wi' her tongue.
Nineteen to the dizen.
Aye clashin', crashin',
Trouth it was nae canny ;
Ony fashin', fashin',
Danny an' his Nanny.
Bodies round ahout
Couldna thole nor bide them ;
Fairly flitted out,
Nane were left beside them ;
Their bink was a' their ain,
Nane could meddle wi' theni,-
Neighbour lairds were fain
A' the land to lea' them.
Some gae hashin' smashin',
Makin' siller canny,
Wha gat rich by clashin* ?
Danny an' his N anny.
They'd a bonnie lassie,
Tonguey as her mither ;
Yet as game and gaucie
As her fightin' faitber.
54
O .' her waist was ama',
O ! her cheeks were rosy,
. Wi' a shower o' snaw,
Ij iaiket owre her bozy.
Sun rays brightly flashin*
Owre the waters bonny,
Glanced nae like the lashia',
Sparklin' een o' Anny.
Sight ye never saw,
Like the Laird and Leddy,
Wi' their dochter braw.
An' themsels sae tidy ;
Wi' their armies crost,
On their ain stair muntit ;
Gin ye daured to hoast.
How their pipies luntit.
Wooers e'er sae dashin*.
Durst nae ca' on Anny,
Dauntit wi' the clashin*
O' her mither Nanny,
Beauty hlooming fair
Aye sets hearts a bleezing ;
Lovers* wits are rare.
Lovers' tongues are wheezing.
Barred out at the door,
A slee loon scaled the skylight,
An' drappit on the floor.
Afore the auld folks' eyesight.
In a flaming passion,
I^Iaul'd by faither Danny,
Afl" to lead the fashion,
Scamper'd bonny Anny.
55
MARY MACNEIL.
Air — ' • M7's. Kinloch of Kinloch.
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
An' thousands o* stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as tlie een o' sweet Marj- IVIaencil.
A'glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover.
Her een tellin' secrets she thought to conceal ;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
O ! Mary was modest, an' puie as the lily
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal ;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She mov'd, and the graces play'd sportive around her.
She smii'd, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill ;
She sang, an' the mavis cam' listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in JMary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an'_^ blossoms will steal ;
An'ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound naething earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein' —
The autumn, his corse on the red battle-fiel' ;
The winter, the maiden found heart-broken, dyin";
An' spring spread the green turf owre 3Iary Macneil
56
WE SAT BENEATH THE TRYSTIN' TREE.
We sat beneath the trj-stin' tree.
The bonnie deur auld trystia* tree,
Whar Harry tauld in early youth.
His tender tale o' lave to me ;
An' walth o' wedded happiness
Has been our blessed lot sinsyne,
Tho' foreign lands, lang twenty years,
Has been my Harry's hame an' mine.
WV gratefu' glow at ilka heart.
An' jojfu' tears in ilkae'e,
■\YesaWigiin, fond lovers still,
^ Beneath the bonnie trystin' tree.
We gaz'd upon the trystin' tree.
Its branches spreading far an' wide.
An' thocht upon the bonnie bairns
That blest our Llythe bit ingle-&ide ;
The strappin' youth wi' martial mien.
The maiden mild wi' gOwden hair.
They pictur'd what oursel's had been.
Whan first we fondly trysted there ;
Wi' gratefu' glow at ilka lieart,
An' joyfu' tears in ilka e'e.
We blest the hour that e'er we met
Beneath the dear auld trystin' tree !
57
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
Mournfully ! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh.
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone l)y :
It speaks a tale of other years—
Of hopes that bloomed to die —
Of sunny smiles tliat set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie !
Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan ;
It stirs some cliord of memory
In eacli dull heavy tone :
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon-
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death had made it lone.
JMournfulIy ! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell.
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell
To the dreamy joys of early years.
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom— ay ! well may teara
Start at that parting knell !
58
THOU KXOWST IT NOT, LOVE.
Thou know'st it not, love, when light looks are around
thee,
"NVhen Music awakens its liveliest tone,
When Pleasure, in chains of enchantment, hath bound
thee.
Thou knowest not how truly this heart U thine own.
It is not while all are about thee in gladness,
"While shining in liqht from thy young spirit's shrine.
But in moments devoted to silence and sadness.
That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like mine.
Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'ertake thee,
How soon would thy mates of the Summer away !
They first of the whole tickle flock to forsake thee,
"Who flatter'd thee most when thy bosom was gay.
What though I seem cold while their incense is burning,
In depths of my soul I have cherish'd a flame.
To cheer the loved one, should the night-time of mourning
E'er send its far shadows to darken her name.
Then leave the vain crowd, — though my cottage is lonely,
Gay halls, without hearts, are far lonelier still ;
And say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only.
And I'll be thy shelter, whate'er be thine ill.
As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom,
The closer, when blight hath appeared on its bloom.
So thou, love, the dearer shalt be to this bosom.
The deeper thy sorrow, the djirker thy doom.
59
MY AULD UNCLE JOHN.
I SING not of prince, nor of prelate, nor peer,
Who the titles and trappings of vanity wear ;
I sing of no hero whose fame has been spread
O'er the earth, for the quantum of blood he hath shed ;
But of one, who life's path with humility trod,
Tlie friend of mankind, and at peace with his God ;
Who indeed died to " Fame and to Fortune unknown,"
iiut who lives in my heart's core— my auld Uncle John.
His manners were simple, yet manly and firm —
His friendship was generous, and constant, and warm ;
To Jew and to Gentile alike he was kind,
For the trammels of party ne'er narrow'd his mind :
His heart, like his haun, was aye open and free,
And tho' he at times had but little to gie.
Yet even that little with grace was bestow'n.
For it cam' frae the heart o' my auld Uncle John.
weel do I mind, tho' I then was but young.
When he cam' on a visit, how blythely I sprung
To meet the auld man, who with visage so meek
Would a kiss of affection imprint on my cheek ;
Then I'd place him his chair — take his staff, and his hat —
Then climb up on his knee, whar delighted I sat ;
For never was monarch sae proud on his throne
As I on the knee o' my auld Uncle John.
When at school, to his snug room with pleasure I'd hie,
And often I've seen the fire flash from his eye —
And a flush o' delight his pale chock overspread,
Wheu a passage from Shakspeare or Milton I read.
1 or me the best authors he'd kindly select,
He then to their beauties my eye would direct.
Or the faults to which sometimes great genius is prone —
So correct was the taste o'my auld Uncle John.
CO
*Twas said, when a stripling, his feelings had been
Storm-blighted and rent by a false-hearted quean ;
Bat this sour'd not his temper, for maidens would bloom
More brightly and fresh, when among them he'd come.
They would cluster around him, like flow'rs round the oak,
To weep at his love-tale, or laugh at his j jke ;
For his stories were told in a style and a tone
That aye put them in raptures wi' auld Uncle John.
To all he was pleasing— to anld, and to young —
To the rich, and the poor, to the weak, and the strong;
He laugh'd with the gay — moraliz'd with the grave —
The wise man he honour'd— the fool he forgave.
Religion with liim was no transient qualm,
'Twas not hearing a sermon, or singing a psalm,
Or a holiday- robe for a season put on,
'Twas the everyday garb o' my auld Uncle John.
His country he lov'd, for her glory he sigh'd.
Her struggles of yore for her rights were his pride ;
He lov'd her clear streams, and her green flosv'ry fells —
Her mists and her mountains, her dens and her dells.
Yes, the land of his fathers — his birth-place he lov'd !
Her science, her wit, and her worth he approvd ;
But men of each kindred, and colour, and zone.
As brethren were held by my auld Uncle John.
His last sickness I tended; and when he was dead.
To the grave, in deep sorrow, I carried his head
The spot is not mark'd by inscription or bust —
No child nor lone widow weeps over his dust ;
But oft when the star of eve brightly doth bum.
From the bustle and noise of this world I turn ;
And forget, for a while, both its smile and its frown,
O'er the green turf which covers my auld Uncle John
61
THOUGH BACCHUS MAY BOAST.*
Though Bncclms may boast of his care-liilling bowl.
And folly in thought-drowuing revels delight,
Such worship, alp.s! has no ch:irms for the soul
When softer devotions the senses invite.
To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care,
His potions oblivious a balm may bestow ;
But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe !
What soul that's possessed of a dream so divine
With riot would bid the sweet vision be gone?
For the teaf that bedews sensibility's shrine
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's ton!
The tender excess which enamours the heart,
To few is imparted— to millions denied ;
The finer the feelings, the keener the smart,
And fools jest at that for which sages have died.
Each change and excess has through life been my doom.
And well can I spe.ik of its joy and its strife ;
The bottle affords us a glimpse through the gloom,
But love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life !
Then come, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight
The magic illusions which ravish the soul,
Awake in my heart the soft dream of delight,
And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bov.'l!
Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine,
Nor soon, jolly god, from thy banquet remove;
Each throb of my heart shall accord with the wine
That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love !
* This song has been several times in print, but not with Miss Bla-
mire's name appended, nor i»-ith the last stanza. We give it from the
original MS. in the hands of Mr MarweH.
Q'2
And now, my gay comrade?, the myrtle and vine
Shall united their blessings the choicest impart ;
Let reason, not riot, the garland entwine—
The result must be pleasure and peace to the heart.
0^^^
THE WARY CHIEL. *
They wad gi'e me a wife yestreen.
Without my will — against my will ;
They ettled wi' a winsome queen
To trap a waiy chiel like me.
Had I been a silly fool.
Fast wad I been on the brier,
For free and pawkj' was the lass.
And witnesses she had to swear.
Deep and cunning was their plan
To beguile me — to beguile me ;
Guid be praised ! a sincrle man
I am yet, and aye will be.
It's no a jolro to marry folk
Wha want na wives — wha want na wives;
There's mair nor me that canna dree
The s.iftest tclher a' their lives.
I heard them laugh when I ran aff
An' left them a'— the bride an' a' :
But deil may care ; I well can spare
To gi'e them mair than ae guffaw.
63
Let them laugh and let them jeer,
I am easj'— I am easy —
Never shall a woman wear
Breeks o' mine, for a' their jaw.
I ance was owre the lugs in love,
When daft and young— when daft and young,
But how I play'd the turtledove
Shall ne'er he sung— shall ne'er be sung.
And though I'm safe, and draw my breath
Wi' freedom now — wi' freedom now,
1 fear T may some luckless day
Still tine my precious liberty.
A' yestreen I dreamt some lass.
Unco bonnie— sinfu' bonnie,
Btievely held me round the ha'se,
And roughly kiss'd and towzled me.
Georgk Ja',»>.
AULD ELSPA'S SOLILOQUY.
There's twa moons the nicht,
Quoth the auld wife to hersel'.
As she toddled hame fu' cantic,
Wi' her stomach like a stell !
There's twa moons the nicht,
An' watery do tliey glower.
As their wicks were burnln' darkly,
An' the oil was rinnin' ower !
An' they're aye spark, sparkin',
As my ain auld cruizie did,
When it blinket by the ingle,
When the rain drapt on its lid.
64
O but I'm uaco late the nioht,
An* on the cauld hearthstane
Puir Tammie will be croonin',
Wue an' weary a' his lane.
An' the wee bit spunk o' fire I left
By this time's black and cauld,—
I'll ne'er stay out sae late again.
For I'm growing frail an' auld.
neve: like to see twa moons.
They speak o' storm and rain,
. n' aye, as sure's neist morning comes,
Jiy auld head's rack'a wi' pain !
(y^9udAJ>mo^
MY AULD BREEKS.
Air—" Tlie Cornclips."
My raither men't my auld breeks.
An' wow ! but thej' were daddy.
And sent me to get Mally shod
At Robin Tamson's smiddy ;
The smiddy stands beside the burn
That wimples through the clachau,
I never yet gae by the door,
But aye I fa' a-laughin'
For Robin was a walthy carle.
An' had ae bonnie dochter,
Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man,
Tho' mony lads had sought hsv :
65
•Uit what think ye o' ray exploit ?
The time our mare was shoeing,
1 slippit up beside the lass,
And briskly fell a-\vooing.
An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks.
The time that we sat crackin',
Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouh,
I've new anes for the makin' ;
But gin 3'e'll just come hame wi' me,
An' lea' the carle, your father,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
Mysel, an' a' thegither,
'Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair,
I really think I'll tak' it,
Sue, gangr awa', get out the mare,
We'll baith slip on the back o't ;
For gin I wait my father's time,
I'll wait till I be fifty ;
But na ! — I'll marry in my prime,
An' mak' a wife most thrifty.
Wow ! Robin was an angry man,
At tyning o' his dochter :
Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran.
An' far an' near he sought her ;
But when he cam' to our fire-end.
An' fand us baith thegither,
Quo' I, gudcman, I've ta'en your bairn.
An' ye may tak' my mither.
Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow,
Guid sooth ! quo' he, you're merry.
But I'll just tak' ye at yoiu* word.
An' end this hurry-burry ;
S
66
So Robin an' our auld wife
Agreed to creep thegither ;
Now, I hae Robin Tamson's pet,
An' Robin lias my mither.
" THE DREAM OF LIFE'S YOUNG DAY."
OvcE more, Eliza, let me look upon thy smiling face.
For there I with the "joy of grief" thy mother's features
trace ;
Her sparkling eye, her winning smile, and sweet bewitch-
ing air —
Her raven locks which clust'ring hung upon her bosom fair.
It is the same enchanting smile, and ej-e of joyous mirth,
NVhich beamed so bright with life and light in her who
gave tliee birth ;
And strongly do they bring to mind life's gladsome happy
day.
When first I felt within my heart love's pulse begin to play.
^ly years were few — my heart was pure ; for vice and foUy
wore
A hideous and disgusting front, in those green days of yore:
Dextruetive dissipation then, with her deceitful train,
Had not, with their attractive glare, confus'd and turn'd iqy
brain.
Ah ! well can I recal to mind how quick my heart
beat.
To see her in the house ,of prayer, bo meekly take her seat j
67
And when our voices mingled sweet in music's solemn
strains,
Jly youthful blood tumultuously rush'd tingling through
my veins.
It must have been of happiness a more than mortal dream,
It must have been of heavenly light a bright unbroken
beam:
A draught of pure unmingl'd bliss ; for to my wither'd
heart
It doth, e'en now, a thrilling glow of ecstasy impart.
She- now hath gone where sorrow's gloom the brow dotb
never shade —
Where on the cheek the rosy bloom of youth doth never
fade ;
And I've been left to struggle here, till now my locks aro
grey,
Yet still I love to think upon this " di-eam of life's young
day."
" O CHARLIE IS MY DARLING."*
(A NEW VERSION.)
Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling /
Charlie is my darling.
The young Chevalier.
_ When first his standard caught the ej'e,
His pibroch met the ear,
Our hearts were light, our hopes were high,
For the young Chevalier.
* '£hi*> »nd the songs that precede, are from a volume entitled " Lays
Bid Lyrics," lately issued at Edinburgh, by Capt. Charles Gray, R.M.
68
Then plaided chiefs cam' frae afar,
"Wi' hearts without a fear ;
They nobly drew the sword for war,
An* the young Chevalier.
But they wha trust to fortune's smile,
Hae meikle cause to fear ;
She blinket blytlie but to beguile
The young Chevalier.
O dark CuUoden — fatal field
Fell source o' mony a tear ;
There Albyn tint her sword and shield,
And the j'oung Chevalier.
Now Scotland's " flowers are wede awa.
Her forest trees are sere ;
Her royal oak is gane for aye,
The young Chevalier !
THE GOSSIPS.
Air— Laird o' Cockpcn.
LosH ! sit down, IMrs. Clavers, and bide ye a wee,
I'll put on the kettle and mask a drap tea ;
The gudeman's at the fatr, 'twill be nicht or he's back
Sae just sit yediwn nir., and gi'es a' your crack.
Ah ! woman, I'll tell ye what I heard yestreen.
Somebody was some way they shouldna hae been ;
It's no that I'm jalousin' ocht that is ill.
But we aye ken our ain ken, and sae we'll ken still.
69
'T was just i* the gloamin' as our kimmer Nell,
Wi' her stoups and her girr, was gaun down to the well ;
She heard sic a rustle the bushes amang,
And syne sic a whistle sae clear, laigh, and lang ;
She thocht 'twas the kelpie come up frae the loch,
But she fand her mistak', and was thankfu' enouch ;
It's no that I'm jalousin' ocht that is ill,
But we aye ken our ain ken, and sae we'll ken still.
A shepherd-like chiel junket round by the dyke.
She kend wha it was by the j'amph o' his tyke ;
Syne through the laird's winnock he just gied a keek.
And the door gied a jee, syne did cannily steek :
There she siiw some ane, dress'd in a braw satin gown.
Gang oxterin" awa' wi' her faither's herd loon ;
It's no that I'm jalousin' ocht that is ill,
But we aye ken our ain ken, and sae we'll ken still,
His lang-nebbit words and his wonderfu' lare
Gar'd his honour the laird and the dominie stare;
But, losh ! how they'll glow'r at the wisdom o' Jock,
When somebody lets the cat out o' the pock ;
My certcs! the leddy has surely gane gyte.
But if onything happens we'll ken wha to wyte ;
It's no that we're jalousin' ocht that is ill,
But we aye ken our ain ken, and sae we'll ken still.
THE ADMONITION
Oh ! that fouk -wad weel consider.
What it is to tynea name -Macniei.t..
*' Hech ! lasses, ye're lichtsome — it's braw to be young,
Quo' the eldren gudewife, wi' her ailments sair dung ;
70
" Ye're thrang at your crack about maybees an' men—
Ye're thinkin', nae doubt, about hames o' your ain ;
An' why should ye no — I was ance young mysel',
An' sae weel's I've been married my neighbours can tell I
" In jokin' an' jamphin* there's nae ony crime,
Yet youth is a trying, a dangerous time ;
Tho' now ye're as happy as happy can be,
Yet trouble may come i' the glint of an e'e.
"When roses wad seem to be spread i' your path,
Ye may look for the briers to be lurking aneath ;
But do weel and dree weel, there's nae meikle fear.
The lot's unco hard the leal heart canna bear.
'* I've liv'd i' the warld baith maiden an' wife,
An' mony's the change I ha'e seen i' my life —
Tho' some may na think it, it maks na to me.
There's few for the better or likely to be.
"When I was as young as the youngest o' you,
The men ware mair faithfu', the women mair true ;
There was na the folly an' ill-fashion'd ways,
Amang the young fouk that we see now-a-days.
" Yet, lasses, believe me, I'm happy wi* you,
Ye're thochtfu' an' prudent as mony, I trow;
Though like's an ill mark, it's a pleasure to me.
When I look to ithers, your conduct to see ;
I canna say flichter'd an' foolish ye've been —
I canna say failings an' fau'ts ye hae nanc —
The best has them baith, as ye've aften heard tell.
They rade unco sicker that never ance fell.
Sae mind your ain weakness, be wary an' wise ;
Let age an' experience your conduct advise ;
And tho' it is said, youth an' eild never 'gree,
There's-nae fear o' flyiin' atween you an' me.
71
" It may be there's some, tho', I'm sure, nanc o' you.
Wad think wi' sic things I ha'e little to do —
Wad think that behaviour was naething to me,
Gin servants ware tentie — were worth meat an' fee.
Wae s me ! is there ony to think sae inclin'd,
They ken na the duties I've daily to mind ;
While I ha'e the fremrait my hallan within —
My bannock to brack, an' rny errand to rin ;
The present, the future, their gude an' their gain.
I'm bound to look owre as gin they ware my ain;
To see to their conduct a-field an' at hame.
To be, as it were, like a mither to them !
'• Ye mind the auld proverb, auld fouk were na blate—
' Misfortune's mair owing to folly than fate' —
Sae, lasses, for ance, ye maun lend me your ear,
Frae me an' my counsel ye've naething to fear.
Loolc weel to the ford ere ye try to wade thro'.
It's just atween tj'ning an* winning wi' you ;
Ye've wooers about ye as mony's ye may —
Ye've hopes an' ye've wishes as a' women ha'e ;
Ye're young, and the lads, it wad seem, think ye fair ;
But sma's your experience, I rede ye— beware.
A woman's gude name is a treasure— a mine.
But ance be imprudent, an' ance let it tyne.
Her lost reputation she canna regain —
Tak care o' yoursel's, an' beware o' the men !"
d
MY AULD LUCKY DAD.
Mv auld lucky dad was a queer couthie carl,
He lo'ed a droll story, and cog o' guid yill ;
O' siller he gather 'd a won 'erf u' harl.
By the brisk eydent clack o' his merry-gaun mill.
72
He wasna a chicken, tho' blythsorae and vauntj-.
For thrice thretty winters had whiten'd his pow ;
But the body was aye unco cheery and canty.
And his big moggin knot set my heart in a low.
At the close o' the day, when his labour was ended.
He dandled me kindly fou aft on his knee ;
Thro' childhood and danger me fed and defended.
And lang was a gude lucky daddy to me.
15ut death cam athorthim, and sairly forfoughten.
He hurkl'd down quietly— prepared for to dee ;
And left a' the bawbees, he aye had a thocht on.
The mill, and his lang neokit moggin to me.
A cottar hard by had a bonnie young dochter,
Sae winsome, and winning, she made my heart fain ;
Her heart and her hand she gae when I socht her.
Syne blushing, consented— she soon was my aia.
Xoo, flaggy and I are baith cozy and happy,
Wi' bairnies around us, in innocent glee ;
Sae I'll aye be joyfu', and tak' out my drappy.
That I too an auld lucky daddy may die.
My neighbours they ca' me the little cot lairdio :
Bless'd peace and contentment aye dwallroxmd our hearth,
And a clear siller burn wimpling thro' our bit yairdie,
Alang wi* the flowers, mak' a heaven upon earth.
While the loud roaring winds thud against our het hallan,
^ly wifie sits spinning, and lilts a bit sanr ;
Nae trouble nor sorrow is kent in the dwallia' —
Nae nicht in December to us seems ower lang.
73
And wben hoary age croAvns my pow, still contented,
I'll lead the same life that my forbear had led,
That, when laid in the yird, I may lang be lamented
By kind-hearted oys, as a gude lucky dad.
MY AIN JESSIE.
The primrose loves the sunny brae.
To meet the kiss o' wanton IMay ;
The mavis loves green leafy tree.
And there makes sweetest melodic ;
The lammie loves its mither's teats.
An' joyfu' by her side it bloats ;
For heather-bells the wild bee roves—
A' Nature's creatures hae their loves.
An' surely I hae mine, Jessie.
Thou little kens, my bonnie lass!
Thou hast me brought to sic a pass ;
Thy e'e sae saftly dark an' bright,
T.ike early simmer's day an' night ;
It's mildness and its sunny blink
Hae charm'd me sae, I canna think
O' aught in earth, or sky, but thee.
An' life has but ae joy to me —
That is in lovin' thee, Jessie^
Last Sunday, in your faither's dais,
I saw thy bloomin' ]May-morn face;
An' as 1 aften staw a look,
I maist forgot the holy book ;
Nor reckt I what tl^e preacher preach'd,
My thoughts, the while, were sae bewitch 'd!
An' aye I thought when thy bright e'e
AYad turn wV lovin' look to me,
P"or a' my worship's there, Jessie.
But short time syne I held in scorn,
An' laugh'd at chiels whomlovedid burn ;
I said it is a silly thought
That on a bonnie face could doat !
But now the laugh is turn'd on me —
The truth o' love is in thine e'e ;
An' gin it's light to me wad kytlie,
I something mair wad be than blythe, —
For in its smile is heaven, Jessie.
*yc^yy\ tyfc-
C/t^^e£>^
THE PANG O' LOVE.
Set to Music by Mr. M'Leod.
The pang o* Love is ill to dree —
Hech whow ! the biding o't —
'Twas like to prove the death o' me,
I strove sae lang at hiding o't.
AVTien first I saw the wicked thing,
I wistna it meant ill to me :
I straiked its bonny head and wing.
And took the bratchet on my knee ;
I kiss'd it ance, I kiss'd it twice,
Sae kind was I in guiding o't.
When, whisk !— it shot me in a trice,
And left me to the bidinz o't.
75
An' hey me ! how me !
Hech whow ! the biding o't !
For ony ill I've had to dree
Was naething to the biding o't.
The doctors pondered lang and sair.
To rid me o' the stanging o't;
And skeely wives a year and mair.
They warstled hard at banging o't.
But doctor's drugs did fient a haet —
Ilk wifie quat the guiding o't —
They turned, and left me to my fate,
Wi' naething for't but biding o't.
An' hey me ! how me !
Hech whow ! the biding o't !
For ony ill I've had to dree
Was naething to the biding o't.
When freends had a' done what they dought.
Right sair bumbazed my state to see,
A bonny lass some comfort brought—
111 mind her till the day I dee ;
I tauld her a' my waef u' case,
And how I'd stri'en at hiding o't.
And, blessings on her bonny face !
She saved me frae the biding o't.
An' hey me ! how me
Hech whow ! the biding o't !
For a' the ills I've had to dree
Were trifles to the biding o't.
76
THE LAST LAIRD O' THE AULD 3IINT.*
ACLD "Willie Nairn, the last Laird o' the Mint,
Had an auld farrant pow, an* auld farrant thoughts in't ;
There ne'er was before sic a bodie in print,
As auld Willie Nairn, the last Laird o' the 3Iint :
So list and ye'll find ye hae muckle to learn,
An' ye'll still be but childer to auld AViilie Xairn.
Anld Nanse, an auld maid, kept his house clean an' happy.
For the bodie was tidy, though fond o' a drappy;
An' aye when the Lainl charged the siller-taed cappy.
That on great occasions made caaers aye nappy.
"While the bicker gaed round, Nanny aj'e got a sharin' — ■
There are few sic-like masters as auld^Willie Nairn.
He'd twa muckle tabbies, ane black and ane white,
That purred by his side, at the fiie, ilka night,
And gazed in the embers wi' sage-like delight,
AVhile he ne'er took a meal, but they baith gat a bite :
For baith beast an' bodie aye gat their full sairin —
He could ne'er feed alane, couthy auld Willie Nairn.
He had mony auld queer things, frae queer places brought—
He had rusty auld swords, whilk Ferrara had wrought—
He had axes, wi' whilk Bruce an' Wallace had fought —
An' auld Koman bauchles, wi' auld baubees bought ;
For aye in the Cowgate, for auld nick-nacks stairin',
Day after day, daundered auld, sage "Willie Nairn.
• The Old Mint of Scotland, in which this eccentric philanthropist
and antiquarian resided, is situated in South Gray's Close, and forms
o-ie of the most remarkable curiosities to the visitor of the Scottish
metro^ulis.
There are gross gadding gluttons, and pimping wihe-bibbers,
That are fed for their scandal, and called pleasant fibbers ;
But the only thanks Willie gae them for their labours,
>Vere, " We cam nae here to speak ill o' our neighbours."
O ! truth wad be bolder, an' falsehood less darin',
Gia ilk ane wad treat them like auld Willie Nairn.
His snaw-flaiket locks, an' his lang pouthered que.
Commanded assent to ilk word frae his mou' ;
Though a leer in his e'e, an' a lurk in his brow,
Made yeferlie, gin he thought his ain stories true ;
But he minded o' Charlie when he'd been a bairn.
An' wha, but Bob Chambers, could thraw Willie Nairn.
Gin ye speered him anent ony auld hoary house,
He cocked his head heigh, an' he set his staff crouse.
Syne gazed through his specks, till his heart-springs brak'
loose.
Then 'mid tears in saft whispers, wad scarce wauk a mouse ;
He told ye some tale o't, wad mak your heart yearn.
To hear mair auld stories frae auld Willie Nairn.
E'en wee snarling dogs gae a kind yowfiBn bark,
As he dflundered down closes, baith ourie and dark ;
For he kend ilka door stane and auld warld mark.
An' even amid darkness his love lit a spark :
For mony sad scene that wad melted cauld airn,
Was relieved by the kind heart o' auld Willie Nairn.
An' he southered a' up wi' a snap or a farl ;
While vice that had daured to stain virtue's pure laurel,
Shrunk cowed, frae the glance o' the stalwart auld carl :
"VV'i' the weak he was wae, wi' the strong he was stem-
For dear, dear was virtue to auld Willie Nairn.
78
To spend his last shilling auld Willie had vowed ;—
But ae stormy night, in a course rauchan rowed,
At his door a wee wean skirled lusty an' loud.
An' the Laird left him heir to his lands an' his gowd !
Some are fond o' a name, some are fond o' a cairn.
But auld Will was fonder o' young Willie Nairn.
O ! we'll ne'er see his lilce again, now he's awa !
There are hunders mair rich, there are thousands mair
hraw.
But he gae a' his gifts, an' they whiles werena sma*,
Wi' a grace made them lightly on puir shouthers fa' :
An' he gae in the dark, when nae rude e'e was glarin'—
There was deep hidden pathos in auld Willie Nairn.
"^\^LL THINK OF THEE, MY LOVE.
I wrLC think of thee, my love.
When, on dewy pinions borne.
The lark is singing far above.
Near the e3-elids of the morn.
Whon the wild flowers, gemm'd with dew,
Breathe their fragrance on the air.
And, again, in light renew
Their forms, like thee, so fair.
I will think of thee, my love.
At noon when all is still.
Save the warblers of the grove.
Or the tinkling of the rill.
When the Zephj'r's balmy breeze
Sighs a pleasing melody ;
Then, beneath the spreading trees.
All my thoughts shall be of thee.
79
1 will think of thee, my love.
At evening's closing hour,
"When my willing footsteps rove
Around yon ruin'd tower.
When the moonbeam, streaming bright.
Silvers meadow-land and tree.
And the stars have paled their light-
Then, my love, I'll think of thee.
I will think of thee, my love.
At morning, noon, and night.
And every thing I see, ray love.
My fancy shall delight.
In flowers I'll view thy lovely face ;
Thy voice— the lark's sweet song
Shall whisper love ; and thus I'll trace
Thine image all day long.
aJ^Wtz^
O, MARY, WHEN YOU THINK OF ME.*
O, Marv, whenjjrou think of me.
Let pity has its share, love ;
Tho' others mock my misery.
Do you in mercy spare, love.
• This touching piece is Crom the pen of a hand-loom •weaver at In-
Vf rnry, an occupation any thing but favourable to the cultivation,
evun the very existence of poetic feeling. Mr. Thorn will, we trust,
etc long give to the world more substantial evidence of his talents,
ard xthich we have heard is in contemplation. — Ed.
80
My heart, O Mary, own'd but thee,
And sought for thine so fervently !
The saddest tear e'er wet my c'e,
Ye ken u-ha brocht it there, love.
O, lookna wi' that witching look.
That wiled my peace awa, love 1
An' dinna let me hear you sigh,
It tears my heart in twa, love !
Resume the frown ye wont to wear!
Nor shed the unavailing tear !
The hour of doom is drawing near,
An' welcome be its ca', love !
How could ye hide a thought sae kind,
Bencatli sae cauld a brow, love?
The broken heart it winna bind
Wi' gowden bandage, now, love.
Ko, Mary! ]Mark yon reckless shower I
It hung aloof in scorching hour,
An' helps na now the feckless flower
That sinks beneath its flow, love.
A HIGHLAND GARLAND.
IN TWO PARTS.
M biographical sketch of Duncan M'Rory.)
PART FIRST.
Ills honour the laird, in pursuit of an heiress.
Has squander'd his money in London an' Paris,
His creditors gloom, while the black-legs are laughin'
The ganger's the- flightiest man i' the clachan !
Our worthy incumbent is wrinkled an' auld.
An' whiles tak's a drappie to hLUidout thecauld ;
Syne wraps himself round in his auld tartan radian :
The ganger's the mightiest man i' the elachan i
The dominie toils like a slave a' the week,
An', although he's a dungeon o' Latin and Greek,
He hasna three stivers to clink in his spleuchan :
The ganger's t'ne mightiest man i' the elachan !
The doctor's a gentleman learned and braw,
But his outlay is great, an' his income is sma' ; ,
Disease is unkent i' the parish o' Strachan :
The ganger's the mightiest man i' the elachan !
Auld Johnnie M'Nab was a bien bonnet-laird,
Sax acres he had, wi' a house an' a yard ;
But now he's a dyvor, wi' birlin' an' wauchin':
The ganger's the wealthiest man i' the elachan !
The weel-scented barber, wha mell'd wi' the gentry,
The walking gazette for the half o' the kintra —
His jokes hae grown stale, for they ne'er excite laughiu':
The ganger's the wittiest man i' the elachan !
The drouthy auld smith, wi' his jest an' his jeer,
lias shrunk into nought since the ganger cam' hero :
The lang-gabbit tailor's as mute as a maukin :
The ganger's the stang o' the trump i' the elachan !
On Sundaj' the ganger's sae trig an' sae dashin'.
The model, the pink, an' the mirror o' fashion ;
He cleeks wi* the minister's daughter, I trow.
An' they smirk i' the laft in a green-cushion'd pew '
At meetings, whenever the Bailie isprescs,
He tak's his opinion in difficult cases ;
The grey-headed elders invariably greet him ;
An' brewster-wives curtsey whenever they meet him !
F
Tlie bedral, wha howfl's up the best in the land/
Aye cracks to the ganger wi' bonnet in han-l; ||
The' cold, wi' his asthma, is aair to be dreaded.
He tcill, in his preserice, continue bare-headed.
A t dredgies an' weddings he's sure to be there, '
An' either is in , or sits next to the chair ;
At roups an' iiouseheatin's, prejidss at the toddy.
An' drives hame at night i' the factor's auld noddy.
At Yule, when the daft-days are fairly set in,
A ploy without him wadna be worth a pin ;
He opens ilk ball wi' the toast o' the paiish,
An' trips like Narcissus, sae gaudy and garish.
An' when he's defunct, and is laid in the yerd.
His banes maunnamix wi' the mere vulgar herd
In the comnion kirkyard, but be carried in style.
An' buried deep, deep, in the choir, or the aisle.
PA!;T SECOND.
EKING, WHA WAS HE THINK VOi; ?
Critic — "Pray, who is this rare one? The author's ia
blame-
Not to tell us long bince of his lineage and name."
Author — " A truce with your strictm-es— don't ravel my
stoiy ;
If I must tell his name, it is Duncan r>rK'>ry.
' ' An' as for his ancestors-i-Sir, by your leave.
There were Grants in the garden with Adam and Eve;
Now, Duncan held tliis an apocryphal bore.
But he traced up his fathers to Malcolni Canmore!
"An' they had been warriors, an* chieftains, an' lairds.
An' they had been reivers, an' roLLei-s, an' cairds ;
'Ihey had filled every grade from a chief to a vassal ;
liut Mac had been Borrisdale's ain dunniwassel. •
83
" The chief an' jtt'Rory had hunted together.
They had dined i' the Ha' house, an' lunched on the
heather ;
AI'Rory had shaved him an' pouthered his wig —
My certie ! nae wonder M'Rory was big I
" When Borrisdale sported his jests after dinner,
M'Rory gutfaw'd like a laughing ' hyenar ',
An' tliunder'd applause, and was ready to ' swear
• Such peautifi:! shcstin' she neffer tit hear.'
" When Borrisdale raised a young regiment called * local,'
An' pibrochs an' fifes made the mountains seem vocal,
M'Rory was aye at his post i' the raw,
An' WHS captain, an' sergeant, an' corplar, an' a'.
"An' he drill'd the recruits wi' his braw yellow stick,
Wi' the fiat o' his soord he ga'e mony a liclc :
An' in dressin' the ranks he had never been chidden ;
An' he dined wi' the cornal whene'er he was bidden.
"On his patron's estate he was principal actor,
Gamekeeper an' forester, bailie an' factor •,
An' mony a poacher he pu'd by the lugs.
An' mony a hempie he set i' the jougs !
" But Borrisdale gaed to the land o' the leal,
An' his country was bought by a nabob frae Keel ;
Bo M'Rory 's a ganger sae trig an' sac gaiish.
The mightiest man i' the clachan or parish 1"
84
A BAILIE'S MORNING ADYirNTUltE,
Thb sun clam up outowre the Neilston braes,*
And frae his e'ebrows scuff'd the uiornin' dew ;
And warnin' dargsmen to put on their claes,
Began to speil alang the lift sae blue.
He sheuk his sides, and sent a feckfu' yeild,
And i-iiis'd the simmer-hintst frae loch and linn ;
The wunnocks sldnkl't in the heartsonie beild,
And ilka dew-drap shone a little sin.
The funneit tod cam forth to beik hinisci' ;
The birds melodious chirpit in the shaw ;
Sae bravv- a mornin' gae a bodeword fell,
That some v,-ancliance was no that far awa.
For deils and warlocks earthly things foreken,
And wyse their fause end by a pauky quirk—
Sae aft they harbinger the weird o' men,
An' wind a bricht pirn for a cast richt mirk.
As rose the sun afore the sax-hour bell,
Sae rose the Bailie, and stravaigit out ;
Guess ye the Bailie, whose exploit I tell,
In five feet verses jinglin' time about.
Nae feck o' care was in the Bailie's head ;
He thocht nae mair nor common bodies thit.k ;
Sae witches draw us stownlins to our deid,
And wyse us smilin' to the very brink.
He daunert on, ne'er thinkin' whar-awa ;
He walkit stately — bailies douna rin ;—
Till, wi' a start he thocht he halflinssaw
Some fearsome bogle wavelin' in the sin.
• Xeilston Braes— Rising ground in tlie jiarish of that name, to the
south of Paisley and Glasgow,
f Siinmer-hinte—KihalatioDS rising from the ground inw.imi weathpr.
85
ITe cried, but naething answered to his ca';
llis steps he airtit to the bogle's stance ;
But aj'e the bogle lap a bit awa ;
He only wan whar it had kyth'd to danco.
Awhile he glowr'd ; hech, what an eerie sicht !
A bushy shaw grew thick wi' dulesome yew ;
Sure sic a spat was made to scaur the licht.
And hide unearthly deeds frae mortal view.
How lang he stood, dementit, glowrin' there ;
Whetiier he saw a wraith, or gruesome cow ;
How near he swarf'd, how started up his hair,
Are secrets still deep buried in his pow.
What words he spak, we'll aiblins ne'er find out ;
But some fell charm he surely mann'd to mutter;
For at the very bit he turn'd about,
And doddit hame to eat his rows and butter.
c/Lr^- (pHUX) /u-rt)
I'LL LIVE A SINGLE LIFE.
Some foolish ladies will have men,
Whatever these should be.
And fancy they are getting old,
When scarcely twenty-three :
They never once reflect upon
The trials of a wife ;
For me, I'll pay my lovers off,
And live a single life !
I cannot think of Mr. Figg ; —
I do not like the name ;
And as for Mr. Tikeler,
Why that is much the same !
ss
And Mr. Goohi has grown so poor.
He could not keep a wife.
And Mr. Honey looks so sour—
I'll live a single life !
I see some ladies who were once
The gay belles of the to^vn,
Though but a short year married,
All changed in face and gown.
And ]Mr. Gentle rudely scolds
His little loving wife;
And ]Mr. Lowe has grown so cold^
I'll live a single life l
There's Mr. Home is always out
Till twelve o'clock at night ;
And Mr. Smart is dull and Hack,
Since married to Miss White.
And Mr. Wright has all gone wrong.
And beats his loving wife; —
I would not have such men, I trow —
I'll live a single life I
Miss Evans looks so very odd.
Since wed to Mr Strang ;
Jliss Little looks so very broad
Beside her ^Ir. Lang.
Miss Hartley looks so heartless now.
Since IMr. Wishart's wife ;
Jliss Rose has turn'd so //7i/-pale —
I'll live a single life '.
There's Mr. Foot has begg'd me oft
To give him my fair hand,-
And Mr. Crahbe has sought me too,
And so has jVIr. Bland;
An6 Mr. Yoiing and Mr. Axld
Have asked me for their wife ;
But I've denied them every one—
I'll live a single life !
Fo, ladies who arc single yet
Take heed to what I say ;
Nor cast your caps, and take the pet,
As thoughtless maidens niny :
Remeniher 'tis no common task
To prove a prudent wife ;
lor me, no one my hand n«ed ask—
I'll live a single life !
///7T. 0\
^UA^yMr^
]\!ARY DRAPER.*
Air—" Nancy Dawson.
Ton't talk to me of London dames.
Nor rave about your foreign flames.
That never lived,— except in drame.s,
Nor shone, except on paper ;
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,
Mho lived in Ballywhaemacrew,
And, let me tell you, mighty few
Could equal Mary Draper.
ITer cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
iler hair was brown, of deepest hue.
Her foot was small, and neat to view,
Ilcr waist was slight and taper ;
* Taken, vilh permission, from Charles O'Malley, the Iriili F/rjigooit
88
Her voice was music to your enr,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear ;
Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear
As from sweet Mary Draper.
She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team,
f)r with a fly she'd whip a stream,
Or maybe sing you " Rousseau's Dream,"
For nothing could escape her :
I've seen her too — upon my word —
At sixty yards bring down her bird ;
^h ! she charmed all the Forty-third !
Did lovely jMary Draper.
And at the spring assizes ball,
The junior bar would, one and all,
For all her fav'rite dances call.
And Harry Deane would caper ;
Lord Clare would then forget his lore.
King's Counsel, voting law a bore.
Were proud to figure on the floor.
For love of Mary Draper.
The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too.
Were all her slaves, and so would you.
If you had only but one view
Of such a face and sh ipe, or
Her pretty ancles — but, ohone!
It's only west of old Athlone
Such girls are found — and now they're gone-
So here's to Mary Draper.
89
I'VE AYE BEEN FOU SIN' THE YEAR CAM* IN.
Air— "Xatrd o' Cockpen."
I've aye been fou* sin' the year cam' in,
I've aye been fou' sin' the year cam' in ;
It's what wi* the brandy, an' v/hat Avi' the gin,
I've aye been fou' sin' the yeai- cam* in !
Our Yule friends they met, and a gay stoup we drank.
The bicker gaed round, an' the pintstoup did chink :
But that was a naething, as shortly ye'U fin'—
I've aye been fou' sin' the year cam' in !
Our auld timmer clock, vt'i'thorl an' string.
Had scarce shawn the hour whilk the new year did bring.
When friends and acquaintance cam' tirl at the pin —
An' I've aye been fou' sin' the year cam' iii I
My auld auntie Tibbie cam ben for her cap,
Wi' scone in her hand, and cheese in her lap.
An' drank a gude New Year to kith an' to kin—
Sae I've aye been fou' sin the year cam' in !
My strong brither Sandy cam' in frae the south—
There's some ken his mettle, but nane ken his drouth ;
I brought out the bottle, losh ! how he did grin !
I've aye been fou' sin* the year cam' in !
Wi* feasting at night, an* wi' drinking at morn,
Wi' here tak' a caullcer, and there tak' a horn,
I've gatten baith doited, and donner't, and blin'—
For I've aye been fou' sin' the year cam' in !
I sent for the doctor, an' bade him sit down.
He felt at my hand, an' he straiket my crown ;
He order'd a bottle— but it turned out gin ;
S;ie I've aye been fou' sin* the year cam* in I
90
The Sunday bell rang, an' I thought it as vxeel
To slip into the kiik, to steer clear o' the De'il ;
But the chiel at the plate fand a groat left behiii-
Sae I've aye been fou' sin' the year cam' in !
"Tis Candlemas time, an' the wee bii-ds o' spring
Are chirming an' chirping as if they wad sing ;
While here 1 sit bousing — 'tis really a sin ! —
I've aye been fou' sin the year cam' in I
The last breath o' winter is soughing awa'.
An' sime down thevylley the primrose will blaw;
A i^ouce sober Life I maun really begin,
For I've aye been fou' sin* the year cam' iu !
Oi^^>\^
THE VOICE OF MERRIMENT.
I HEARD the voice of merriment —
Of man in his glad hour,—
And there the joyous bumper lent
To mirth its maddening power :
And when I asked the reason why.
They told me that the j-ear
V.'as aged, and about to die —
Its end was drawing near. —
" The amiable and accomplished author of tlsese lines, .and '-The
Pallor's Rest.'iaserted in the last published series of this work, died
of aneurism of the heart, in July, 1839. Whilst he was seated with Mrs.
Buchanan, witnessing the gan)bols of their children, death suddenly en-
91
How strange a thing ! the human heart,
To laugh at time's decay,
When every hour we see depart
Is hurrying us away !
Away— from all the scenes that we
Have loved so much, so well ;
To where ? ah ! whither do we flee —
Whose is the tongue to tell ?
MY BEAUTIFUL SHIP.
]My beautiful ship ! I love thee.
As if thou wert living thing ;
Not the ocean bird above thee.
That speeds on its snow-white wing.
To its hungry brood at even.
Hath a fonder, gladder breast.
Than mine, when I see thee driven
By the wind that knoweth no rest .'
tered the joyous circle, and bereft his family and the world of an ornv
ment of literature, and an accomplished gentleman ; a premature
grave closing' over him at the age of thirty-six.
• In 1833, a volume of poetry, entitled "Edith," was issued anony.
mof.sly from the Glasgow press, and although the author chose to
ci nceal liis name, the reading portion cf the world was not long ia
tracing the authorship to the sequestered shades of Auchintoshan,
in Dumbartonshire, Mr. Buchanan's family seat, where he had so
successfully courted the tuneful Nine
92
When the silvery spray flies o'er thee.
Like a shower of crystal gems,
And the wave divides before thee
Wherever thy bold bow stems —
Oh ! my heart reboundeth then,
With a beat, which hath been rare,
Since the gay glad moments— when
The blood of my youth gushed there.
These are joys the Landsman's soul
Can never wot of, I ween,
No more than the buried mole
Can tell of the earth that's green.
Oh ! bear me, my ship, away.
Away on the joyous wave !
I cannot abide earth's clay—
For it minds me of the grave.
Thou art to mine eyes the fairest
Of all the fair things that be ;
Every joy of my life thou sharest.
That bringest new life to me.
Shall my soul then cease to love thee.
My beautiful sea-home ? Never I
As long as the sky's above me,
Thou shalt be my Idol ever.
I'."M LIVING YET.
This flesh has been wasted, this spirit been vext.
Till I've wish'd that mydeeing day were tho next;
But trouble will flee, an' sorrow will flit,
Sae tent me, ray lads— I'm living yet !
93
Ay, when daj's were dark, and the nights as grim,
When tlie heart was dowflF, an' the e'e was dim,
At the tail o' the purse, at the end o' my wit,
It was time to quit— but I'm living yet !
Our pleasures are constantly gi'on to disease,
An' Hope, poor thing, aft gets dowie, and dies ;
While dyester Care, wi' his darkest litt,
Keeps dipping awa' — but I'm living yet !
A wee drap drink, an' a canty chiel.
Can laugh at the warl', an' defy the deil ;
Wi' a blink o' sense, an' a flaught o' wit,
O ! that's the gear keeps nie living yet !
MY LAST SANG TO KATE REID.
I'll sing a sang to thee, Kate Reid,
It may touch a lonesome string ;
I'll sing a sang to thee, Kate Reid,
Be't the last that e'er I sing, Kate Reid,
Be't the last that e'er I sing.
» Hew Ainslie, who still, ve believe, survives bejond the western
vave, in Louisville, United States of Annrica, was born in the parish
of Dailly, Ayrshire, in 17t)2. His father removed to Etiinburgh in
1809, and his son, the subject of this note, was employed as a copying
clerk in the Register Ofiice for some time. He occasionally acted as
amanuensis to the late Dugald Stewart, after that celebrated nieta-
pl.jsician and iKgaut writer had resigned the chair of Moral I'hiloso-
pliy iu the Edinburgh Univer:,ity. Ainslie wrote with great rapidiiy
■• or I liae sung to thee, fair Katei
When the young spiincr, like thvsel',
Kythed bonnilie on Roslin lea,
In Gourton's flowery dell, Kate Reid, &c.
And simmer eves bae seen us, Kate,
Thy genty hand in mine,
As, by our pleasant waterside,
I mix'd my heart wi' thine, Kate Reid, &c.
And harvest moons hac lighted us.
When in yon silent glen
Ye sat, my living idol, Kate —
Did I not -worship then, Kate Reid? &c.
and elegance, bnt the fastidious taste of the critic frequently marred
by nice corrections the floHiiig caligraphy of his recorder. Mr. Ains-
lie again returned to the Register Office, and soon after married his
cousin, Janet Ainslie. The mechanical drudgery of copying legal
records sickened the port, and he resolved on emigrating to America.
After one or t*o unsuccessful attempts to establish a business, he at
last so far succeeded, and we hope will realize for himself and his large
family, if not wealth, a sufficient competency. Alr.Ainslieistheautliur
of several published pieces of great n-.erit, a list of which may bi seen
in a pubiicatinn lately issued in Edinburgh, entitled " Tlie CunUm-
porariesof Burns," a work wherein much local talent, hitherto uu-
known, has been brought to liglit. He was also the autliorof aseriesof
papers contributed to the Newcastle Magazine, which were considered
■worthy of biing republished in a volume, and entitled "A Pilgrimage
to the Land of Burns," a name now used to designate the locality of
Burns's nativity. Sir. Ainslie went out alone to America, to finrl a
resting-place for his family ere he should remove them from Scotland,
and it was during this period of separation from all that was dear to
him, and under a fit of sickness, that the labouring and scathed heart
sought relief in the gush of affection, entitled " The Absent Father."
95
li jTims frae my heart hae sung o' thee ,'
And trees by my aulcl hame,
That echoed to thy praises aft,
Stand graven wi' thy name, Kate Reid, 6ic
Thrice seven lang years hae past us, Kate,
Since tliae braw days gaed by ;
Anither land's around me, Kate,
I see anither sky, Kate Reid, &c.
My simmer hour is gane, Kate Reid,
The day begins to dow ;
The spark hath left this e'e, Kate Reid,
The gloss hath left this brow, Kate lltid, &C
Yet fre.sh as when I kiss'd thee last,
Still unto me ye seem ;
Bright'ner o' mony a dreary day,
Ye've sweeten'd mony a dream, Kate Reid, &c.
o^
Q!^a/
THE ABSENT FATHER.
TuK friendly greeting of our kiiiu,
Or gentler woman's smiling,
3Iay sootli a weary wand'rer's mind,
Some lonely hours beguiling ; —
May charm the restless spirit still,
The pang of grief allaying ; — *
But, ah ! the soul it cannot fill.
Or keep the hc:\rt from strayinj.
93
O '. bow the fancy, when unbound.
On wings of rapture swelling,
Will hurry to the holy ground
AVhere loves and friends are dwelling.
My lonely and my widow'd wife.
How oft to thee I wander!
And live again those hours of life.
When mutual love was tender.
And now with siclcness lowly laid.
All scenes to sadness turning,
Where will I find a breast like thine.
To laj- the brow that's burning ?
And how'st with you my little ones ?
How have those cherubs thriven.
That made my hours of leisure light.
That made my home like heaven ?
Does yet the rose array your cheeks.
As when in grief I bless'd you ?
C'r are your cherry lips as sweet,
As when with tears 1 kiss'd you ?
Does yet your broken prattle tell —
Can your young memories gather
A thought of him who loves j-ou well—
Your weary, wand'ring father.
O ! I've had wants and wishes too.
This world has choked and chili'd ;
Yet bless me but again with you.
And hall my prayer's fulfill'd.
97
WHY DO I SEEK THE GLOAMING HOUR?
"Why do I seek the gloaming hour,
When others seek the day ?
Why wander 'neath the moon's pale light.
And not the sun's bright ray ?
Why beats my heart as every blast
Gaes whistling through the trees ?
Be still in pity, gentle wind,
]My AVillie's on the seas.
And should an angry mood come o'er
Thy balmy summer breath.
Remember her who courts thy smiles.
Nor seek my sailor's death :
Think on a mother's burning tears,
The wee things on her knee ;
Be still in pity, gentle wind.
My Willie's ou the sea.
For oh, I fear the azure caves.
Thine angry mood explores ;
And sorely dread the hidden rocks,
And shelving iron shores.
Bespeak the love-sick moon's control.
And bless with fav'ring breeze-
Clow soft and steady, gentle wind.
My Willie's on the seas.
J. S.
THE INDIAN COTTAGER'S SONG.
Founded upon St. Pierre's tale of the Indian Cjttage, and adapted
9 an Hindustan air. Arranged and liarmonised by R. A. Smith.
Tho' exiled afar from the gay scenes of Delhi,
Although my proud kindred no more shall I see,
I've found a sweet home in this thick-wooded valley,
Beneath the cool shade of the green banyan tv<.-^: ,
98
'Tfs here my loved Paria* and I dwell together,
Though shunned by the world, truly blest in each other,
And thou, lovely boy ! lisping ' ' father " and ' ' mother,"
Art more than the world to my Paria and gie.
Sow dark seemed my fate, when we first met each other,
My own fatal pile ready waiting for me ;
V>'hile incense I burned on the grave of my mother,
And knew that myself the next victimf would be :
'Twas then that my Paria, as one sent from heaven.
To whom a commission of mercy is given.
Shed peace through this bosom, with deep anguish riven.
To new life, to love, and to joy waking me.
He wooed me with flowers,! to express the afl'ection
Which sympathy woke in his bosom for me ;
My poor bleeding heart clung to him for protection ;
I wept — while I vowed with my Paria to flee.
My mind, too, from darkness and ignorance freeing.
He taught to repose on that merciful Being,
The Author of Nature, all- wise and all-seeing.
Whose arm still protecteth my Paria and me.
Now safely we dwell in this cot of our rearing.
Contented, industrious, cheerful, and free ;
To each other still more endeared and endearing,
While Heaven sheds its smiles on my Paria and me.
• "Paria," the most degraded among the Indian castes ; a Paria is
one vhom none belonging toother castes will deign to recognise.
t " The next victim." The person here is supposed to have been the
^idow of a young Hindoo, condemned by the barbarous laws of the
Brahmins to be burned alive on ihe funeral pile of her husband.
t "He wooed me with flowers." The mode of courtship in oiauy
eastern countries, especially among the Hindooa.
09
Our garden supplies us with fruits and with flowers,
The sun marlcs our time, and our birds sing the hours,
And thou, darling boy ! sliooting forth thy young powers,
Completest the bliss of my Paria and me.
:^'^ ac-o'^^/-^^
LAMENT FOR CAPTAIN PATON. *
Touch once more a sober measure.
And let punch and tears be shed,
For a prince of good old fellows,
That, alack a-d:iy ! is dead ;
For a prince of worthy fellows.
And a pretty man also,
That has left the Salti^arket
In sorrow, grief, and wo.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of C:iptiin Paton no mo !
• U'e have, witli the kind permission of Messrs. Blackwood, takea
this Lament, written by Mr. Lockhart, from their IMa^iazinc, published
in September, l!il9. We know of no piece of the serio-comic to compare
witli it; it has, in fact, no rival. As a specimen of the fine arts in verse,
the portrait is complete — there is scarcely a touch wantino; to present
the livin? man— a limber built, whalebone-frame standing in ert-ct
column, five fcct eight, or so — tailorijng decorations, precise to a stitch,
and adjusted on his person with the nicety of a gold balance — in his
gait erect as if the spine were a solid, instead of a flexi'jle column—
d as little use made as possible of the foldings at the knee.
Captain Archibald I'aloun was a sou of Dr. David Patoun, a physi-
cian in Glasgow, wlio left to his son the tenement in which he lived for
ni&nj yearsprecedinghis decease, called " Patoun's Land," opposite th«
0\i Exchange at the Cross. The broad pavement, or " plalustones,"
100
His waistcoat, coat, and breeehea.
Were all cut ofiF the same web,
Of a beautiful snufiF-colour,
Or a modest genty drab ;
The blue stripe in his stocking
Round his neat slim leg did go,
. And his ruffles of the cambric fine
They were whiter tlian the snow.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo /
His hair was curled in order.
At the rising of the sun,
In comely rows and buckles smart
That about his ears did run ;
And before tliere was a toupee
That some inches up did go,
And behind there was a long queue
That did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
as it was called, in front of the house, rormed the daily parade ground
of the veteran. The Captain held a commission in a regiment that
had been raised in Scotland fur the Dutch service ; and after he had
left the tented field, lived with two maiden sisters, and Nelly, the ser-
vunt, who had, from long and faithful servitude, become an indispen-
sable in the family. He was considered a very skilful fencer, and '
excelled in small sword exercise, an accomplishment he was rather
proud of, and often handled his rattan as if it had been the lethal in-
strument whieb he used to wield against the foe. The wags of the
day got up a caricature of the Captain parrying the horned thrusts of
a belligerent bull in the Glasgow Green. The Captain fell in that
warfare from which there is no discharge, on the 30th July, 1807, at the
age of 68, and was interred in the gepulchve of his father in the Cathe-
dral, or High Church burying grounds. The ballad has, by a slight
mistake, deposited his remains in the Ram'e-horn, now St. David's,
uhurchyard.
101
And whenever we foregathered,
He took off his wee three-cockit,
And he proffered you his snuff-box,
Which he drew from his side pocket ;
And on Burdett or Bonaparte,
He would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones
Like a provost he would go.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo !
In dirty days he picked well
His footsteps with his rattan ;
Oh ! you ne'er could see the least speck
On the shoes of Captain Paton ;
And on entering the coffee-room
About two, all men did know.
They would see him with his Courier
In the middle of the row.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captam Paton no mol
Now and then upon a Sunday
He invited me to dine,
On a herring and a mutton chop
"Which his maid dressed very fine ;
There was also a little ]Malmsey,
And a bottle of Bourdeaux,
Which between me and the Captain
Passed nimbly to and fro.
Oh! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton nomo!
Or if a bowl was mentioned.
The Captain he would ring.
And bid Nelly to the \Vest-port,*
And a stoup of water bring ;
» A well, the -water of which is excellently adapted lor the com-
pounding of cold punch, now at the foot of Gbusford Street, but in the
days of the Captain, a liHle east of the Black Bull, Argyll Street.
102
Then would he mix the genuine stuff,
As they made it long ago.
With limes that on his property
In Trinidad did grow.
Oh ! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's
punch no mo !
And then all the time he would discourse,
So sensible and courteous ;
Peihaps talking of the last sermon
He had heard from Dr. PortC';us,*
Or some little bit of scandal
About Mrs. So-and-so,
Which he scarce could credit, having heard
The con but not the pro.
Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo !
Or when the candles were brought forth,
And the night was fairly setting in.
He would tell some fine old stories
About Minden-field or Dettingen —
How he fought with a French major.
And despatched him at a blow.
While his blood ran out like water
On the soft grass below.
Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo !
But at last the Captain sickened,
And grew worse from day to day.
And all missed him in the coffee-room,
From which now he stayed away ;
On Sabbaths, too, the Wee Kirkf
Blade a melancholy show.
All for wanting of the presence
Of our venerable beau.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo !
• A favourite preacher. j Now the Tron Church.
103
And in spite of all that Clegliorn
And Corkindale could do,*
It was plain, from twenty symptoms.
That death was in his view ;
So the Captain made his test'ment.
And submitted to his foe,
And we laid him by the Rams-hom-kirkf —
*Tis the way we all must go.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo !
Join all in chorus, jolly boys.
And let punch and tears be shed.
For this prince of good old fellows.
That, alack a-day ! is dead ;
For this prince of worthy fellows,
And a pretty man also.
That has left the Saltmarkefc
In sorrow, grief, and wo !
For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo !
THE FA' O' THE YEAR.
Afore the Lammas' tide
Had dun'd the birken-tree.
In a' our water-side
Nae wife was blest like me ;
• Eminent Physicians. f Now St. David's Cburoa.
104
A kind gudeman, and twa
Sweet bairns were round me here;
But they're a' ta'en awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Sair trouble cam' our gate.
An' made me, when it cam'»
A bird without a mate,
A ewe without a lamb.
Our hay was yet to maw,
And our corn was to shear.
When they a' d wined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I downa look a-field,.
For aye I trow I see
The form that was a bield
To my wee bairns and me ;
But wind, and weet, and snaw.
They never mair can fear.
Sin' they a' got the c.i'
In the fa' o' the year.
Aft on the hill at e'ens
I see him 'mang the fsrn?^
The lover o' my teens,
The faither o' my bairns ;
For there his plaid I saw
As gloamin' aye drew near —
But my a's now awa'
Sin' the fa' o* the year.
Our bonny rigs theirsel'
Reca' my waes to miod.
Our puir dumb beasties tell
O' a' that I hae tyned ;
105
For wha our wheat will saw,
And wha our sheep will shear.
Sin' my a' gaed awa'
In the fa' o' the year ?
My hearth is growing cp.uld,
And will be caulder still ;
And sair, sair in the fauld
Will be the winter's chill ;
For peats were yet to ea' —
Our sheep were yet to smear,
AVhen my a' d wined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I ettle whiles to spin,
But wee, wee patterin' feet
Come rinnin' out and in.
And then I just maun greet :
I ken it's fancy a',
And faster rows the tear.
That my a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
Be kind, O Heav'n abune !
To ane sae wae and lane.
And tak' her hamewards sune.
In pity o' her mane ;
Lang ere the IMarch winds blaw.
May she, far far frae here.
Meet them a' that's awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
ayS^y ^^^'hy^LC^'^/^
106
SHE COMES IN A DREAM OP THE NIGHT.
ORIGINAL AIR.
She comes in a dream of the night,
When the cumherless spirit is free,
A vision of beauty and light.
And sweetly she smiles upon me.
And with the dear maid as of yore,
Through scenes long remembered I stray ;
But soon the illusion is o'er —
It flits with the dawning of day.
Though low be the bed of her rest,
• And sound is her sleep in the tomb.
Her image enshrined in my breast.
Still lives in its brightness and bloom ;
And link'd with the memories of old.
That image to me is more dear
Than all that the eyes can behold —
Than all that is sweet to the ear.
And like the soft voice of a song.
That trembles and dies in the air.
While memorj- the strain will prolong.
And fix it unchangeable there ;
So deep in remembrance will lie.
That form, ever lovely and young ;
The lustre that lived in her eye^
The music that flow'd from her tongue.
,/iij^uJ''-iMJi/l^-^
107
JOHN FROST.
Air — The young May moon is beaming, love.
You've come early to see us this year, John Frost,
^yi' your Crispin' an' poutherin' gear, John Frost ;
For hedge tower an' tree, as far as I see,
Are as white as the bloom o' the pear, John Frost.
You've been very preceese wi' your wark, John Frost,
Altho' ye hae wrought in the dark, John Frost ;
For ilka fit-stap frae the door to the slap.
Is braw as a new linen sark, John Frost.
There are some things about ye I like, John Frost,
An' ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost ;
For the weans, wi' cauld taes, crying ' ' shoon, stockings
claes,"
Keep us busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.
An' to tell you I winna beblate, John Frost,
Our gudeman stops out whiles rather late, John Frost,
An' the blame's put on you, if he gets a thocht fou'.
He's sae fleyed for the slippery lang gate, John Frost.
Ye hae fine goin's-on in the north, John Frost,
Wi' your houses o' ice, and so forth, John Frost ;
Tho' their kirn's on the fire, they may kirn till they tira.
But their butter— pray what is it worth, John Frost ?
How your breath wad be greatly improven, John Frost,
By a whilock in some baker's oven, John Frost ;
"VVi' het scones for a lunch, and a horn o' rum punch,
Or wi' gude whisky toddy a' stovin', John Frost.
/Z^^p-^
108
T LO'ED YE WHEN LIFE'S EARLY DEW.
I lo'kv ye when life's early dew
A' fresh upon your bosom lay ;
I preed your wee bit fragrant mou',
An' vow'd to lo'e ye in decay.
Ye now sit in the auld aik chair ;
The rose hath faded frae your cheek ;
Wi' siller tints time dj'es your hair —
Your voice now quivers whan ye speak.
Yet joy it is for me to hae
Your wintry beauty in my arms ;
The faithfu' heart kens nae decay —
It's simmer there in a' its charms.
An' kindly is j-our smile to me,
Altho' nae dimple round it plays ;
Your voice is aye a melody,
That breathes to me o' ither days.
Fill hie the cup, my gude auld May,
In ruddy wine I'll pledge ye yet ;
\%'hile mem'ry lingers o'er the day.
The happy day when first we met.
An' this the pledge 'tween you an' me,
Whan time comes hirplin wreath'd in snaw.
Like leaves frae aff an aged tree.
May we to earth thegither fa'.
109
THE BURNSIDE,
I wander'd by the burn side,
Lang, lang syne ;
When I was Willie's promis'd bride.
And Willie's heart was mine.
I wanderd by the burn side.
And little did I think,
That e'er I should gang mournin'
Sae sadly by its brink.
We wander'd by the burn side.
Late, late at e'en.
And mony were the vows breath'd
Its flowery banks atween : —
We wander'd late, we wander'd aft.
It ne'er seem'd late nor lang,
Sae mony were the kind things
That Willie said and sang.
But, waes me for the burn side.
It's flowers sae sweet, sae fair ;
And waes me for the lasting love.
That Willie promis'd there :
The flowers forsook the burn side,
. But ah ! they didna part
Sae cauldly frae its bonny banks,
As truth frae Willie's heart.
Now I gang by the bum side.
My sad, my leefu' lane.
And Willie on its flowery banks
IMaun never look again.
For ither scenes, ;^nd ither charms,
Hae glamour'd Willie's een.
He thinks nae on the burn side,
He thinks ua on his Jean.
no
O ! blessin's on the bum side!
Its a' the bless I hae
To wander lonely by its brink,
The lee lang night and day —
But waes mc- for its bonny flowers
Their sweets I daurna see,
For Willie's love, and Willie's wrang,
Wi' teais blind aye my e'e !
HERE'S TO YOU AGAIN.
Air — " Toddlin' hame."
Let votaries o' Bacchus o' wine make their boast.
And diink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post,
A drap o' raaut broe I wad far rather pree,
And a rosy-faced landlord's the l?acchus for me.
Then I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben,
And let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken.
Your wine it may do for the bodies far south.
But a Scotsman l.kes something that bites i' the mouth,
And whisky's the thing that can do't to a Tee,
Then Scotsmen and wliisky will ever agree;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean.
It's now thretty years since I first took the drap.
To moisten my carcase, and keep it in sap,
An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slockened the sun,
1 fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun ;
in
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
I'm nae sooner sleekened than drouthy again.
Your douse folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot,
A worm to a still,— a sand bed,— and what not;
They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth.
But, oddsake ! they never consider my drouth ;
Vet I'll toddle butt, an' I'll toddle ben.
An' laugh at their nonsense — wha nae better ken.
Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel'a wiat;
A glass o' good whisky affect to despise,
Poor scurvy-souled wretches — they're no very blate.
Besides, let me tell them, they're foes to the State;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben.
Gin folk wadna drink, how could Government fen' ?
Vet wae on the tax that mak's whisky sae dear,
An' wae on the ganger sae strict and severe :
Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see.
That whisky, like water, to a' should be free ;
For I'd toddle butt, an* I'd toddle ben.
An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain.
What signifies New'rday ?— a mock at the best.
That tempts but poor bodies, and leaves them unblest,
For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae.
Unless that ilk year ^\ere as short as a day ;
Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
Wi' the hearty Jiet pint, an' the canty black hen.
I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash,
Weel kennin' it only wad breed me mair fash ;
But aye when I had it, I let it gang free.
An' wad toss for a gill wi' my liindniost bawbee;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'.
112
Had siller been made in the kist to lock by,
It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die;
Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see.
It aye was designed it should circulate free ;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,
An' aye whan we get it, we'll part wi't again.
I ance was persuaded to " put in the pin,"
But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in,
For whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout,
The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out;
Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben,
And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again.
O Iceze me on whisky ! it gies us new life,
It mak's us aye cadgy to cuddle the wife;
It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld.
And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld ;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben.
An' we'll coup aff our glasses, — " here's to you again.'
Ji^
'^X
THE IRON DESPOT OF THE NORTH.
The iron Despot of the North
]\f ay on his vassals call.
But not for him will I go forth
From my old castle hall.
Though sabres, swayed by Polish hands.
Have battled for the foe,
There's one, at least. Oppression's bands
Shall ne'er see brandished so !
113
I fought in Freedom's farewell field,
I saved a useless life ;
No weapon from that hour to wield.
In a less noble strife.
When hostile strangers passed my gate.
On Hope's red grave 1 swore,
That, like my ruined country's fate,
This arm should rise no more.
I flung into the bloody moat,
A flag no longer free.
Which centuries had seen afloat.
In feudal majesty.
The sword a warrior-race bequeathed
With honour to their son.
Hangs on the mouldering Avail imsheathed,
And rust consumes my gun.
The steed that, rushing to the ranks,
Defied the stubborn rein,
Felt not on his impatient flanks.
The horseman's spur again.
And I, the last of all my line.
Left an afiianced bride.
Lest slaves should spring from blood of mine.
To serve the Despot's pride.
114
THE KAIL-BROSE OF AULD SCOTLAND.*
(NEW VERSION.)
Am— The Roast-bee/ of Old England.
The Genius of Scotland lang wept owre our woes,
But now that we've gotten baith peace and repose.
We've kits fu' o' butter — we've cogs fu' o' brose:
O ! the kail-brose of auld Scotland,
And ! for the Scottish kail-brose.
Nae mair shall our cheeks, ance sae lean and sae wan,
Hing shilpit and lank, like a bladder half-blawn ;
Our langrunkled painches will now, like a can,
Be stentit wi' brose o' auld Scotland,
The stiff, stughie, Scottish kail-brose.
Our Sawnies and Maggies, as hard as the horn,
At e'en blythe will dance, yet work fell the neist morn ;
They'll baud baith the French and their puddocks in scorn,
"While fed on the brose o* auld Scotland,
Large luggies o' Scottish kail-brose.
There's our brave Forty-second, in Egypt wha fought,
AVi' Invincibles styled, whom they soon set at nought ;
But the Frenchmen ne'er dreamt that sic wark could be
Avrought,
For they kent na the brose o' auld Scotland,
The poust that's in Scottish kail-brose.
•Thismodemversionofthepotenteffectsof the National dish, Kail-
bTose, fairly, in our opinion, excels the original by Deacon Watson ;
but our friend Mr. Inglis must not be unduly eleyated at our prefer-
ence, because the Deacon of the Tailors lays claim, professionally, to
fractional proportions in the genua homo, though really his song is
worthy of Xine hand?, the quantity of squatters who are required
to fill the clothes of an able-bodied member in eommon society.
115
Again, at the battle o' red Waterloo,
How they pricket and proget the French thro' and thro'
Some ran, and some rade— and some look'd rather blue,
As thej' fled frae the sons o' auld Scotland,
Frae the chiels that were fed upon brose.
To tell ilka feat wherein Scotsmen hae shone.
Is vain to attempt — they're so numerous grown ;
For where will you meet wi' mair muscle and bone,
Than is bred on the brose o' auld Scotland,
The rib-prapping Scottish kail-brose ?
Then join me, all ye to whom Scotland is dear,
And loud let us sing o' the chief o' her cheer ;
Let cutties and cogs show our hearts are sincere.
While we welcome the brose o' auld Scotland,
The braw halesome Scottish kail-brose :
'/^^^,.
IT'S DOWIE IN THE HIN' O' HAIRST.
It's dowie in the hin' o' hairst,
At the wa'gang o* the swallow.
When the winds grow cauld, when the bums grow
bauld.
An' the wuds are hingin' yellow ;
But, O ! it's dowier far to see*
The wa'gang o' her the heart gangs wi'—
The deadset o' a shining e'e
That darkens the weary warld on thee.
116
There was muckle luve atween us twa—
O ! twa could ne'er be fonder ;
An' the thing below was never made
That could hae gar'd us sunder.
But the way o' Heav'n's aboon a' ken —
An' we maun bear what it likes to sen'—
It's comfort though, to weary men.
That the warst o' this warl's waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come an* gae—
Just seen and just forgotten —
An' the flow'rs that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten ;
But the last look o' that lovely e'e^
An' the dying grip she ga'e to me,
They're settled like eternity :—
O, Mary ! that I were with thee !
I'VE SOUGHT IN LANDS AYONT THE SEA.
Afr— " My Normandie."
I've sought in lands ayont the sea
A hame — a couthie hame for thee,
An' honeysickle bursts aroimd
The blythsome hame that I hae found ;
Then dinna grudge your heather bell,
O fretna for your flowerless fell.
There's dale an' down mair fair to see,
Than ought in our bleak countrie !
117
Come o'er the waters, dinna fear.
The lav'rock lilts as lo'esome here.
An' mony a sweet, around, above.
Shall welcome o'er my Jessie, love.
My hame Avi' halesome gear is fu'.
My heart wi' lowing love for you ;
O liaste, my Jessie, come an' see
The hame — the heart that wants but thee!
But mind ye, lass, the fleetfu' hours,
They wait na— spare na fouk nor flowers.
An* sair are fouk and flowers to blame,
Wha wishfu' wastef u' wait for them.
O bidena lang in swither, then.
Since flowers and fouk may wither, then.
But come as lang's I hae to gi'e
A hame, a heart to welcome thee !
I WOULDNA— I COULDNA LOOK.
I woiTLDNA — O I couldna look
On that sweet face again,
I daurna trust my simple heart,
Now it's ance mair my ain.
I wouldna thole what I ha'e thol'd,
Sic dule I wouldna dree.
For a' that love could now unfold
Frae woman's witchfu' e'e.
I ve mourn'd until the waesome moon
Has sunk ahint the hill.
An' seen ilk sparkling licht aboon
Creep o'er me, moumin* still.
118
I've thocht my very mither's hame
Was hameless-like to me ;
Nor could I think this waild the same,
That I was wont to see.
But years o' weary care ha'e past,
"\Vi' blinks o' joy between ;
An* yon heart-hoarded furm at last
Forsakes my doited een.
Sae cauld and dark's my bosom now.
Sic hopes lie buried there ;
That sepulchre whare love's saft lowe
May never kindle mair.
I couldna trust this foolish heart
When it's ance mair my ain ;
I couldna — O ! I daurna look
On Mary's face again !
I KEN A FAIR WEE FLOWER.
I KEM a fair wee flower that blooms
Far down in yon deep dell,
I ken its hame, its bonny hame.
But whare, I winna tell.
When rings the sheplierd's e'ening horn.
Oft finds that soothing hour,
Stars on the sky, dew on the earth,
And me beside my flower.
It is not frae the tints o' day
My gentle flower receives
It's fairest hue, nor does the sun
Call forth its blushing leaves ;
119
In secrecy it blooms, where Love
Delights to strew his bower ;
Where many an unseen spirit smiles
Upon my happy flower.
Ah ! weel j'e guess, that fancy gives
This living gem o' mine
A female form o' loveliness,
A soul in't a' divine •
A glorious e'e that rows beneath
A fringe o' midnight hue,
Twa yielding lips, wi' love's ain sweets
Ay meltin' kindly through.
•Tis a* the wealth that I am worth,
'Tis a' my praise and pride ;
And fast the hours flee over ma
"When wooin' by its side.
Or lookin' on its bonny breast.
So innocently fair.
To see the purity, and peace.
And love, that's glowing there.
Wi' saftest words I woo my flower.
But wi' a stronger arm
I shield each gentle opening bud,
Frae every ruthless harm.
The wretch that would, wi' serpent wile.
Betray my flower so fair,
Oh, may he live without a friend.
And die without a praj-er '■
ae^c
120
PHOEBE GRAEME.
Arise, my faithfu* Phoebe Graeme !
I grieve to see ye sit
Sae laigh upon your cutty stool
In sic a dorty fit !
A reamin' cog's a wilin' rogue ;
But, by our vows sincere,
Ilk smilin' cup, whilk mirth filled up,
"Was drained wi' friends lang dear ;
Ye needna turn your tearfu' e'e
Sae aften on the clock ;
I ken the short hand frae the lang
As weel as wiser folk.
Let hoary time, wi' blethrin' chimo
Taunt on — nae wit has he
Nae spell-spun hour— nae wilin' power
Can win my heart frae thee.
O, Aveel ye ken, dear Phcebe Graeme!
Sin' we, 'maist bairns, wed.
That, torn by poortith's iron teeth,
]My heart has afttimes bled.
Fortune, the jaud, for a' she had.
Doled me but feckless blanks ;
Yet, bless'd wi' thee, and love, and glee,
I scorn her partial pranks.
A s drumlie clouds o'er simmer skies
Let anger's shadows flit !
There's days o' peace, and nights o' joy
To pass between us yet !
For I do swear to thee, my fair.
Till life's last pulse be o'er,
Till light depart, one faithful heart
Shall love thee more and more.
121
Fair be tby fa ! my Phoebe Graeme,.
Enraptured now I see
The smile upon thy bonny face.
That wont to welcome me.
Grant me the bliss o' ae fond kiss,
And kind forgiving blink
O' tby true love, and I will prove
Far wiser than ye think !
WIFIE COME HAME.
"W'ifie come hame.
My coizthie wee dame ;
O but ye're far awa,
Wifie come hame.
Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy brow,
Come -wi' the lown star o' luve in thine e'e ;
Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou,
A' furred wi' balm like the dew on the lea.
Come wi' the gowd tassels fringing thy hair,
Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee;
Gome wi' thy wee step an' wifie-like air,
O quickly come an' shed blessings on me.
Wifie come hame,
My couthie wee dame ;
O my heart wearies sair,
Wifie, come hame.
122
Come wi* our luve pledge, our dear little dawtie,
Clu&terins my neck round, and clambering my knee,
Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.
O ! but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
Lanely and eerie's the life that I dree ;
O come awa, and I'll dance round about j-e,
Ye'se ne'er again win' frae my arms till I dee.
Wilie, come hnme,
]My couthie we dame ;
O ! but ye're far awa,
Wifie, come hame.
\
THE HIGHLAND DRILL.*
Come Corplar iM'Donald, pe handy my lad.
Drive in a' ta stragglers to mornin' paraad !
Greas orst!\ oryou'll maypeget " through ta wood laddie,"
Ta Kornal will not leave a soul in your pody !
Faall into ta ranks tere ! j-e scoundlars fall in !
I'll mak* ta one half of you shurap from your skin !
You're raw as ta mutton, an' creen as ta cabbage,
I'll treel you to teath with your weight heavy paggage • *
• The spoken passage in this song is taken from the "Laird of Logan,"
and contributed to that -work by Mr. Carrick. We do not know
whether to admire most the prose or verse portion. The description
is so true to life, that we think the burly, consequential tones of the
sergeant sound in our ears.
t Make haste; pronounced A;re((-Aor«<.
123
Advance to ta left tere ! faall pack to ta right!
Tress straight into line, or I'll treel you till night !
You sodgers ! — ye're shust a disgraisli toyour clan,
An' a ferry hard pargain to Shorge, honest man !
You Tuncan M'Donald ! you fery great sot,
^ ou're truiilv as ta cap, or ta stoup, or ta pot !
You'll keta night's quarters into ta plack hole : —
Now, silence ! an' answer to call of ta roll.
Sergeant (bawling at the top of his voice,) "Donald M'Donald,
Mhort' — (no answer, the man being absent) — I see you're there, so
you're right not to speak to nobody in the ranks. Donald M'Donald,
Rhuat"\ •'Here." "Ay, you're always here when nobody wants
you. Don.ild M'Donald, Fad f j:— (no answer) — oh decent, modest lad,
you're always here, though, like a good sodgcr, as you are, you seldom
say nothing about it. Donald M'Donald, Cluasan Mkor f§ — (no answer)
— I hear you ; but you might speak a little louder for all that. Donald
M'Donald, OrdagV'^ "Here." " If you're here this morning, it's no
likely you'll be here to-morrow morning; I'll shust mark you down
absent; so let that stand for that. Donald BI'Donald, Casan MhorV"^
" Here." " Oh damorst ! you said that yesterday, but wha saw't you ?—
you're always here, if we tak your own word for it. Donald M'Donald,
Cambeulf'** "Here" — (in a loud voice.) " If you was not known
for a tani liar, I would believe you ; but you've a bad habit, my lad, of
always crying here whether you're here or no; and till you give up
your bad habit, I'll shust always mark you down absent for your im-
pudence : it's all for your own good, so you need not oast down youi
brows, but shust be thankful that I don't stop your loaf too, and then
you wad maybe have to thank your own souple tongue for a sair back
and a toom belly. Attention noo, lads, and let every man turn bis
eyes to the sergeant."
• Big or great. f Red-haired. ^ Long. § Big ears.
y Applied to a man having an extra thumb. f Big feet.
*• Crooked mouth.
124
You Ronald SI'Donald ! your pelt is as plack
As ta pra' Sunday coat on ta minister's pack ;
So yoa needna stand ciuntin' tere shust like ta pig,
For ta Captain shall send you on duty fatigue !
An' as foryou,Evan JNI'Donald, j-ou see
You'll go to ta guard-house tis moment wi' me ;
Your firelock and pagnet '11 no do at a',
An' ta ram-rod's sac roosty it winna pe traw !
An' Struan M'Donald, stand straight on your shanks,
Whenever ta sergeant treels you in ta ranks ;
An' hoult up your head, Sir, and shoulter your humph !
I toot you've peen trinkin', you creat muckle sumph !
You, Lauchie 31'Donald ! you skellum, ochon ,'
Your hair's neither pouthered nor letten alone
An' the tin o' your pig-tail has lost the shapan.
An' j'our frill is as brown as the heather o' Pran !
Oigh ! Dugald M'Donald ! your small clothes are aye
As yellow as mustard in April or May ;
I tare say you think it a creat cryin' sin
To puy ta pipe clay, an' to rub it hard in !
An' now you'll dismiss like goot bairns till to-morrow,
I'm sure you're my pride, an' my shoy, an' my sorrow ;
It's a' for your goods if I gie you a thraw, —
For the sergeant ye ken has the sharge of ye a*.
[MlQgTLll ° © a [M He 11 io
•As the auld cock craws, the young cock learns."
Nursery Logic
^OE) K®lE!^Tf@IKl, ©LAi©©^.
WHISTLE-BINKIE
COLLECTION OF SONGS
SOCIAL CIRCLE.
GLASGOW :-DAVID ROBERTSON;
EDlNBURGH:_OLIVER & BOYD AND JOHN MEXZIE3.
I.ONDON:_LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS;
AND SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & COMPANY;
DUBLIN— JAMES M'GLASHAN.
MDCCCLIII.
A WORD AT PARTING.
It has been often objected to this work, that it was too
squat and cubed-like in appearance — the publisher resolved,
in consequence, to make two volumes of it. This has been
done, and is largely supplemented by Biography and New
Pieces. Each volume is complete in itself; the only con-
nection is the running title.
The Memoirs of deceased contributors are supplied by
parties who personally knew the individuals whose history
they give, the Memoirs may therefore be implicitly trusted.
The New Pieces introduced are those left over of the last
issue, series fifth, of this work, and which had the editorial
imprimatur of the lamented editor, from the last edition of
Motherwell's Poems, which underwent the critical inspec-
tion of the poet's friend, William Kennedy.
A large number also are from the prolific pen of that Son
of Song, James Ballantine, one of the original staff of
"Whistlebinkians, and who is now the only one remaining
among us who wrote expressly for this work at its starting!
he is by far the largest contributor of any of his gifted bre-
thren. The Lion's share of the labour and honour is his
in giving material, and also critical advice in the selections
and prunings to which the compositions were subjected.
a
In taking farewell, the publisher cannot refrain from
■wishing that this highly-gifted child of song may long he
spared to the public. He and his publisher, greatly his
senior in years, are only left to cherish the memory of
tliose whose " Lyres lie silent now and sad."
He who gave publicity to this work, has followed the re-
mains of many of these minstrels to " The dusty house of
Death,"' and felt the wheel working at life's cistern, trou-
bled when that hollow booming key-note of death was
struck, as the soil fell on the casing which contained the
uaconscious remains of those whom he lored, reflecting
tLat he soon, too, must return to mix with kindred dust.
Glasgow, JuTie, 1S53.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
OF
WILLIAM THOM.
William Thom was born in a house in Sinclair's Close,
Justice Port, Aberdeen, about the end of 1788, or the be-
ginning of 1789. His father was a merchant, but died
soon, and left his mother so poor that the only education
she could afford her son was a short attendance at a dame's
school, whiak, however, he seems to have improved well
enough to enable him to make what he learned there the
foundation f..' some self- tuition afterwards. At an early
age he was bcund apprentice to the firm of Bryce & Young,
Cotton Manu acturers, Lower Deuburn, where he distin-
guished hims jlf more by his smart repartees, his audacious
abuse of bigger and stronger shopmates, and his success
among the female weavers, than by his skill or industry,
although undoubtedly he mastered sufficiently the myste-
ries of his craft. He was possessed from his boyhood of a
wonderful ' gift of the gab,' which served him well both in
putting down men, and gaining over women. Original
lameness from a deformed foot had been increased by an
accident, and when his sarcastic remarks were likely to
get him 'a thrashing,' he pawkily contrived to escape by
exclaiming, ♦ You coward, wad ye strike a cripple ?' It is
suspected that he did not always get so easily out of the
scrapes which his smooth tongue brought him into with
the gentler sex. Although short in stature, and deformed.
VI
he could boast more conquests than the tallest man in the
factory ; and it is a fact, that to the end of his days he
possessed the power— however sparingly he may have used
it— of fascinating both men and women by his conversation.
He used to remark jocularly that the true road to success
was to indulge in a sort of mysterious verbiage which nei-
ther the speaker nor the listener could understand, for
that women were like seals, which the sailors had first to
astonish and then secure.
About 1817 the firm of Bryce & Young was dissolved,
and Thom, along with a number of his fellow-workmen,
went to the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron & Co.,
where he worked for ten years, enjoying all the time much
celebrity as a boon companion. He played the flute ad-
mirably — he sang well — he produced an occasional original
song— he was always ready with a speech, comic or serious
— and his lively, agreeable, and shrewd talk, never failed
to keep the company alive. It is need^ss to say that he
was much sought after, and that the sort of life he was
almost forced to lead contributed little either to immediate
or permanent advantage. A matrimonial engagement
which he had entered into turned out unfortunate, the
fault being, perhaps, to some extent his own ; there was a
sort of break-up in the circles which he frequented ; he
grew lonely and dull, and, at length, left Aberdeen for the
south. After trying Dundee, he went to live at Newtyle,
where he seems to have passed some years of hard work
and domestic happiness with his Jean. The touching
autobiographical episode which he relates with so much
pathos, occurred at this time. Many a reader must have
wept over the tale of utter destitution— the pawning of the
last article of value— the purchase of the small pack — the
death of the child— the flute-playing for money— and all
the other details connected with the wandering portion of
vn
the poet's life. At last, he says, his soul grew sick of the
beggar's work, and times getting a little better, he settled
down to his loom. In January, 1840, he took up his abode
in Inverury, for the sake of getting the better pay of what
is called 'customer work;' and here his conversational
powers secured for him again a good deal of countenance
and some substantial benefit. Still there seemed no chance
of escape from his lot of toil. But his better star, though
he knew it not, was in the ascendant ; and it shone bright-
ly, but alas, briefly 1 One of the finest of his poetical
pieces — No. I. of * The Blind Boy's Pranks* — was forwarded
to the Aberdeen Herald, with a note to the Editor, in
which the author, with conscious pride, told the Editor
that if he did not think the poetry good, he (Thorn) pitied
his taste. The Editor did think it good, and inserted it in
his first publication, with the following note : —
' These beautiful stanzas are by a Correspondent who
subscribes himself " a Serf," and declares that he has to
" weave fourteen hours of the four-and-twenty." We trust
his daily toil will soon be, abridged, that he may have more
leisure to devote to an art in which he shows so much
natural genius and cultivated taste.' — The piece was copied
widely into the newspapers, and in the columns of the
Aberdeen Journal met the eye of Mr Gordon of Knockes-
pock, who was so much struck with the beauty and fancy
it displayed, that he resolved forthwith to do something
for the author, and began his good work by sending a five
pound note. This was a most welcome present to Thom
in the middle of winter, and when his resources were at a
very low ebb. He had found a real Mecsenas ; for soon
afterwards, to use his own words, ' he and his daughter
were dashing it in a gilded carriage in London, and under
the protection and at the expense of Mr Gordon, spent
four months in England, visiting and being visited by many
a9
VUl
of the leading men of the day.' Other friends sprung up,
and in 1844, a small volume, entitled ' Rhymes and Recol-
lections,* dedicated to Mrs Gordon, was published, and had
a good sale. Thorn, in the meantime, had returned to his
loom at Inverury, but in the end of the year just mentioa-
ed he went again to London, with the view of getting out
an enlarged edition of his poems, and engaging perma-
nently in some literary employment. He was most cor-,
dially welcomed by a number of enthusiastic countrymen;
and in February, 1845, a grand dinner was got up to him
in the ' Crown and Anchor,' W. J. Fox, Esq., (now M.P.
for Oldham) presiding, and several men of eminence con-
nected with literature and art, forming part of the com-
pany. Some delay occurred in the publication of his
second volume, or there can be no doubt that the favour-
able impression he produced at that dinner, and in the
private intercourse that ensued, would have secured a
rapid sale. As it was, his fame had spread abroad in the
world. He received from India the proceeds of a ball got
up in his favour, and chiefly through the exertions of the
late Margaret Fuller of the Tribune, a sum of nearly £1.50
from New York, in addition to £300 that had been sent to
him before. The working-classes of London, too, contri-
buted their mite in honovu- of the weaver-poet. They got
up a meeting for his benefit in the National Hall, High
Holborn, which was presided over by Dr Bowring, and
proved highly successful. This was the culminating point
of his career. Dickens, William and Mary Howitt, Forster
(of the Examiner), John Robertson (formerly of the Wett-^
minster), Eliza Cook, his friend Fox, and a host of other
literary celebrities, paid him every attention. Several of
our leading statesmen took an interest in him, and he had
an opportunity of seeing and enjoying all that the best
society in London could produce. He visited Paris at a
IX
later period, along with Mr Mowatt — a warm-hearted
Scotchman who, for many years, has always had at Tower
Hill a hearty welcome for those of his countrymen who
can show any claim to the possession of talent or genius,
no matter how humble their circumstances otherwise —and
was highly delighted with all he saw. But in London he
found parasites, even among the literary class, as well as
friends : his pecuniary means melted rapidly away— the
delay in the publication of his book prevented it from being
so profitable as it might have been — he either did not find
suitable literary employment, or did not get paid for it —
the temptations of the great city, in some respects, proved
too strong for him— he began to lose caste, and fairly lost
heart. Starvation was almost staring him in the face, apd
he resolved to return to Scotland. At this juncture
Mr Fox stood his friend, and partly by private subscrip-
tions, and partly by a grant from the Literary Fund, pro-
cured him the means of travelling, with his family, to
Dundee.
For the incidents connected with the poet's early life,
we are indebted to William Anderson, a brother bard in
Aberdeen, who has done much to illustrate the scenery
and characters of his native town ; to Mr John Robertson
of Lower Thames Street, London, a warm and disinterested
friend of Thom's, and a rhymer too, we owe the details of
the London visit; and a kindred spirit in Dundee, Mr
James Scrymgeour, has enabled us to complete our brief
sketch by furnishing the following melancholy account of
Thom's last days. He had expected, or hoped rather, that
his health and spirits would recover if he removed to some
spot familiar in former times, and he took up his abode at
Hawkhill, a suburban district of Dundee, where he had
once worked at the loom ; but he soon discovered, though
heartily welcomed, that his was a malady which no change
of scene could alleviate or cure— the vital spring was
aflFected, he suflfered from the
• desolating thought which comes
Into man's happiest hours and homes,
"Whose melancholy boding flings
Death's shadow o'er the brightest things.'
There were many in Dundee who did all they could to lift
the weight from his heart, and dispel the gloom from his
countenance, but all in vain. He walked about, as his
brother poet Gow said, • with his death upon him.' He
was at the "Watt Institution Anniversary Festival, (of 19th
Jan., 1848,) and was introduced to a large assembly, by the
president, Lord Kinnaird. His reception was hearty, but
his words were few ; he was not at home ; the fountains of
poetry and pleasure were dried up in him ; the zest of life
was quite gone. He could neither sit, nor walk, nor read,
nor write with any comfort. On the 29th of February he
died. On the 3d of March following, his remains had the
honour of what may be called a public funeral. The
town's officers and the guildry officers in their liveries
headed the cortege. 'Dark ee'd "Willie,* the poet's son,
acted as chief mourner, and the hearse was followed by
the provost and many of the principal inhabitants of Dun-
dee. The coffin, when bared, exhibited the letters W. T.,
aged 59, and amid the sympathies of the crowd was
lowered into the earth at a spot where, oftener than once,
during his last days, its occupant said he would like to be
buried. A warm admirer, Mr Geo. Lawson of Edinburgh,
author of • The "Water Lilies,' as a farewell tribute of re-
spect, planted the grave with wild flowers, and during the
snow-storm of the present year (1853), the writer of this
notice having sent to Dundee to make inquiries about the
poet's death, received from his correspondent a snow-
XI
drop, one of many which had reared their heads in the
form of a T over the poet's last resting-place.
"We must leave it to the reader to draw his own moral
from the sad history of Thom. If he had faults, his merits
were not few. The circumstances of his early life were
not calculated to give much firmness to his character, and
his sudden blaze into notoriety helped perhaps to carry
him off his feet a little. But he never lost his fine sensi-
bilities ; he could appreciate what was good, and sensible,
and just, if he did not always practise it, and he was as
generous to others as he was reckless of his own interests.
It only remains to mention that Thorn's children, two
boys and a girl, are in a fair way of getting on in the
world. The oldest son, through the assistance of Mr Gor-
don of Knockespock, got a good education, and is now, we
believe, a tutor at one of our Scottish Universities ; the
second had, through Dr Bowring, a situation on the Black-
wall Railivay, but left it to go to sea, where he is doing
well ; the daughter, a handsome young woman, has gone
to Australia.
R. A. SMITH.
Smith had passed into the spiritual world several years
preceding the publication of the first series of this Work, but
his name will ever be associated with our national music.
The following notice is extracted from ♦ M'Conechy's Life
of Motherwell :'—
• Smith was bom at Reading, in Berkshire, in 1779. His
father was a native of West Calder, in Lanarkshire, and
his mother an Englishwoman of respectable connexions.
In the year 1773, his father emigrated to England in
xu
consequence of the dulness of the silk-weaving trade,
but returned to Paisley after an absence of seventeen
years, bringing with him his son, whom he intended to
educate to the loom. This, however, was found to be
impossible. Nature had furnished the lad with the most
delicate musical sensibilities, and after an ineffectual
struggle with the ruling passion, music became the busi-
ness of his life. He attained to considerable provincial
distinction, and composed original music for the following
eongs of the poet Tannahill, whose intimate friend he
was:— Jessie the Flower o'Dumblane — The Lass of Arran-
teenie — The Harper of Mull — Langsyne beside the Wood-
land Burn — Our Bonnie Scots Lads— Despairing Mary —
"NVi* waefu' heart and sorrowin' ee— The Maniac's Song —
Poor Tom's Farewell — The Soldier's Widow — and We'll
meet beside the Dusky Glen.
* In 1S23 he removed to Edinburgh at the solicitation
of the late Rev. Dr Andrew Thomson, whei-e he led the
choir of St George's Church, of which Dr Thomson was the
incumbent, and where he died in January, 1829. Between
him and Motherwell there existed a warm friendship,
arising no doubt from a congeniality of tastes on many
points ; but, on the part of the latter, strengthened by a
sincere respect for the virtues as well as the genius of the
man. Smith had to contend through life not only with
narrow means and domestic discomfort, but against the
pressure of a constitutional melancholy which occasionally
impaired the vigour of his fine faculties. His real griefs—
of which he had a full share — were, therefore, increased by
some that were imaginary ; and he was obviously accus-
tomed not only to lean upon tlie stronger mind of his
friend in his moments of depression, but to seek for sym-
pathy in his distress, which, it is needless to add, was never
refused. In November, 1826, Smith thus writes to him : —
' " I would have written you long ere this, but have been
XUl
prevented by an amount of domestic distress sufficient to
drive all romance out of the mind; and you must be
aware that without a considerable portion of that delight-
ful commodity no good music can be engendered. To be
serious, my dear friend, two of my family, my eldest daugh-
ter and youngest son, are at this moment lying dangerously
ill of the typhus fever. I hope that I may escape the
contagion, but I have sometimes rather melancholy fore-
bodings ; and in the midst of all this, I am obliged to sing
professionally every day, and mask my face with smiles to
cover the throbbings of a seared and lonely heart."
' To this sad effusion Motherwell returned the following
characteristic reply : —
" Your domestic afflictions deeply grieve me. I trust
by this time, however, that your children have mended,
and that you are no sufferer by their malady. Kennedy
and I have been shedding tears over your calamities, and
praying to Heaven that you may have strength of spirit to
bear up under such severe dispensations. "VVe both, albeit
we have no family afflictions to mourn over, have yet
much to irritate and vex us— much, much indeed, to sour
the temper and sadden the countenance— but these things
must be borne with patiently. It is folly of the worst des-
cription to let thought kill us before our time
T hope to hear from you soon, and to learn that you are in
better spirits, and that the causes which have depressed
them are happily removed. Kennedy joins me in warm
and sincere prayers that this may speedily be the case" '
The following very characteristic document was found
among Motherwell's papers, and its publication may induce
our dear friend, James Ballantine, to reconsider the
opinion he gave in his otherwise admirable Lectures on
Scottish Song, in which he asserted that to be successful
as a writer of song, it is necessary that the poet should be
able to sing himself :—
XIV
• At Edinburgh, the twentieth day of October, eighteen
hundred and twenty-eight years, and within the New
Slaughter's Coffee-house there—
*In presence of Mr R. A. Smith and other gentlemen,
who subscribe as witnesses to this document —
• Appeared William Motherwell, who solemnly affirms
and declares, that not having been blessed with a voice or
ear, he is utterly incapable of singing any song, holy or
profane, for the delectation of any compotators. And this
is truth.
•WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.*
• I, R. A. Smith, of Edinburgh, hereby certify, that bar-
ing made trial of the above William Motherwell, his sing-
ing abilities, I declare that the statement put forth by him
is strictly true. And I beg leave to express a hope, that
this testimonial under my hand may be a mean of saving
him from persecution in all companies of honest fellowa
partial to song, for the poor rascal cannot utter a note.
• Given under my hand, place and date fii*8t above-men-
tioned, before these witnesses — Mr P. Buchan of Peter-
head, and Messrs John Stevenson and Sandy Ramsay,
booksellers in Edinburgh— all being at this time quite
comfortable, and able with me to form a due appre-
ciation of the musical talent of Turk or Christian.
•E. A. SMITH.
• P. BucHAK, Witness.
•Jo. Stevenson, M'^itness.
• A. Eausat, Witness.
•P.S.— With feelings of the deepest regret I have this
evening signed the above document ; but the strict regard
I entertain for truth, and the utter abhorrence I have for
ncTioN, oblige me to set my band and seal to what is posi-
tively a notorious fact.
•E. A. SMITH.*
' o get up to your parritch ! and on wi' your claes !
There's a fire on might warm the Norlan braes !
For a parritch cog, and a clean hearth-stane
Are saut and sucker in our to\VTi-en'.
&yiru
DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED.
Air. — " Lochaber no more."
The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream.
An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream ;
The goud light of morning is sweet to the ee ;
:^B*'gh08t-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me :
The dull common world then sinks from my sight,
An' fairer creations arise to the night ;
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my ee.
Then briglrt are the visions awaken'd to mo !
O ! come Spirit-Mother — discourse of the hours.
My young bosom beat all its beatings to yours ;
AVhen heart-woven wishes in soft counsel lell
On ears — how unheedful prov'd sorrow might tell !
That deathless affection— nae trial could break.
When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake ;
Then come, O my mother ! come < f ten to me,
An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee.
An' thou shrouded loveliness! soul- winning Jean,
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen !
'Twas kind— for the lovve that your ee kindled there.
Will burn— ay an' bum— 'till that breast beats nae mair.
Oar baimies sleep round me, O bless j'e their sleep !
Your ain dark-ee'd Willie will wauken an' weep ;
But blithe in his weepin', he'll tell me how you
His heaven-hamed mammie was " dawtin' his brou.
Tho' dark be our dwelling — our happing tho' bare.
And night creeps around us in cauldness and care»
Affection will warm us ; for bright are the beams
That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams :
Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign—
Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then !
The goud light of morning is lightless to me.
But O for the night wi' its ghost revelrie !
KyUzC-^^ /-^7^*<»oo'
THE WELLS O' WEARIB.
Air — " Bonny house o' Airlie."
SWEETLY shines the eun on auld Edinbro' toun.
And mak's her look young and cheerie ;
Yet I maim awa' to spend the afternoon
At the lanesome wells o' Wearie.
And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
There's nought in the world to fear 3'e ;
For I hae ask'd your minnie, and she has gien ye leave
To gang to the wells o' Wearie.
O the sun winna blink in thy bonny blue een,
Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
For I'll shade a bovver wi' rashes lang and green,
By the lanesome wells o' Wearie.
* Fatting his forehead.
^
But ]\rary, ray love, beware ye dinna glower
At yoxir form in the water sae clearly,
Or the fairy will change ye into a wee wee flower.
And you'll grow by the wells o' Wearie.
Yestreen, as I wauuered there a' alane,
I felt unco doui and drearie.
For wanting my Mary a' around me was but pain
At the lanesome wells o' Wearie.
Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
Let fate look gruesome and eerie ;
True glory and wealth are miue \vi' Mary Grieve,
When we meet by the wells o' Wearie.
^en gang wji' me, my bonny Mary Grieve,
^'"Nae danger will daur to come near ye,
For I hae ask'd your minnie, and she has gien ye leava
To gang to the wells o' Wearie. w
:dy§^
%
BIY WIFIE AN' ME.
Air—" TorJdlin' but and toddlin' hen."
The laddies now laugh at my wifie and me,
Tho' auld aboon countin', j'et canty are we ;
They scarce can believe me, when af ten I say
My Kate and her jo were ance blithesome as they.
My wifie an' me, my wifie an' me.
What gars them a' laugh at my wifie an' me ?
e
Now wither'd an' cripple, an' maistly as frail
As the wa's o' our housie that rock i' the gale ;
M''ha ance wi' the lasses could jig it wi' me ;
Or shaw'd sic a leg, an' wha loupit sae hie ?
My wifie an' me, &c.
Though my pow is now bel' as the howe o' my han',
An' the crap on my chin's like the down o' the swan,
The day's been my hafFets fa' richly were clad,
When the een now sae dim could be match'd wi' the gleil.
My wifie an' me, &c.
An' Kate ! my auld lassie, it seems like jrestreen
Sin' ye were run after frae momin' to een ;
Then happy the lad frae ye're ee could begufle
What his fancy might count as the gift o' a smile.
My wifie an' me, itc.
A* day what a steer did ye mak* in my breast ;
Night fauldit her wings, but she brought me nae rest ;
My blude gallop'd wild as a cowte owre the green.
An' my heart it gaed duntin* the lang simmer een.
3Iy wifie an' me, &c.
But Katy,foy dawtie ! tho' auld we hae grown.
The love's but the firmer sae early was sown ;
As canty's we've speel'd it we'll slip down life's brae.
An' we'll creep aye the closer the langer we gae.
My wifie an' me, my wifie an' me.
Just let them laugh on at my wifie an' me !
9
JOHN BUCHAN.
Atr,~" The deil amang the tailors.'"
Hb's a douce-leukin, fair-spoken carle, John Buchan—
But nane i* the parish maun thraw wi* John Buchan ;
He has power o' the laird, o' the parson, an* people.
The keys o' the kirk, an* the tow o' the steeple !
Do ye want a new tack ? are ye ca'd to the session ?
Hae ye quarrell'd wi* neebours, an' i* the transgression?
Hae ye xneetin' to hand i' the kirk, or the clachan ?
Do ye want the bell rung? ye maun speak to John Buchan !
There's weight in his word ! do ye wonder what's made it ?
I'll tell ye that too, though its nane to our credit ;
He keeps the braw shop at the cross o' the clachan.
An* we're a' deep in debt to oui- merchant, John Buchan !
An* the fear, an' the terror o' poindin* an* homin'.
An' turnin* ua out at the haial^beagle's* wamin'.
Without bield or bannock, wi' scarce rag or rauchan,
Maksthe hail parish wag at the wind o' John Buchan !
MY AIN HAME AT E'EN.
Air— "^nd sae will toe yet."
Lbt the drouthy, boozin', tipplin' loon, that doesna loe his
hame,
■\Mia throws awa' his wits an' gear wi' ilka gill-house dame—
E'en let him a' his pleasures fin* in the nightly revel scene ;
But mine lies a' in Maggie, an' my ain hame at e'en.
My ain hame at e'en, O my ain hame at e'en ;
Where sNvectest smiles hing o'er me, at my ain hame
at e'en.
• A sherifrs-ofaeer.
10
How gladsome pass my hours wi' my bomiie Megr nac leal !
An', to see our tender pledges rompin* roun* our cozie biel';
Where, i' their gleesome faces, ilka mither-feature 's seen.
For we live an' love thegither at our ain hame at e'en.
My ain hame at e'en, &c.
Tho' o' this warld's gear we can boast but little share.
We're contented aye, an' happy, sae we wish for naething
mair;
I wadna change for kingly ha', or pearl-muntit Queen !
Sae dear to me is Maggie, an' my ain hame at e'en.
My ain hame at e'en, <Sic.
Should the chiel wi' the shearia' hook, an' chafts sae lank
an' thin.
Come an' steal awa' my Maggie fair, an' leave puir me
behin',
Nae mair would cheerie smiles ever welcome me, I ween,
But a' be douff and drearie at my ain hame at e'en.
My ain hame at e'en, &c;
I'd rather, when he comes, he'd lay a paw on ilka pow,
•T would save the carle a tramp, an' hae twa for ane, I trow ;
Gin he'll gi'e's a bit respite, syne, guid day to ilka frien'.
We'll tak the road thegither to our lang hame at e'en.
Our lang hame at e'en, to our lang hame at e'en,
" Hand in hand " we'll toddle on to our lang hame at
e'en.
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.
Fair Ellen, here again I stand.
All dangers now are o'er ;
Ko sigh, to reach my native land.
Shall rend my bosom more.
11
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main.
I mourn'd at Fate's decree ;
I wished but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.
Ellen ! how I prized thy love,
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war.
And as the pledge, in battle-field,
ReciiU'd thy charms to me,
1 breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.
I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appeared at last.
My very heart, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.
Thro' all the days it has been mine
In other climes to roam,
I've seen no lovelier form than thine.
Is sweeter spot than home.
The wealth is much, the honours rare,
That Fortune shower'd on me ;
And these, beloved ! I come to share,
'Midst Scotland's hills, with thee !
%^^
12
WILLIE'S AWAY!
Mtisic by Mr. M'Leod.
The last wreath o' winter has fled frae the hill—
The breeze whispers low to the murmuring rill—
The spring smiles around me, and ilka thing's gay,
But what shall delight me ?— my Willie's away !
I smile as they hid me, when neebours are nigh—
I joke as I dow, when the jest circles by —
I tell them I'm cheery, but sighs tell them— nay—
I canna dissemble— my Willie's away !
I busk me wi' claes that it pleased him to see—
I wear the love token that Willie gae me—
The sangs he lo'ed maist I wad sing a' the day.
But saut tears prevent me — my Willie's away.
"When the bright star o' gloaming climbs up in the sky,
I start, ere I wist, to our trysting to hie ;
A lake ! my puir heart's fa'n to sorrow a prey.
There's nane there to meet me — my Willie's away.
The same leaves that sighed where my faither was laid—
The autumn wind strewed o'er my mother's cauld bed—
They left me in childhood, and ah ! well a-day !—
My last joy's departed— my Willie's away.
O JEANIE, WHY THAT LOOK SAE CAULD?
" O Jbanie ! why that look sae cauld
And withering to me now ?
And wherefore scowls that cloud o' gloom
Upon thy bonnie brow ?
13
What hae I said, what hae I done)
To draw sic looks frae thoe ?
la this thy love— thy fond regard,
Sae lately pledged to me ?"
"O Jamie! spier na that atms,
But guess the cause yoursel'.
Ye thocht, yestreen, ye werena seen
Alang wi* bonnie Bell ?
Your arm enclaspit round her waist.
Your cheek to her'a was laid.
And mony a melting kiss she gat
While row'd within your plaid."
"0 lassie dear! why vex yoursel'
Wi' jealous thochts and mean,
For I was twenty miles and mair
Awa' frae hame yestreen ?
I gaed to see ray sister dear—
A gift she sent to thee ;
And see— thou maun this necklace wear
That day thou'rt wed to me."
"And are you then still true to mo?
I'll ne'er forgi'e mysel* ;
O what could tempt me to believe
You'd quit your Jean for Bell ?
But there's my hand — I'll never mair
Dream foolish thochts o' thee,
But love wi' a' a woman's love,
Till light forsake mine e'e."
y/l^^ ^^^
14
OUR AIN BURN SIDE.
Am,—" The Brier Bush."
Oh ! weel I mind the days, by our ain biirn side.
When we clam the sunny braes, by our ain burn side ;
When flowers were blooming fair.
And we wandered free o' care,
For happy hearts were there, by our ain burn side !
Oh ! biythe was ilka sang, by our ain bum side.
Nor langest day seemed lang, by our ain burn side ;
WTien we decked our woodland queen
In the rashy chaplet green.
And gay she look'd, I ween, by our ain bumside i
Eut the bloom hath left the flower, by our ain bum side.
And gathering tempests lower, by our ain burn side ;
The woods — no longer gieen.
Brave the wintry blasts sae keen,
^\nd their withered leaves are seen, by our ain bxim side.
And the little band ia sane, frae our ain burn side.
To meet, ah ! ne'er again, by our ain burn side ;
And the winter of the year
Suits the heart both lane and sere.
For the happy neVr appear, by our ain bum side*
15
DUNCAN DHU'S TRIBULATIONS.
Air—" Killicrankie."
Nainsel wa3 porn a shontleman,
An' wadna work ava, man !
Sae ribbans till her ponnet preen 'd ;
An* shoin'd the Forty-twa, man.
Ta sergeant was a lawlan' loon.
An' kick'd her like a pa', man ;
Her Heelan stamack no like tat,
An' sae she ran awa', man.
She shanged her name frae Duncan Dhu
To, what, she winna tell, man ;
But Donald Gun or Raaald Mhor
Shust sair'd her turn as well, man.
Syne teuk ta tramp wi' a* her speed
Beyond Glenocher fell, man.
An' wi' a pand o* pretty men
She wrought ta ouskie stell, man.
She gather 'd gear frae year to year.
An' made ta pot play provvn, man ;
But Shoroe ta TfRD gat in a rage.
An* swore he'd put her down, man ;
Syne sent ta local volunteers.
Led by ta gauger loon, man.
An' crush *d her stell, and proke her worm*
An' crack'd her vera croon, man.
They pu'd her wee bit bothie down.
Her maat prunt on ta fluir, man ;
They dang her parrels a' to staves,
Thoy were sae curst an' duir, man.
They teuk her ouskies, stoup an* roup.
An*, och I she was a puir man ;
There wasna sJc a fell stramash
Sin' days o' Shirra Muir, man I
16
At last the ganger's colley* cam
An* spoked a lang oration.
How " Shorge was no to baud nor bind,
An' greetin' wi' vexation ;
An' she'll maun pay ta fifty pound
To cover her transgression,
Or gang to Inverara shall
For leecit instillation."
Ochone! ochone! they lodged her deep
Into ta Massymore, man,
Ta rattonses an' mices danced
Shantreuse about the floor, man ;
But Donald Oig, ta shailor-laad.
Forgot to lock ta door, man—
An' noo she works ta pigger stell
Nor e'er she ■kvrought peforc, man !
WAT O' THE HOWE.
Air—" The Laird o' Cockpen."
Wha e'er came owre Soutra kenned Wat o' the Howe,
Wi' the smooth sleekit tongue, and the held shining powe,
A' the Tweed and the Gala, frae Kelso to Stowe,
Had a* some gifiF gaffin' wi' Wat o* the Howe.
^ * The therififa officer^
17
His wee house stood lo^vn in the neuk o' the hill,
Sae couthie, that nane e'er cam' out on ae gill ;
E'en the snell-nebbit priest ne'er could win bye the lowe.
But he'd step in to pree wi' auld Wat o' the Howe.
The drappy he said too, he hrew'd it himsel'.
He said sae, tho' whaur ne'er a bodie could tell ;
They whiles smell'd some peat-reek ayont the whin knowe.
Yet ne'er found the stell o' auld Wat o' the Howe.
He dealt in nick-nackets, tho* a* on the sly,
Gin he'd what they wanted nae wifie gaed bye ;
They gat tea an' baeko for hamilt-made tow.
An' a wee di-ap to tak' it frae Wat o' the Howe.
The cadgers' an' colliers' carts aye at the door.
In a cauld winter day ye might coimtit a score.
An* the naigs they might nicher, the collies bow wow,
But they ne'er liftit early frae Wat o' the Howe.
Twas strange that the gaugers could ne'er fin' him out ;
•Twas strange that nae smugglers were e'er gaun about ;
•Twas strange that e'en red-coats the loon couldna cowe.
Nor find out the slee howff o' Wat o' the Howe.
ret aiblins ye'U guess how a' this cam* to be,
Wat couldna be seized, for nae smuggler was he.
But smuggled gear's cheap, (sac a'puir bodies trow,)
Though they gatna great gaflSns frae Wat o' the Howe.
Wat livit ere his time, like a' ither great men.
The tree that ho plantit has flourish'd since then.
Yet I ne'er hear Cheap John, wi' his roupin bell jowe.
But I think on the slee tricks o' Wat o' the Howe.
18
BAD LTJCK TO THIS MARCHING.*
Am.— " Paddy 0' Carroll."
Bad luck to this marching,
Pipe-claying and starching ;
How neat one must be to be killed by the French !
I'm sick of parading,
Through wet and cowld wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
To the tune of a fife,
They dispose of your life.
You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt,
Now I like Garryowen,
When I hear it at home.
But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.
Then though up late and early.
Our pay comes so rarely.
The devil a farthing we've ever to spare ;
They say some disaster,
Befel the paymaster ;
In my conscience I think that the money's not there.
And, just think, what a blunder ;
They won't let us plunder.
While the convents invite us to rob them, tia clear ;
Though there isn't a village,
But cries, " Come and pillage,"
Yet wc leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.
Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island
{
• The publisher begs to acknowledge Ids deep obligation to Mewrg.
Carry & Co., publiehert, Dublin, for their kind permission to take thi»
and the following «oDg from " Charlei 0'M»lley, the Irl»h Dragoon."
^
19
Where even the kisses we steal if we please ;
Where it is no disgrace,
If you don't wash your face,
And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease
With no sergeant t'abuse us.
We fight to amuse us.
Sure it's better beat Christian than kick a baboon ;
How I'd dance like a fairy.
To see ould Dunleary,
And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon I
THE BRETON HOME.
When the battle is o'er, and the sounds of fight
Have closed with the closing day.
How happy, around the watch-fire's light.
To chat the long hours away ;
To chat the long hours away, my boy.
And talk of the days to come.
Or a better still, and a purer joy,
To think of our far-off home.
How many a cheek will then grow pale.
That never felt a tear!
And many a stalwart heart will quaQ*
That never quailed in fear I
20
And the breast that, like some mighty rock
Amid the foaming sea.
Bore high against the battle's shock.
Now heaves like infancy.
And those who knew each other not.
Their hands together steal.
Each thinks of some long hallowed spot,
And all like brothers feel :
Such holy thoughts to all are given ;
The lowliest has his part ;
The love of home, like love of heaven.
Is woven in our heart.
^^^^/^^
STAR OP THE EVENING.
Stab of the lover's dream !
Star of the gloaming !
How sweetly blinks ttiy beam,
"NVhen fond ones are roaming !
Pure in the heavens blue
Like chrystal gem lightly ;
"When comes the even's hue
Thou shinest forth brightly.
21
Know'st thou of toil and oare.
Sorrow and anguish ;
Bosoms left cold and bare.
Lonely to languish ?
Has misery's bitter blast
Crush'd every flower,
O'er which thy young heart cast
Hope's sunny shower ?
Has blighted affection
E'er sear'd thy fond heart.
While sad recollection
Could never depart ?
Star of the even mild,
I invoke thee in vain !
Useless my wish and wild.
Thou speak'st not again !
Other eyes will gaze on thee
When I cease to be ;
True hearts walk beneath thee.
When I cannot see !
Thy beams shine as clearly
On ocean's cold breast.
When the heart that lov'd dearly
Is hush'd into rest t
22
O 2HEET ME, LOVE, BY MOONLIGHT.
Air—" This is no mine ain house."
O BiEET me, love, by moonlight,
By moonlight, by moonlight,
And down the glen by moonlight.
How fondly will I welcome thee!
And there, within our beeehen bower.
Far from ambition's giddy tower,
O what a heart-enthrilling hour.
My Mary dear, I'll spend with thee !
Then meet me, love, &c.
Reclining on our mossy seat.
The rivulet rippling at our feet,
Enrapt in mutual transport sweet,
O who on earth so blest as we ?
Then meet me, love, &c.
Our hopes and loves each sigh will speak,
"With lip to lip or cheek to cheek,
O who more heartfelt joj's would seek.
Than such, at eve, alone with thea?
Then meet me, love, &c.
To clasp thy lovely yielding waist ;
To press thy lips so pure and chaste;
An' be in tui-n by thee embraced,
that were bliss supreme to me I
Then meet me, love, &c.
Not worldling's wealth, nor lordling's show.
Such solid joys can e'er bestow.
As those which faithful lovers know
When heart to heart beats fervently.
Then meet me, love, &c.
23
JOCK.
Thk laird's son said to Jock—" Jock !
When ye gang to the mill,
Can ye no shouther your pock
Without gaun to the yill ?
Is't needfu' that the miller and you,
Twa drucken sots,
Drownin' your groats.
Should aye get roarin' fou ? "
" It's a stoury place the mill.
Master mine," quo* Jock ;
" I never pass the kil'.
But aye I'm like to choke !
And sae to clear ane's craig, I think,
There's nought can match a waught o' drink."
The laird's son said to Jock—" Jock I
When ye gang to the town,
I'm tauld ye snoove, an' stare, an' rock
Alang the causeway crown.
Until ye meet some weirdless wight,
Just like yoursel' ;
And syne pell mell
Ye fuddle awa' wi' a' your might."
•* It's a queer place the town.
Master mine," quo' Jock ;
" For daunderin' up an' down,
Ane's sure to meet kent folk : —
And aye when auld friends forgither, I think,
It's unco cauldrife no to drink."
The laird's son said to Jock — " Jock I
When ye gang to the fair ,
What cause ha'e ye to treat and troke
Wi' ilk loon and limmer there ?
24
1st needfu' ye should guzzle a
Your towmond's fee.
Now tell to me.
In a'e short day awa' ?"
«• The fair's a place for fun.
Master mine," quo* Jock ;
*• And when we're ance begun
We aye spin aff the rock ;
For when folk's merry, somehow, Itbinlc,
To keep them sae there's nought like drink."
The laird's son said to Jock— ♦• Jock !
When ye gang to the kirk.
Can ye no, like decent folk.
Come hame afore it's mirk ?
Is't needfu' ye should sit sae late
The change-house in,
Till dais'd and blin'.
Ye tine your hameward gate ?"
*• The kirk's a cauldrife place.
Master mine," quo' Jock ;
'• Aiblins I'm scant o' grace,
(Forbid ! that I should mock,)
But cauld at kirk or field, I think,
To warm ane weel there's nought like drink.
The laird's eon said to Jock—" Jock !
I fear you'll never mend ;
I fear your drouth it ^vinna slock
While you've a plack to spend:
At fair or kirk, at town or mill.
It makes na where.
Nor late, nor ear',
YouTl drink your greedy fill ! **
25
" It's but the truth ye tell.
Master mine," quo' Jock ;
" For sin' I broke the shell,
My faults I couldna cloke ;
Sae baud your whisht, whate'er ye think.
And let me tak' my wee drap drink."*
MY OWN MARION.
Music by Mr. Peter M'Leod.
My own, my true-loved Marion,
No wreath for thee I'll bring ;
No summer-gathered roses fair.
Nor snowdrops of the spring !
O ! these would quickly fade, for soon
The brightest flowers depart ;
A wreath more lasting I will give—
A garland of the heart !
*Oar ttmperance and tee-totalling friend* hare found fanlt with tis
W iDMrtlng an undue proportion of gongs of a conriTial nature, in the
preceding portion* of this work. We have not giren these with the
desire of encouraging the abase of stimulating liquors; on the eon-
trary, we hare always advocated their moderate nse. Let those who
r« aerer trantgressed the rule of sobriety, and yet abstain for the
Wkt of example, content themselves with pressing their views on those
who have become the slaves of intemperance ; for,if they cannot *ue>
M«d with fiur argument, they miist Just leave these unfortunate
Jockt "to tak' their wee drap drink"— to attempt more, would, w«
hnmbly think, be to interfere with the libertT of the lubjeot.— £»•
My own, my true-loved Marion!
Thy morn of life was gay,
Like to a stream that gently flows
Along its lovely way !
And now, when in thy pride of noon
I mark thee, blooming fair,
Be peace and joy still o'er thy path.
And sunshine ever there !
My own, my gentle Marion !
Though this a world of woe.
There's many a golden tint that falls
To gild the road we go !
And in this chequered vale, to me
A light hath round me shone.
Since thou cam'st from thy Highland home
In days long past and gone !
My own, my true-loved Marion !
Cold, cold this heart shall be,
When I shall cease to love thee still-
To cbeer and cherish thee !
Like ivy round the withered oak.
Though all things else decay.
My love for thee shall still be green,
And ne'er will fade away !
THE WIFIE OUTWITTED.
Tone—" The Laird o' Cockpen."
A cdnnin' wee carlie was auld Robbie Young,
A sly pawky body that wadna be dung;
Though tied till a wifie,
The plague o' his lifie,
His tricks were a match for the wifikie's tongue.
A grocer was he, in our auld borristoun,
An' he coupt up his caupie, night, mornin', an' noon ;
Aye watchin' an' joukin*
Whan she wasna lookin'.
He >vinket an' leugh as the drappie ran down.
And aye whan the wee drap wad biz in his pow,
It set a' bis couthie auld heart in a lowe ;
Sae kind to the baims,
Wha ran bits o' erran's,
A snap or a parlie he aye wad bestow.
But the wifie bethought her, sae crafty an' crouse,
An' removed the temptation to sell't ben the house ;
Her pressie she locket.
The key in her pocket,
TMiile Robbie sat watchin' as mum as a mouse.
•' Tak* warnin', ye auld drunken carlie," quo' she,
" Ye'll ken late or soon what the drinker maun dree ;
Ae drap to your weazen.
Although it should gizen.
For fechtin' or fleechin' ye'll getna frae me !"
How customers gathered she couldna weel tell.
The bonny auld greybeard now ran like a well ;
The change aye increasin'.
She thought it a blessin'.
But keutna it cam* frae auld Robbie bimaeri
28
O Rot in was mair than a match for her still—
The whisky she took, but she left him the tin j
He ga'e the weans siller.
An' sent them ben till her,
An' never ance wantit a glass or a gill I
An* syne how the bodie would laugh in hia sleeve.
An' drink without speerin' the wifikie'a leave ;
It sweetened the drappie.
An' made him sae happy.
To think he sae weel could the wihe deceive I*
THE CANTY, COUTHIE CHIEL.
GANohame, ye glunchin* grumblers, gae to your beds and
sleep.
Till ilk head is like a mummy, or as fozzy as a neep;
Or sit glowrin' in the ingle, seeking forms wadfley thediel.
But you'll never find the visage o' a canty, couthie chiel;
O' a canty, couthie chiel, a canty, couthie chiel.
You'll never find the visage o' a canty, couthie chiel.
We dinna like the wily loon wha slinks about sae sly,
Wi* a sneer for the laigh and a smile for the high ;
• Robbie may blame ns for moralising, but -we •would adTiw him
and all his drouthy successors to be moderate in their mirth, and bear
in mind our national proverb, " Ne'er let tlie nose blush for the doa
o' the mouth."— '£0.
29
For on his neebour's neck to favours he would speel.
He's spurned frae the friendship o* a canty, couthie chiel.
We'eanna thole the foplin thing, vain fashion's tinsel toy.
Our boon o' sociality he never can enjoy ;
Haudingnative grace as" vulgar, "and freedom "ungenteel,
■He's look'd and he's lauch'd at by a canty, couthie chiel.
But wed me to the lassie kind, wha tries to humour a*,
She's thrifty in the kitchen, and she's honour'd in the ha'r
She can lauch at a bit joke, at a tale o' sorrow feci,
She'll mak' a right gude wifie for a canty, couthie chiel.
"VlTien the toil and the trouble o' the weary day is past,
We poker up the ingle, steek the shutters on the blast-
Sit down to our bicker, and our scones o' barley meal,
And spend the night sae merry, m' a canty, couthie chiel
SPIRIT OF LOVE AND BEAUTY.
Spirit of Love and Beauty,
That breathest o'er the earth.
Where'er thou roamest, lovely flowers
Are springing into birth ;
Tlie daisy's crimson curtains.
The violet's starry eyes,
Arc opening up in silent joy
And gazing on the skies.
Old Winter flics before thee.
With surly downcast looks.
As from his icy barriers
Thou frec'st the murmuring brooka.
30
The feather'd tribe, from hedge and grove.
Pour forth their grateful lays.
And lambkins on a thousand hills.
Are bleating in thy praise I
And still to hail thine advent,
Far from the noisy town.
The toil-worn artisan goes forth,
Ere health and strength are flown;
In the silence of the evening
A lonely hour to pass,
Where the gowan peeps wi' modest e'e,
Frae out the dewj' grass.
Sweet as the precious treasure
Witiiin the honeycomb ;
And fresh and sparkling as the dews
From morning's fruitful womb ;
O'er hill and plain thou fliest,
"With gladness on thy wing —
O, tarry with us yet awhile.
Sweet spirit ! gentle Spring.
.^^:^/^
WIFE O; WILLOWDENHA'.
ORIGINAL AIR.
The waefu' Gudewife o' the Willowdenha'
Was ance the beauty an' toast o' the parish ;
Her daddie had deet and left her his a'.
Her uncle had siller, an' she was his heiress^
31
Sic comin', an* gangin'.
An' wooin', an' thrangin'.
An' tjnin', an' winnin".
Was ne'er i' your kennin' —
But the laddie that carry't tlie lassie awa'.
Was Johnny GilSUan o' Willowdenha'!
The lassie was bred in a braw borough-town,
Whar fouth o' giirte manners she learn'd fu' ready;
Whar a' the new fashions frae Lon'on come down,
Whar a' the young misses are fine as my lady,
Wi' ribbons an* ruffles,
Wi' feathers an' muffles,
Wi' fringes an' laces,
An' pearlins an' braces —
Wi'ilka thing bonny, an' ilka thing braw.
She dazzl't the folks o' the Willowdenha'!
His daddie was vauntie, his minnie was vain,
They gied to their Johnny the house an' the haudin ;
An'mickle was gotten, an' plenty was gaun,
For the back an' the belly, the day o' the waddin'—
Wi' dautin' an' kissin',
Wi' keekin' an' dressin',
Wi' jauntin' an' callin",
An' rantin' an ballin',
The day slippet ower, an' the nicht flew awa'.
An' a' was f u' happy at Willowdenha' !
But wae to the wane o' the blythe hinnymoon ;
The luve o' the bonny young lady miscarry't ;
When the daffin was done, she gaed a' out o' tune.
An' she thocht it an unco thing now to be marry't—
An' thinkin' an' ruein'.
An' wishin' an' trewin'.
An' frettin' an' sighin',
An'sabbin'an cryin'—
32
The country was dull, an' the handin* was sma*.
An' sair did she -weary o' 'Willowdenha' !
Tno* Johnny was young and had siller fu' rife,
A hraw plenish'd house, an' a weel stocket mailln ;
Yet a' wadna pleasure his gentle gudewifc.
An' happiness never wad enter his dweUin' —
Sae broken an' blear ie,
An' daivert an' dreary,
An' gloomin' and grievin'.
An' dauntet an' driven—
He songht i' the houfF— whar the drouthy loons ca'—
For the peace that had fled far frae W'illowdenha' !
At morning an' evening, at nicht an' at noon,
They wasted, they wair'd, an' they ^^Tang^t wi'ither;
Till the siller, the gear, an'the credit gaed done.
An* auld uncle's penny was gien tiU anither ;
Then waefu' an' wearie.
An' wilfu' an' eerie —
Wi' poverty pressin'.
An' a' thing distressin'—
His honour the laird he came in wi' the law.
An' roupet the haudin' o' Willowdenha'I
i/fijickic^-
-^
THE FLOTV^ER O' DONSIDE.
Air— Tfte lass wi' the bonny blue e'en.
Oh ! ken ye sweet Chirsty, the Flower o' Donside,
She's fair as the morning, and modest beside ;
Sao sweet and sae syLphlike — the delicate flower
Is like bse vit ^ga,uz;*, H ■nmmer'a fair hour.
When the dim mists o' eve curtain Don's pleasant vale,
I'll pour in her chaste ear my love-burthen 'd tale ;
As we stray by the river's soft silvery tide
I'll fondly caress the sweet Flower o' Donside!
Oh ! ken ye sweet Chirsty, &c.
There are moments of bliss, when we feel the pure joy
And transport of loving, without grief's alloy.
Such moments as brighten sad life's weary way.
Whene'er the brown heath-flower at gloaming I stray,
And the light arm that links in my own makes me feel
A thrill of delight, which I cannot reveal-
May Heaven grant me this, whate'er else may betide.
To twine with my fate the swe^t Flower o' Donside.
Oh I ken ye sweet Chirsty, &o.
OH! WHY LEFT I MY HAME ?
Oh ! why left I my hame ?
Why did I cross the deep ?
Oh ! why left I the land
Wliere my forefathers sleep ?
I sigli for Scotia's shore.
And I gaze across the sea.
But I canna get a blink
O* my ain couutrie.
The palm-tree waveth high.
And fair the myrtle springs.
And to the Indian maid
The bulbul* sweetly sings ;
«' The Nightingale.
C
34
But I dinna see the broom,
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie.
Oh ! here, no sabbath bell
Awakes the sabbath mom ;
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slavery ;
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie.
There's a hope for every woe.
And a balm for every pain.
But the first joys of our heart
Come never back again.
There's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea.
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie.*
C^y^<
* This exquisite effasion of Mr. Gilfillan, which remijadj us of
the " Babel Streams " of the captive Jewi, we have taken, with per-
mission, from "Original National Melodies of Scotland," by Peter
M'Leod. Had oar pages admitted music, the melody to which these
35
THE SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.
OoR bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade's in our
hand.
Our birthright is the ocean vast— we scorn the girdled
land ;
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can
bolder be
Than the hoarse-tongued tempest, raving o'er a proud and
swelling sea I
Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering
bend
Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a
friend ;
And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billow's
foam.
While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old Ocean
as our home !
Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant
wind.
And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean
speck behind ;
We shoot into the imtrack'd deep, as earth-freed spirits
soar.
Like stars of lire through boundless space— through realms
without a shore !
Lords of this wide-spread wildemess of waters, we bound
free.
The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty ;
verses are married, voald have been ^iven ; it it one of the Gnett of
modern compositions, and comes -witti Deart-meltiug pathos on abcut-
tiibc&r — £i>.
36
No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man can
mete
The sky which arches o'er om* head — the waves which kiss
our feet !
The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in his
pride ;
But a fiercer stoed we daimtless breast— the untam'd ocean
tide;
And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the saucy
wave,
While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of
the brave.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the wind is up— it bloweth fresh and
free.
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless
glee;
Big swell the bosom'd sails with joy, and they madly kiss
the spray,
As proudly through the foaming surge the Sea-King bears
away !
JEANIE'S GRAVE.
I SAW my true Love first on the banks of queenly Tay,
Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away ;
I feasted on her deep dark eye, and loved it more and more,
For, oh ! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before !
I heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a
strain,
But avoice so sweet, oh ! never, shall my cold ear hear again.
37
In all our friendless wanderings— in homeless penury —
Her gentle song and jetty eye, were all unchanged to nie.
I saw my true Love fade— I heard her latest sigh—
I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye ;
lar from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
I'he markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie'a
grave.
Sfove noiseless, (gentle Ury! around my Jennie's bed,
And I'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread ;
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.*
• "Three mountain streamlets brawl separately down their break-
neck journey, and tumble in peace together at the woods of Newton,
just by Old Rayne, Aberdeenshire. This quiet confluence is the Ury.
Like wcrn-out racers, these boisterous burns take breath, gliding
along in harmonious languor some two miles or so, when the peaceful
Ury is, as it were, cut through by the Gadie, a desperately crabbed-
looking rivulet, raging and rumbling from Ben-na-chie. From this
last annoyance Ury moves onward in noiseless sweetness, winding and
winding as if aware of its own brief course, and all unwilling to leave
the braes that hap the heroes of Harlaw. By and by, it creeps mourn-
fully past the sequestered grave-yard of Inverury, kisses the " Bass,"
and is swallowed up in the blue waters of the Don, its whole extent
being only ten miles."
KJjUc<->^
e^,.^,
88
MAY MORNING SONG.
Arise, fair maids, the east grows bright,
The ocean heaves in lines of light.
The earth is green, the lift is blue,
Arise, fair maids, and gather dew ;—
'Tis -May morning, as you must know.
When merry merry maids a-Maying go,
A-Maying go, a-Maying go ;
When merry merry maids a-Maying go.
There's Marjory mild, and Marion meek.
And bonny Bell with her dimpling cheek ;
There's Grace the gay can love inspire.
And 'Liza, too, with the lily lyre.
And Fan and Nan, in gleesome row.
All merry merry maids a-Maying go,
A-Maying go, &c. -
There's simple Ciss so soft and sweet.
And Mary mild with her milk-white feet.
There's Judith trig, and Janet trim.
And Madeline with her waist so slim ;
There's Sail, and Mall, and all, heigho !
All merry merry maids a-Maying go.
A-Maying go, &c.
There's Jill, and Jen, and jinking Jean,
And winsome Win, they skiff the green.
There's blythe young Bess with her locks so brown
And kindly Kate from the borough town.
There's Sue, and Prue, and many moe,
All merry merry maids a-Maying go,
A-Maying go, &c.
Then away, fair maids, in the dawning's prime,
Away and gather the dews in time.
39
Ev'n so shall your roses bloom more bright,
Your eye reflect more heavenly light ;
'Tis May morning, as all do know,
When merry merry maids a-IMaying go,
A- Maying go, a-Maying go ;
When merry merry maids a-Maying go.
vS-»*,^«-y x/ty^^t..^'^
HAPPY THE HEARTS.
Happy the hearts that did not beat
In the gloomy old guard room,
Where many a weeping maid and wife
Bewailed a hopeless doom.
There fast, fast, fell my own hot tears,
When they told me I must stay.
With a breaking heart, in a homeless land,
And my true love far away.
The route came to our warlike camp ;
I sought our chieftain's hall,
I found the proud one, and before
His dark stern face did fall : —
" O ! part not me and mine !" I criedj
But coldly answered he---
•• Weeper, away ! we may not take
♦« Such silly things as thee."
The marching hour, it came at last.
How gaily their banners flew ;
Loud roU'd the mighty thimdering drum.
And wild the bugles blew ;
40
Whilst thousands to their windows rush 'd
The stirring sight to see,
Shouting " Success to Biiton's arms '"
O ! mournful sounds for me .'
Loud shouted still the multitude,
As played the merrj' band.
Until they reached the strong war ship
Beside the stormy strand ;
There, then, amidst their ranks I rush 'd,
My last farewell to talce,
To kiss his manly cheek, and breathe
A prayer for his dear sake.
How close unto his heart I clung !
How much I had to say !
When loud amidst the mustering ranks,
The bugles sung, " Away !"
And away they bore him — O ! my soul !
That long, that farewell cheer,
Rung like the kneU of a thousand deaths
Deep in my startled ear.
I saw no more — I felt no more
For one long day and night ;
Till, waking from a dreadful dicam
Of death and cruel fight,
I called on him I loved to hear ;
But he I loved was gone, —
And I a wretched mourner was,
In tears, and all alone.
41
WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.
ORIGINAL AIR.
When the bee has left the blossom.
And the lark has closed his lay.
And the daisy folds its bosom
In the dews of gloaming grey ;
^ w°^ the virgin rose is bending,
e M/i,^ "ine's pensive tear,
And the purple light is - -- .^jn^
With the soft moon rising cleai ,
Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom,
And the air, with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander.
Captive led by beauty's power.
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.
Give ambition dreams of glory.
Give the poet laurell'd fame.
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name.
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and pov/er —
Give to me my bo&om's treasure.
And the lonely gloauang hour.
42
DAFT DAYS.
•< Thb midnight hour is clinking, lads,
Au' the douce an' the decent are winking, lads,
Sae I tell you again,
Be't weel or ill ta en.
It's time ye were quatting your drinking, lads."
•• Gae ben an' mind your gantry, Kfl+'^ ,,
^. , . , , . less bantry, Kate ;
Gie's mair 0' your bee'- , ..
P^,. ^ vow whar we sit,
That afore we shall flit,
Well be better acquant wi' your pantry, Kate.
•' The daft days are but beginning, Kate,
An' we've sworn {wdd ye ha'e us be sinning, Kate?)
By our faith an' our houp,
We shall stick by the stoup
As lang as a barrel keeps rinning, Kate.
«' Through spring an' through simmer wemoi! it, Kate,
Through hay an' through harvest we toil it, Kate;
Sae ye ken, whan the wheel
Is beginning to squeal,
It's time for to grease or to oil it, Kate.
«• Then score us anither drappy, Kate,
An' gi'e us a cake to our cappy, Kate ;
For, by spigot an' pin.
It were mair than a sin
To flit when we're sitting sae happy, Kate."
43
IT SPEAKS TO MY SPIRIT.
It speaks to my spirit the Voice of the Past,
As I listlessly move on my way •
And pleasures, that were far toi. pleasant to last,
Shine again, as they did in their day.
In an isle of the West, there's a tangled retreat,
Which the sweet sun looks bashfully on,
And my soul has flown thither, in secret to meet
With the feelings of years that are gone.
Across the broad meadow, and down the green lane,
I have sped on the light foot of love.
And I stand, as I stood long ago, once again,
By the old mossy seat in the grove.
Ah ! yonder's the oak-tree, and under its shade
One with looks full of welcome I see ;
Yes— yes — 'tis my Ellen, in beauty arrayed.
As she was, when she first met with me.
Remembrance is rapture— nay, smile if you please,
While you point to my thin locks of gray,
Yet think not a heart, with emotions like these,
Ever knows what it is to decay.
The furrow lies deep in my time-stricken cheek,
And the life-blood rolls languidly on.
But the "Voice of the Past has not yet ceased to speak
With the feelings of years that are gone.
I ANCE WAS IN LOVE.
I ANCE was in love— maybe no lang ago—
And I lo'ed ae sweet lassie most dearly ;
I sought her wee hand, but her daddy growl'd " no ■
Which stung my young heart most severely.
For he, wealthy wight, was an auld crabbit carl,
WTia held fast the grip he had got o* the warl';
So the poor plackless laddie got nought but a snarl,
For lo'eing the lassie sincerely.
But love wadna hide, and the lassie lo'ed me,
And oh ! her black een tauld it clearly,
That she'd tak' and wed me without a bawbee.
Although she had twa hundred yearly.
So ae winter night, when her dad was asleep,
And the wind made the doors a' to rattle and cheep,
Frae out the back window she made a bit leap,
And my arms kepp'd the prize I lo'ed dearly,
^uld Gripsiccar wasna to baud nor to bin'.
He tint a' his wee judgment nearly ;
He stormed, he rampaged, he ran out, he ran in,
And he vowed we should pay for it dearly ;
But time wrought a change when he saw his first oe,
Nae langer was heard then, the growl, and the " no 1"
Our house now is Gripsiccar, Goodsir, & Co.,
While our labours are prospering yearly.
'/d^^ ^'^^
o^y
O LEEZE ME ON THEE, TIDY WIFIE.
LEEZE me on thee, tidy wifie, canty wifie, couthie wifie,
Thou'rt the charm that binds me stiU
To life and a' the cares that's in't :
45
Never sighin', aye sae merry, aye sae winsome, aye sae lifie.
Thy laughin* heart is free frae ill,
And far thou leav'st a' cares ahiut.
O lucky day when first I saw thee sittin' singin' at the cow.
The blude a' swater't through my heart.
And I forgat to gang, I wat ;
And when I cam' and spak' awhile, and wad bae preed your
bonny mou'.
And swore ye war a bit divert,
Right weel I mind the skelp I gat.
O leeze me, &c.
They tell'd me how ye sune wad change, and sune wad turn
baith douf and douce,
(But oh, the fules ! they little kenn'd
The leal, the kindly heartie o't,)
That ye wad sune forget your claes, and be a sackless slut
and sour ;
Instead o' that ye darn and mend.
And ne'er an inch unseemly o't.
O leeze me, <kc.
We now hae tried it mony a day, and still thy heart is light
and free.
On ilka heart that's seen warld's waes
The balm o' kindness pourin' yet.
Care whiles keeks by our hallan cheek, and gi'es a canker'd
glower at me.
But when he sees thy happy face.
It sets him aff a stourin' yet.
O leeze me, &c.
46
THEY SPEAK O' WYLES.
Air — " Gin a bodie meet a bodie."
They speak o' wyles in woman's siiiles,
An' ruin in her e'e—
I ken they bring a pang at whiles
That's unco sair to dree ;
But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss,
The first fond fa'in* tear,
Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amen's,
An' tints o' heaven here.
When twa leal hearts in fondness meet,
Life's tempests howl in vain —
The very tears o' love are sweet
When paid with tears again.
Shall sapless prudence shake its pow.
Shall cauldrife caution fear,
An' drown that lowe, that livin' lowe,
That lights a heaven here ?
What tho' we're ca'd a wee before
The stale '* three score an' ten :"
When " Joy" keeks kindly at your door,
Aye bid her welcome ben.
About yon blissfu' bowers above
Let doubtfu* mortals speir,
Sae weel ken we that " Heaven is love,"
Since love makes Heaven here.
THE LOVELY LASS OP IXVERKIP.
O'kr Cowal hills the sinking sun
Was bidding Clutha's vale guid-day.
And, from his gorgeous golden throne,
W as shedding evenicg's mildest ray,
47
As round the Cloch I bent my way,
With buoyant heart and bounding skip,
To meet my lass, at gloaming grej',
Amang the shaws of Inverkip.
We met — and what an eve of bliss !
A richer, sweeter, never flew.
With mutual vow, with melting kiss,
And ardent throb of bosoms true :—
The bees, 'mid flowers of freshest hue,
Would cease their honeyed sweets to sip,
If they her soft sweet lips but knew—
The lovely lass of Inverkip.
Her ebon locks, her hazel eye.
Her placid brow, so fair and meek,
Her artless smile, her balmy sigh.
Her bonnie, blushing, modest cheek-
All these a stainless mind bespeak.
As pure as is the lily's tip ;
Then, O, may sorrow's breath so bleak
Ne'er blight my Bud of Inverkip.
A HIGHLAND MOTHER'S LAMENT.
OcH ! you bafe left us a'.
You're teat's a stone now, Dannie ;
Ta cauld toor's on your heat.
In ta krafe wi' your krannie.
Och ! ish O ! Och ! ish O !
Sair's ta heart o' your mither,
Bhe would not be so fex
Hat you left put a prither.
48
Och! prawlie she'll hae mint
"WTian ye'll ran 'mang ta heather.
Ant ta kyes ant ta sheeps
Ye'll prought hame to your mither.
Och ! ish O ! &c
Ant no more will you play
" Gillie Callie " at ta wattin,
Or Shake Corton's strathspey.
From ta kreen to ta pettin.
Och ! ish ! &c.
Yesh ! you nefer sait a swear,
Or a cursh to your mither ;
Ant you ne'er lift your hau'
All your tays to your father.
Och ! ish ! 6:c
Your skin was white's a milk ;
Your hair was fine's a moutie : *
Your preath was sweeter far
Than smell of putter't croutie.
Och! ish 0! &lc.
Put och ! noo you are teat—
Nefer more will she sawt you ;
Ta cauld toor's on your heat —
Your mither's tarlin' dawtie.
Och ! ish ! &c.
Mole.
49
I SAID I LOVED THE TOWN.
I SAID I loved the town— and I felt the tale was true-
Beyond the spreading lawn, with its daisies dipt in dew ;
For I never sought the breezy hill, the woodlands, or the
plain.
But my heart with rapture bounded to the busy town again.
I said I loved the town— and I thought the tale was true,
Till Jessie thence had gone, then my fancy flitted too ;
The spell dissolved, like boyhood's bliss before the eye of
As fades before the glare of day the tinsel of the stage.
I said I loved the town — but I doubted if 'twas true,
Yet felt ashamed to own the longing strange and new,
That sighed for rural landscapes in all their varied dye?,
Exulting in the golden gleam of sunny summer skies !
I said I hate the town— and, alas ! the tale was true.
It's only charm had flown when Jessie's smile withdrew;
Oh ! I could love the bleakest spot on yonder moimtaiu
bare,
Beyond all else, if Jessie's eye were beaming on me there !
THE MOON SHONE CALMLY BRIGHT.
The moon shone calmly bright
Upon the slumb'ring scene.
Ten thousand stars shone out that night.
Around their placid queen ;
D
50
A ship hath left the shore, —
Where shall that good ship be.
Ere fill the moon one bright horn more ? —
Deep— deep in the booming sea,
•' Hark .'—heard ye not, but now,
A wild im earthly cry,"
They ask \sith troubled breast and brow.
And startled ear and eye— ^
" Was't the water-spirit's shriek ?
What may that boding be ?"
And a moment blanch 'd the brownest cheek.
On the deep and booming sea.
" What fear ?— the breeze to-night
Can scarce a ripple wake,
And slow moves our ship with her wings of white.
Like a swan o'er a moonlit lake I"
Ah ! little dreamt they then
The change so soon to be,
And arose the songs of jovial men
On the deep and booming sea I
'Tia mom— but such a mom
May bark ne'er brave again.
Through vaulting billows— tempest-torn.
Toils the reeling ship in vain !
The waves are hushed and blue.
But where — oh ! where is she.
The good ship with her gallant crew ?
Deep— down in the booming sea !
51
O COMB AWA*, JEANIE.
Music hy Peter M'Leod, Esq.
O COME awa', Jeanie, and hearken to me,
Wi' the sweet winning smile o' your daddie's blithe e'e ;
I'll gi'e an advice o' the best I can gi'e,
Sae sit ye down, daughter, and listen to me.
O Jean, bide awa' frae that son o' the laird's.
Things sacred and virtuous he naething regards ;
It is no for aught your auld minnie can name,
That he sees ye, an' e'es ye, an' follows ye hame.
Now sit ye do^^^l, Jeanie, and hearken to me,
Wi'your daddie's brent brow and your daddie's dark e'e,
I'll gi'e ye an advice o' the best I can gi'e,
Sae sit ye down, daughter, and listen to me.
There's douce Johnny Lowrie, the minister's man.
But his graces and face is a wee thing owre lang.
He woo'd and beguiled a young maiden before,
O gi'e Johnny Lowrie the back o' the door.
But sit ye down, Jeanie, and hearken to me,
Your minnie can see what her bairn canna see ;
I'll gi'e my advice, and it's a' I can gi'e,
Sae sit ye down, daughter, and listen to me.
There's young Hughy Graham o'the Windlestrae dell.
He's blooming, and guileless, and gude, like yersell ;
The Laird and John Lowrie can court ye mair free,
Without the pure lowe o' his kind loving e'e.
!^0
A* WEAR THE MASKS.
Air—" Whistle o'er the lave o't."
^^'iLL Shakspeare, in his witty page.
Declares that " all the vrorld's a stage,"
And vve ng players a' engage,
To — whistle owre the lave o't.
The Priest humility will teach—
lo poverty contentment preach —
PI I- e rank and wealth within his reach.
He — whistles owre the lave o't.
The Doctor, wi' his drap and pill,
May, as it happens, cure or kill ;
If he contrive his pouch to fill.
He'll whistle o'er the lave o't.
The learned Lawyer pawkilie.
In gown and wig, will press your plea ;
But, win or lose, has fobb'd his fee,
Sae— whistles owre the lave o't.
The Act:iv, he " plays mony a part,"
AVi' comic shrug, or tragic start.
To glee, or grief, he bends the heart.
And — whistles owre the lave o't.
The Fiddler, wi' his magic bow.
O'er mortals, too, his spell can throw;
He screws his pegs to joy or woe,
Syne whistles owre the lave o't.
The Landlord, wi' his beer sae sma',
Nae final reckoning feais ava ;
Instead o' ane he'll score you twa,
Then— whistle owre the lave o't.
The Soldier, though he drills a' day,
And right and left maun face away.
At night makes merry wi' his pay,
And— whistles owre the lave o't.
53
The Gangrel, on his timraer pegs,
Wha, through the day, for awmous begs.
At night will dance on twa gude legs.
And — whistle owre the lave o't.
In human life, we thus may see,
A* wear the mask in some degree ;
This ane will cheat, that ither lee,
A' whistle owre the lave o't.
THE WEE WEE FLOWER.
Air by Peter M'Leod, Esq.
The wee wee flower, the wee wee flower.
Shrinks frae the droukin midnight shower.
But opes its leaves in sunny hour— •
Slee type o' life— the wee wee flower.
The wee wee flower begins to blaw
AVhen early draps o' spring dews fa'.
But snell April aft gars it cour —
Ah ! silly thing, the wee wee flower.
When opening buds a* lang for light,
The wee flower peeps wi'gowd-e'e'd sight ;
An', O ! it's Nature's richest dower
To deck ance mair the wee wee flower.
When elfin fairies trip the green,
Wi' dew-stars blobbin in their e'en,
Tliey lay them down, a' happit owre,
A' nestling in the wee wee Xtower.
54
The wee flower decks nae garden gay.
But blooms in neuks that's far away ;
It canna stand ae wild e'e's glower —
Ah ! blate young thing, the wee wee flower.
'Mang trees the wee flower rears itsstem,
Cheer'd by the juice that nurtures them;
Yet a* it tak's, ne'er stints thoir power-
It lives on love, the wee wee flower.
But O ! the wee flower divines an' dees,
When nither'd by the norland breeze ;
As Passion plucks frae Nature's bower.
An' leaves to dee, the wee wee flower.
THE ROUGH KISS.
! woman's wit, O ! woman's wiles —
I would that I were free —
Far frae the magic o' your smiles.
Your winning witchery : —
Yet, did I vow the fair to flee.
Their favours sweet to scorn,
1 meikle doubt that I should die
A sinner sair foresworn.
Yestreen the new hairst-moon rose bright,
And ilka star, that beamed
In beauty on the brow o' night.
An aagera spirit seemed.
55
My weary naigs were fed, and clean,
Safe liame were kye and sheep ;
Thick cam' my nightly thoughts o' Jean,
Till I fell sound asleep.
And syne I dreamed — as fools will dream-
O' wandering near a bower.
Beside a merry chaunting stream,
Wi' green banks a' in flower.
There, fairer far than bowers or brooks.
Or flowers in summer sheen.
In ane o' Nature's rosy nooks,
I met my true-love Jean.
A herdin' crook held ae white han',
A silken leash the ither,
Wi' whilk she led, frae upland lawn,
A wee lamb and its mitlier.
How could my heart be passion-proof
When love brought us thegither ? —
The sunny sky our chamber roof,
Our couch the balmy heather.
Then — as I breathed my love — my sighs.
My words grew warmer, dearer ;
And, somehow, 'tween her kind i-eplies.
We nearer crept, and nearer.
But when I preed her mou', to prove
The raptures o' my faith,
I thought the loupin' throes o' love
And joy had been my death.
Alas! soon fled the vision sweet,
The joys o'each embrace.
And I awoke, methought to meet
Auld Satan face to face :
56
My rosy bed, beside the brook,
Pi-oved but a couch o' thorns ;
And high, instead o' Jeanie's crook,
Towered twa lang crooked horns !
And close, instead o' Jeanie's waist,
For beauty's model meet,
I faund my twining arms embraced
Twa cloddy, cloven feet !
And what I deem'd the sweets that sprung
Frae Jeanie's honey mou'.
Were lappings frae the lang rough tongue
O' auld Tarn Tamson's cow !
THE BONNIE KEEL LADDIE.*
The bonnie keel laddie, the cannie keel laddie.
The bonnie keel laddie for me, O !
He plies at his wark, in his blue woollen sark.
An' he brings the white money tiv me, O !
Throughout the hail raw, he's the nicest iv a'.
An' sey sharp is the glance iv his e'e, O I
Sey tight an* sey toppin', sey smart ay an strappin''
Ah ! dearly he's welcome tiv me, O f
• On the Tyne, the large hoats are called keelt, in which, coals are
conveyed down the river to the coasting vessels. Jiarv is applied to
the long range of low houses erected near a colliery, for the accommo-
dation of its workmen.
57
rrev his hat tiv his showe— when he's dressed braw an'
new-
He's gentility's sel' tiv a tee, O !
His hue is sey bonnie, there's nane like my Johnny,
Owre a' the wide world, tiv me, !
The cannie keel laddie, the bonnie Iceel laddie.
The cannie keel laddie for me, O !
My heart ay loups leet, when he comes hame at neet,
Tiv his cozie hearthstane, an' tiv me, O !
R. White's MSS.
SHEAN M'NAB.
Air—" Lord Balgonie's Favourite."
Of Shoan M'Nab she'll want to sing.
Ant all ta ponny flowers of Spring,
To make compare wi' Shean, she'll pring ;
My tearest ! sweetest Shean M'Nab !
Ta primrose, in ta tew of mom,
Ta woods ant mossy panks atom;
iut not a primrose e'er was pom
Is half 80 sweet as Shean M'Nab !
You'll surely hafe ta fiolet seen !
Be motest hite from kazers' e'en !
Ant blushing sweet, shust like my Shean,
My ponny, pretty Shean M'Nab.
Gran* is ta smell come from ta rose,
Penny's ta pud she early shows.
Her plooming colour sweetly blows
Upon ta sheek of Shean M'Nab.
58
Ta lily is poth sweet ant fair,
Naething can -.vi' her compare;
Put shust ta pos.)m nf my tear.
My ponny, pretty 6hean M'Nab.
Melting sweet's her tark plue e'e,
Like hare-pell on ta sunny lea,
Ant, och ! ta plink is tear to me,
Ta klance of ponny Shean M-Nab.
Her preath's more sweet as meatow bay.
Or frakrant wilt thyme's flower in May,
Och! she could lif for efer aye
Upon ta lips of Shean M'Nab.
Shean's tall ant stately as ta pine,
Her form is kraceful, most tifine ;
All other maitens she'll outshine,
My penny, pretty Shean JM'Nab.
Happy to pe, she coult not fail.
If nainsel' coult on Shean prefail
To shange her name to Shean M'Phail,
Ant nefermore pe Shean N'Nab.
NO SEASON THIS FOR GLOOMING.
No season this for glooming.
No season this for sorrow.
The blithe old earth is blooming,
Sweet flowers the air perfuming.
And birds sing loud, "good morrow !"
59
Lo F where the clouds are breaking,
And, from their fleecy bosoms.
The jovial sun awaking,
I! is morning draught partaking—
The dew t>^"* s^o^" ^^^ blossoms!
men let old Care go slumber,
AVhile here, with blue-eyed Pleasui
Devoid of thought or cumber.
As time's hours slowly number.
We dance a jocund measure !
FOR THE MERRY MOONLIGHT HOUli
O FOR the merry moonlight hour !
for the hearts that warmest glow !
for the breath of the summer flower.
Far floating in the vale below !
Hail to the clime where Beauty's power
Is stamped on every plant and tree ;
Joy's rosy throne — Love's wedding bower —
Land of our choice, fair Italy !
O for the dance '—the dance at even !—
Woman's smile is loveliest then ;—
O for the notes which came from Heaven,
Which came — but ne'er returned again.
Blessed be these notes ! they long have striyjii
To keep the young heart warm and frc ;
And never was boon to mortals given,
Like the sonj of fervid Italy,
60
for tLe mom ! the glorious mom !
When souls were proud, and hopes were big'i,
Ere the Eagle's fiery plume was torn.
Or Lis course grew dark in the western sky.
That wUd bird's wi^g i»-t^nnk and shorn,
Yet our empire winds from sea to c^_ .
Fame's wandering torch o'er earth is borne,
Love's, shines alone for Italy !
Then hail to the merry moonlight hour !
And joy to the hearts that warmest glow .'
Ever bright be the bloom of the summer fiower,
And sweet its breath in the vale below !
And long may our maidens' evening bowe
Echo the song of the gay and free ;
And long may Beauty's dazzling power
Reign over blooming Italy !
THEN MOUNT THE TACKLE AND THE REEL.
Our sport is with, the salmon rod,
Fine gut, tough ravel string,
A hook of the true " Kirkby bend,"
Dark-bodied with white wing ;
Dark-bodied with white wing, my boys I
A yellow bob behind.
And deep rod hackle, fastened round
"With tinsel well entwined.
61
Then mount the tackle and the reel.
Is now the fisher's song,
For Bringham Dub and Carham Wheel *
Hold many a salmon strong.
A south-west wind that steady blows,
A dark grey cloudy sky,
A ripple o'er the water clear.
To lead away the fly ;
To lead away the fly, my boys !
There strike ! the reel goes free !
With a new run fish, as fresh and strong
As ever left the sea.
Then mount, &c.
The yielding rod bends like a bow.
And lifts him from his hold,
With quivering pull, and bounding leap.
Or steady run so bold ;
The steady run so bold, my boys !
As through the stream he flies.
Tells with what energy he fights
Before a salmon dies.
Then mount, &c.
Reel up, reel up ! one sullen plunge.
He takes out line no more.
Head down the stream ! then haul him in !
He gasps upon the shore ;
He gasps upon the shore, my boys !
His weight an English stone.
As beautiful a thing in death
As eye e'er gazed upon.
Then mount, &c.
* Celebnted pooU or holds for ndmon on the Tweed.
62
The sport is o'er! and home we go,
A bumper round we bear,
And drink " The face we never saw.
But may it prove as fair !"*
But m ly it prove as fair ! my boys,
Each fisher drinks with glee,
And benisons to-morrow's sport.
That it may better be.
Then mount, dec.
THE FLOWER O' THE AYR.
I walk'd out yestreen, when the e'enin* was fa'in*,
A lingering glory yet played on the sea.
The woods were sae still , no a zeph jt was blawin ,
The sang o' the lav'rock was hushed on the lea.
Awa'frae the town, wi' its din and its folly,
I kent na, and eared na, how far I had gane.
The night was sae peacefu', the hour was sae holy,
The spirit o' nature and I were alane.
I thought on the days when I stray'd wi' my Jessie,
While birds lilted sweet on the banks of the Ayr,
"When Hope's fairy visions were shared wi' my lassie.
And life was as happy as simmer was fair.
Sad was my heart, for again I was roamin'
Through scenes that were dear in the days o' langsyne,
And Mem'ry flew back to the still simmer gloamin',
When, prest to my bosom, she vowed to be mine.
63
There was the burnie yet, fring'd with the breckan ;
There was the bank where she sat on my knee ;
There was the birken bower, sad and forsaken.
Where aft she had lookit sae fondly on nie ;
But where is my lassie, O where is my Jessie ?
Ah ! cruel echoes, ye mock my despair ;
Nor sunshine may cheer me, nor tempests can fear me •
Oh, soon may I lie wi' the Flower o' the Ayr.
GLENORCHY.
WILD singing spirit of Glenorchy's lone vale,
Why ceased is thy music, why gone is thy tale ?
Has thy bard sunk to slumber with those who are gone,
That I hear not his harp, with its heart-stirring tone ?
Round the towers of Kilchurn thy murmur sweeps low,
But 'tis lost in the lake of Glenorchy's loud flow ;
Thy name and existence they flit fast away,
And thy bard and his numbers have gone to decay !
Has no minstrel e'er given thy praises to fame ?
Are thy scenes doom'd to die, like thy perishingjiamc?
Are those haunts doom'd to fade, like the quick-passing
flower
That blooms into beauty and dies in an hour ?
From thy cloud on the mountain I hear thee reply :—
" Many bards have I had in the ages gone by ;
But the Sassenach loved not our wild Highland strain,
And the Gael's native music was wasted in vain !"
64
But yet on thy lonely braes, thrilling afar
The soft notes of love, and the loud tones of war,
By thy shepherds awaken'd, may stUl there be heard.
Re-echoing sweetly the tones of thy bard.
And often, when o'er Ben Cruachan in light
The moon sheds her silvery rays on the mght.
She sees her attendant stars shine in the deep
Of thy long inland waters, as softly they sleep.
And she hears through the silence of ages gone past,
The echoes of harps chiming lone on the blast ;
They speak of the glory that's faded away.
And moumful's the sound of their lingering lay !
When the thick falling dews seem'd to swell the bright
stream.
And the waterfall tinkled beneath the moonbeam.
When the long summer nights seemed still longer to stay,
And the glory of evening was brighter than day.
Then the fairies in splendid array would advance.
As they glided along in their wild mystic dance,
And the music of spirits by mortals unseen
Soimded sweet with their mirth as they danced on the
green.
But the music has ceased, and the fairies are gone.
And the scene only mourns in its beauty alone ;
Neglect with her shadow now closes it o'er,
And the haimts once so loved will be cherish'd no more !
k(Mr^
65
SANDYFORD HA'.
Air— •• Laird o' Cockpen."
Yb'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford Ha',
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford Ha';
Wlien Summer returns wi' her blossoms aae braw,
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford Ha'.
This dwelling though humble is airy and clean,
Wi' a hale hearty wifie baith honest and bien,
An' a big room below for the gentry that ca',—
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford Ha'.
A wooden stair leads to the attics aboon,
Whar ane can look out to his friends in the moon,
Or rhyme till saft sleep on his eyelids shall fa',—
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford Ha'.
An' when a lang day o* dark care we ha'e closed.
An' our heart wi' the bitter ingredient is dozed,
We'll puff our Havana, on Hope we will ca'.
An' our chief guest be Pleasure at Sandyford Ha*.
Ye'll no need to ask me to sing you a sang.
For the wee thoehtless birdies lilt a' the day lang ;
The lintie, the laverock, the blackbird an' a'.
Ilk' day ha'e a concert at Sandyford Ha'.
There's palace-like mansions at which ye may stare,
AVhere Luxury rolls in her saft easy-chair, —
At least puir folks think sae, — their knowledge is sma'.
There's far mair contentment at Sandyford Ha'.
'J'here's something romantic about an auld house,
Where the cock ilka morning keeps crawing f u' crouse,
An' the kye in the byre are baith sleekit an' braw,
An' such ia the case at blythe Sandyford Ha*.
In the garden we'll sit 'neath the big beechen tree,
As the sun dips his bright-bumish'd face in the sea.
Till night her grey mantle around us shall draw,
Then we'll a' be ia' cantie in Sandyford Ha'.
£
66
At morning when music is loud in the sky.
An* dew, like bright pearls, on roses' lips lie.
We'll saunter in joy where the lang shadows fa',
'Mang th&Bweet-scented groves around Sandyford Ha'.
i/^9iUAAy^^y^
RANTIN' ROBIN, RHYMIN' ROBIN.
Air—" Dainty Davie."
When Januar winds were ravin' wil'
O'er a* the districts o' our isle,
There was a callant bom in Kyle,
And he was christen 'd Robin.
Oh Robin was a dainty lad,
Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin;
It made the gossips unco glad
To hear the cheep o' Robin.
That ne'er-to-be-forgotten morn.
When Coila's darling son was bom,
Auld Scotland on her stock-an'-horn
Play'd ♦* welcome hame " to Robin.
And Robin was the blythest loon,
Rantin' Robin, rhymin* Robin,.
That ever sang beneath the moon,— •
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
Fame stappin in ayont the hearth,—
Cried, " I foresee your matchless worth.
And to the utmost ends o' earth
I'll be your herald, Robin .' "
And well she did emblaze his name,
Rantin* Robin, rhymin* Robin,
In characters o' livin' flame, —
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
67
The Muses round his cradle hung.
The Graces wat his infant tongue.
And Independence wi* a rung.
Cried—" Redd the gate for Robin • '
For Robin's soul-arousing tones,
Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin,
Gar'd tyrants tremble on their thrones.
We'll a' be proud o' Robin !
Then let's devote this night to mirth.
And celebrate our Poet's birth;
While Freedom preaches i' the earth.
She'll tak' her text frae Robin !
Oh ! Robin's magic notes shall ring,
Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin,
While rivers run and flowerets spring.
Huzza ! huzza for Robin ! !
PEGGY PENN.
A CUJIBERLAND BALLAD.
AiB— " The Barley Bree."
The muin shone breet, the tudder neet ;
The kye wer milkt ; aw wark was duin ;
1 shavet mysel*, an* cwomt my hair,
Flang aff the clogs, pat on greas'd shoon ;
The clock strack eight, as out I stule.
The rwoad 1 tuik reet weel I ken,
An' crosst the watter, clam the hill,
In whopes to meet wi' Peggy Penn.
6S
"When i* the wood, I heard two talk.
They cutter't on, but rather low ;
I hid niysel* ahint a yak,
An' Peggy wid a chap suin saw :
He smackt her lips ; she cried, " Give owre !
"We lasses aw are pleag't wi' men ! "
I tremlin' stuid, but dursen't speak,
Tho' fain I'd coddelt Peggy Penn !
He cawt hor ^Marget, sometimes Miss,
He spak' queyte fcyne,* an' kisst her ban' ;
He braggt ov aw his fadder hed —
I seeght ; for we've nae house or Ian'!
Said he, " My dear, I've seen j'ou oft.
An' watoh'd you link thro' wood an' glen,
"With one George ?.Ioor, a rustic boor.
Not fit to wait on sweet Miss Penn .' "
She drew her ban', an' tumt her roun',
"Let's hae nae mair sic talk! " says she,
" Tho' Gwordie .Aluir be nobbet puir,
He's dearer nor a prince to me !
Mey fadder scauls, mworn, nuin, an' neet,
Mey mudder fratohes sair; what then? —
Aw this warl's gear cud niver buy
Frae Gworge the Inve ov Peggy Penn ! "
•* O, Miss ! " says he, *' forget such fools.
Nor heed the awkward, stupid clown ;
If such a creature spoke to me,
I'd quickly knock the booby down ! "
•* Come on !" says I, " thy strenth e'en try,
Suin heed owre heels sic tuils I'd sen* ;
Lug off thy cwoat, I'll feght aw neeght
Wi' three leyke thee for Peggy Penn ! **
• A ■would-be dandy.
Now off he flew ; mey airms I threw
About her waist ; away we went ;
I axt her if she durst be meyne ;
She squeezt my han' an' gov consent :
We talkt, an' jwokt, as lovers sud.
We partet at their awn byre en'.
An' ere anudder month be owre,
She'll change to ^Muir frae Peggy Penn!*
• We are indebted to our friend, James Steel, Esq., editor and pro-
prietor of the Carlisle Journal, for the following biographical notice of
the Cumberland bard. Many of Mr. Anderson's pieces appeared first
in that journal — Eo.
"The author of this ballad, which we believe has never before ap-
peared in type, was born at Carlisle, in the county of Cumberland, on
the 1st of February, 1770, in a suburb of the city culled Dam-side. HU
parents were very poor, and burthened with a large family; and
Kobert, being the youngest of nine children, received his early educa-
tion at a charity school of the humblest pretensions. While yet a
•hild, he used to spend his winter evenings by the tireside of an old
Highland woman, who lived near the house of his parents, listening
with wonder and delight to the ' wild Scottish ballads' she sung to him;
and from this circumstance he says he ' imbibed the love of song,'
*hich clung to him through life, before he was ten years of age, he
was sent to labour, as an assistant to an elder brother, a cal:co printer;
and, when thirteen years old, was bound apprentice as a pattern-
drawer in the same business. At the end of his apprtntictsliip, he
went to London, and was first induced to become a song writer by
hearing some wretched songs, 'in a uiock-pastoral, Scouish style,'
sung at Vauxhall Gardens. His first effusions were set to music by
Mr. Hook, and, to his great gratification, sung at Vauxhall by
70
JEAN MUNUO.
Air— «' Jock o' Hazledean."
O HAB ye seen the lily fair, wak'd by the morning beam,
Bending its head sae modestly aboon the bickering stream ;
Or hae ye seen the e'eui jg star at gloaming brightly glow —
Then hae ye seen the fairy form o' bonnie Jean -Alunro.
Her cheek is like the mellow fruit, just drapping frae the
tree.
And there's a silent witch'ry in the twinkle o' her e'e ;
And frae her brent and polished brow, her glossy ringlets
flow.
That clust'ring shade the snaw-white breast o* bonny Jean
]\Iunro.
The miser who exultingly looks on his glittering store,
And feels, throughout his frozen veins, a thrill of transpor*
pour.
Master Phelps. He returned to Carlisle in 1796, and ten year*
afterwards he published his first volume of ballads in the Cum-
bcrland dialect. He soon afterwards went to Belfast to follow bis
profession, and continued to write ballads and other poetical pieces,
which were published in the Belfast and Carlisle newspapers. He
again returned to his native place in 1820, to which he was welcomed
hy a public dinner. A subscription was set on foot to publish his
works, from which it was expected that a sum might be raised to
secure him an auntiity for life. The works were printed, in two
volumes, but tlie profits upon ihem were very small; and poor An-
derson had at last to be preserved from the workhouse by a triSmg an-
nual subscription ra'sed amongst a few of his admirers. He died on the
C6th SeptembiT, 1833, and a marble bust of him has been placed in
the aisle of St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle. His poetical powers were
not of a very high order ; but lie had a keen perception of character,
and has depicted the manners and customs of ' canny Cumberland,'
fn his balla<ls,with extr-ui'-Hinsry vigour and truth."
71
The rushing tide of happiness he would at once forego,
For ae kiss o' the balmy lips o' bonnie Jean Munro.
Care hath his furrows deeply set upon my altered cheek.
And wintry Time blawn o'er my head his blasts baith cauld
and bleak ;
But could 1 to my cheek restore Youth's gladsome ruddy
glow,
Blythe would I be life's path to tread wi' bonnie Jean
Mimro.
POLLY CUSHANE.
O ! Protestant Billy was handsome and tall,
His shoulders were broad, and his ankles were small ;
There was not in our country so frisky a blade,
And by nature he was a true jintlenian made.
And a waltin' the Gallachers many times got.
When they oSered to tramp on tlie tails of his coat ;
But yet this bould rover got bound in love's chain.
And kilt by the blue eyes of Polly Cushane.
At her father's fireside, for a long winter's night,
To talk wid his Polly was all his delight —
And there they kept titterin' and botherin' still,
Till the grey eye of morning peep'd over the hill.
Billy's bisom with love was burning and dry,
For all that it drank from each glance of her eye,
Which glisten'd and laugh'd like the flower after raiu
" Och ! your'e fresher and fairer, my Polly Cushane."
Wid a slap on his cheek, she smiling would gay,
" 'Tis late now, you rogue, so be off and away ;"
Then Billy replies, " Faith, my darlint, that's thrue— «■
But how can I sleep, for a dhraming of you,"
72
" Go— spalpeen !" her ould father bawls in a rage;
Then Polly would pant like a bird in a cage.
While Protestant Bill kiss'd her red lips again, —
" Good nightandgood luck, my sweet Polly Cushane.
AULD EPPIE.
AuLD Eppie, puir bodic, she wons on the bi-ae,
In yon little cot-house, aneath the auld tree ;
Far off frae a' ithers, an* fu*, fu' o' flaws,
Wi' rough divot snnks haudin* up the mud wa's;
The storm-tatter'd riggin', a' row'ii here an' there.
An* tlic reekit lum-franiin*, a' broken an' bare.
The langritgit eaves hangin' down the laigh door.
An' a'c wee bit winnock, aiuaist happit owcr ;
The green boor-tree bushes a' wavin' aroun'.
An' grej' siller willow-wands kissin' the grun'!
" Auld Eppie'sa weird.u'ife," sae runs the rude tale,
Fora'enicht somechiels comin'hamefme their ale
Cam' in by her biggin', an', watchin* apart,
They saw Eppie tuiniu'the beuko' black art;
An' () ! — thedouft" soun's and the uncos that fell,
Xaelivin'cou'd think o'.naelanguagc cou'il tell.
iS'ac body leak's near her, unless it may be
AVhan cloudie nicht closes the day's darin'c'e.
That some, wi' rewards an' assurance, slip ben.
The weeld an' the waea o' the future to ken !
Auld Eppie's nae spaewife, tho' she gets the name;
.Siie's wae for hersel', but she's wae'cr for them ;
73
For tho' ne'er a frien'ly foot enters her door.
She is blest wi" a frien' in the Friend o* the Poor.
Her comfort she draws frae the Volume o* Light,
An' aye reads a portion o't mornin* an' nicht —
In a' crooks an* crosses she cahnly obeys,
E'en seasons o' sorrow are seasons o' praise ;
She opens an* closes the day on her knee—
That's a' the strange sicht onie bodie can sec.
iMuJc
<j^^^
ON A SWEET LOVELY ISLE.
Ov a sweet lovely isle, in some calm peaceful sea,
'Mid the billows at rest, thy fair dwelling should be ;
Far from cities and towns, with their tumult and btiifo,
With the birds and the flowers thou should'at pass thy
young life;
Where the flower on the sward, and the bird on the tree,
Alone gave its song and its beauty to tliec, —
Fit abode is such gem, on t)ie bright Oilcan's brovv.
For a ci'eatureso sweet and so lovely as thou.
Wliere the bounties of nature are scattci ed nnnmd.
And cacli bush and each trLC witli i ioii fruitage is crown 'd (
Where the itibocts and birds — as tliey sport on the wing —
Hejoice in a constant duration uf sjjring;
Where the streamlet — that murmurs in beauty along —
Glads thy brow with its coolness, thine car with its song.
And all nature around wears her gaudiest vest,
'Jo welcome so good and so gentle a guest.
Where the sea that encircles that fair peaceful land.
Never breaks with rude surge on the bright golden sand.
74
But the happy young wavelets, that sparkle so sweet.
Dance wild in their glee ere they break at thy feet :
A resion of bliss — where no restless commotion
Within, on the land, or without, on the ocean ; —
Fit emblem that land, and fit emblem that sea.
Of a creature so pure and so peaceful as thee.
Where nature repos?s—belo\r and on liigh —
In the green of the sea and the blue of the sky ;
Where the sun loves to pour on the fairest of isles
The first of i.is rays and the last of his smiles,
And ere the bright glory has sunk in the west.
Throws a mantle of gold round the isle he loves best-
There to spend all my days— oh J the rapture — the bliss
With a creature so pure, on an island like this.
O, WE'LL KEEP OUR HEARTS ARGON.
Air — *' why should old age so much wound us, 0."
O wv.'ll, keep our hearts aboon i' the bearing o't,
O we'll keep our hearts aboon i' the bearing o't ;
Though our pows are turning grey, and life's fleeting fast
.iway,
Yet we'll never cut it short wi' the fearing o't .
O our friendship it began when our years were hut few,
O our friendship it begin when our years were but few ;
Now many a year we've seen, wi' the world white and green,
Yet every time we've met, still our happiness is seen.
Though we're neither lairds nor lords, yet the world it is
wide,
Though we're neither lairds nor lords, yet the world it is
wide;
And the merle's i* the wud, and the lav'rock's i' the clud,
And our cantiowee bit housikie by yon burnie side.
Let the warldjust rin round i* the auld way o't,
Let the warldjust rin round i' the auld way o't;
And the puir conceited fool, and the cauld and envious snool.
We've still a laugh to spare them in ourblythe way o't.
' — — ™ -tr-
JEANIE KELLY.
" Hky Jeanie Kelly, where hae ye been, I'd wate ?
Howe Jeanie Kelly, where hae ye been sae Lite ?"
*' It's I've been in the greenwood, meetin' Jolinie Gray,
I can meet my Johnie either night or day.
Hey the bonnie greenwood, ho the bonnie greenwood,
It's there I'll meet my Johnie eitlier night or day."
" Does he speak je kindly, telling tales o' love,
<Jr is he ane o' thae wad woman's weakness prove ?"
" O jes, he speaks me kindly, kissing when we part.
Of a' the lads my Johnie's dearest to xny heart.
1' the bonny greenwood, <Stc.
Of a' the lads, &c
"■ His speech is aye sae modest, and his very e'e
Tell's aye what he's meanin', at least it does to me ;
And when we gang thegither, my arm link'd into his,
1 mind na what the sorrow or care o' this warld is,
I' the bonny greenwood, &c.
76
•' O he lias vow'd to lo'e me, and lo'e nane but me.
This gowden ring he's gi'en me a pledge of faith to be ;
He said, will ye be mine ? I couldna say him nay,
Twas in the bonny greenwood I wan my Johnie Gray.
Hey the bonny greenwood, <Sje.
'Twasin, &c.
WINTER.
Now the tops of the Ochils are chilly with snow.
But houses are wa:m in the vallevs below ;
Tlieroufs are all white in their winter's attire.
But riresides are cosy with long flaming tire.
Old Boreas, the storesman of snow and of hail.
Sifts down from his bolter dire drift on our val?,
With rain-drops at his nose and ice gauds at his ears,
lie but heightens our joys when his grimness appears.
lie may gowl till he gasp ; he may fret till he freeze
All the burns in their beds, in their channels the seas ;
liut the waraith of our hearts, as iu friendship they glow,
He never can cool with his frost and his snow.
In summer we garnish our goblets with flowers, •.
And we sit all the even amid our rose bowers;
In winter our hearts the more merrily mingle,
And cuddle more close round the bowl and the ingle.
Then here's to the man that doth temper a wee
His wisdcm with folly, his douceness with glee ;
Whose heart,tried the more, but the better doth prove.
Aye happy with lore, and aye kindly with love.
W. T.
O LIST THE MAVIS* MELLOW NOTE.
Oh ! list the mavis' mellow note
Frae 'inang the aspen leaves.
While, big wi' sai.g, his swelling throat
All' mottled bieastie heaves.
Oh ! sweetly pours the bonny bird
His music wild and free.
But, M.iry, sang was never heard
Could wile my heart frae thee.
The last bright tints o' sunsst fair
Gleam on the distant hill ;
Like threads o' polish'd silver there
Glow many a streaming rill.
The flowers smell sweet when gloaming grey
Sends dews across the lea —
Nae odours sweet or colours gay
Can wile my heart frae thee.
The blythsome lambs will sport at e'en
On muny a broomy knowe,
And through the gowan'd glen sae green
The mountain stream will row.
The trouts that sport aneath its wave
Unguiled may live for me ;
Nae hackle bright, or barle grave.
Can wile my heart frae thee.
78
Beneath the gloaming's mellow light
The landscapa fair may lie ;
The laverock in his yirthward flight
May cleave thegowden sky;
And Nature, haith wi* sichtand sounds
3Iay^K^ure ear and e'e,
But, Mary, lass, the warld's boimd
Hands nought sue dear to me.
SANDY ALLAN.
Air—" S.XIV yc Johnny coming?"
AVha is he I hear sae crouse.
There ahint the hallan ?
Whase skirlin' rings thro* a' the house.
Ilk corner o* the dwallin'.
O ! it is ane, a weel kent chiel.
As mirth e'er set a bawlin'.
Or filled a neuk in drouthy biel, —
It's canty Sandy Allan.
He has a gaucy kind guidwife.
This blyths-jme Sandy Allan,
Wha lo'es him meikle mair than life.
And glories in her callan.
As sense an' sound are ane in sang,
Sae's Jean an* Sandy Allan ;
Twa hearts, yet hut ae pulse an* tongue,
Hae Luckie an' her callan.
To gie to a', it's aye his rule,
Their proper name an'callin' :
A knave's a knave — a fule's a f ule,
Wi' honest Sandy Allan.
79
For ilka vice he has a dart.
An' * heavy is it's fallin';
J Jut ay for worth a kindred heart
Has ever Sandy Allan.
To kings a knee he winna bring, j»
Sae proud is Sandy Allan ; ^^^
The man wha rightly feels is king
O'er rank wi' Sandy Allan.
Auld nature, just to show the warl'
Ae truly honest callan ;
She strippit til't, and made a carle,
And ca't him Sandy Allan.
y/!^<u.^c^
WOMAN'S AVARK WJLL NE'ER BE DUNE.
Woman's wark will ne'er be dune.
Although the day were e'er sae lang ;
Sae meikle but, sae meikle ben, —
But for her care a' wad gae wrang :
And iiiblins a poor thriftless wipht
To spend the gear sae ill to won,
Aft gars an eydent thrifty wife
Say *' woman's wark will ne'er be dune."
We little think, in youthfu' prime,
When wooing, what our weird may be ;
But aye we dream, and aye we hope,
That blytlie and merry daya we'll see :
80
And blythe and merry might we be-
But when is heard the weary tune,
" The morn it comes, the morn it gaes.
But woman's wark will ne'er be dune."
I've been at bridals and at feasts,
"When care was in the nappy drowned ;
The world might sink, or it might swim,
3Ian, wife and weans were a' aboon't :
But — wae's my heart to think upon't ! —
The ncist day brought the waefu' croon, —
" Come bridals, or come merry feasts,
A woman's wark will ne'er be dune."
Twa bajrr :es toddlin' at the fit.
An' aiblins ane upon the knee.
Gar life appear an unco faught.
An' mony hae the like to dree ;
But cherub lips an' kisses sweet
Keep aye a mither's heart aboon,
Although the owrecome o' the sang
Is " woman's wark will ne'er be dune."*
^ ^ill.
^2>vt^
' The foregoing lines are from the pen of the late Robert Allan, of
the parish of Kilbarchan, in Renfrewshire, some of whose lyrical pro-
ductions have lorg been deservedly popular all over Scotland— such as,
" The Bonnie built Wherry," " The Covenanter's Lament," "Hand
awa'frae me, Donald," &c. Mr. AlUn fllowed through life the humble
tccupation of a handloom -weaver; and during his leisure hours he
occasionally amused himself in poetical composition, the fruits of wbich
appeared in a volume, which was published by subscription, in 1836.
hilt xihich scarcely remunerated the author. The principal poem
ill the vnli'.me is entitled, "An Address to the Robin." It is written
81
THE TRYSTING TREE.
Thr trysting tree, the trysting tree,
O dear that gnarly trunk to me !
My saul hath heen in heaven hie
When wooing 'neath the trysting fa
in the Scottish dialect, and is, from beginning to end, a burst of
homely vid tender recollections, blended -with the associations of
boyhood, and "coming events," which seem to have cast their shadow
over the mind of the amiable writer. He was the father of a nume-
rous family. His youngest son — the only one of the family remaining
unmarried— a young man of great promise as a portrait painter, left
this country for America. The father could not remain behind tha
«hild of his old age. He bade farewell to his native land, and accom-
panied the young adventurer — only, alas ! to die with his foot upon
the shores of the New World. He arrived at New York on the 1st of
Jnne, 1841, and died there six days afterwards, .lom the effects of a
eold caught on the banks of Newfoundland. Allan was one of the
most single-hearted beings that ever lived, and much of this charactel
is reflected in his poems. We have had placed at our disposal a care-
fully written sketch of the history and career of the poet, from the
pen of his son-in-law, Mr. John M'Gregor, of Lochwinnoch, a gen-
tleman of considerable literary attainments, and we regret tliat its
extreme length hinders us from laying it before the reader. From it
we learn that the various members of tlie All in fan;ily have long been
distinguished in their neigiibourh. od for their superior intelligence,
general ability, and upright, honourable conduct. Old Robin moved
among them not as a father, but as a brother. Indeed, he lived only
in the affections and good opinion of his friends : without these, exis-
tence would have been to him a bitter burden. The following anec-
dote evinoet the unaffected simplicity of the man : — Mr. Robertson^
«nr publisher, took him, a short time before he left this country, to
ite Um Glaigaw City Hospital. On their way, the forinrr intrbducsd
F
82
'he birds lay silent in their nests.
The flowers lay faulded on the lea.
An' a' was still, save our twa breasts.
Warm throbbing 'neath thetrysting tiee.
We sigh'd, we blush'd, but a' was hushM.
For no ae wora to spare had we ;
But ae chaste kiss spak a* our bliss,
Aneath the dear auld trysting tree.
We made nae tryst, we changed nae vows,
Dut, aye when daylight closed his e*e.
We somehow met aneath the boughs
O' that auld kindly trysting tree.
But grief an' time ha'e wrought sad wark
Upon that dear auld tree an' me ;
The light that lit my soul is dark,
The leaves ha'e left the trysting tree.
The trysting tree, the tryst-ing tree.
Though dear its twisted trunk to me,
It wrings my heart, and droons my e'e.
To gaze upon that trysting tree.
him to the ReT. Mr. Gordon, a talented and much esteemed
Catholic clergyman in Glasgow. ■• 1 am glad to be introduced to yon,
Sir. Allan," said Mr. Gordon. "And so am 1 to be made acquainted
with you, sir. Really, it's hard to say, when we risein the morning,
what sort o* company we may meet vV before nicht." Mr. Allan wai
Kged sixty seTtn ; he was born at Kilbarchan. 4th November, 1774.
83
BAULDY BUCHANAN.
O WHA hasna heard o' blythe Bauldy Buchanan ?
A hale hearty carle o' some saxty years stan'in' ;
Gae search the hale kintra, frae Lanark to Lunnon,
Ye'll scarce find the match o* blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
For Bauldy's sae cracky, an' Bauldy's sae canty —
A frame o' threescor , vvi' a spirit o' twenty —
\S'i' his auld farrant tales, an' his jokin', an' funnin',
A rich an' rare treat is blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
Blythe Bauldy Buchanan's a wonderfu* drinker
O' knowledge— for he's a great reader an' thinker —
There's scarcely an author frae Bentham to Bunyan,
But has been run dry by blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
He kens a* the courses an' names o' the planets —
The secret manoeuvres o' courts an' o' senates-
Can tell you what day Babel's tower was begun on ; —
Sae deep read in beuks is blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
He can play on the bag-pipe, the flute, and the fiddle.
Explain ony text, or expound ony riddle ;
At deep calculation, at drawin', an' plannin'.
There's naebody equal to Bauldy Buchanan.
He kens how the negroes are black and thick-lippit—
How leopards are spotted— how zebras are strippit —
How maidens in Turkey sae muckle are run on ;—
Sae versed in sic matters is Bauldy Buchanan.
How the English like beer, an' the Scotch like their whisky —
How Frenchmen are temperate, lively, and frisky —
How the Turks are sae grave, an' the Greeksare sae cunnin*.
Can a* be explained by blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
An' mair than a' that, he can trace out the cause
O'rain an' fair weather — o' frosts an* o' thaws —
An* what keeps the earth in its orbit still runiiiu';—
Sae wonderfu' learned is blythe Bauldy Buchuuan.
84
When round his fireside neebours meet in the gloamln':?,
An' hear him describe the auld Greeks an' the Romans-
How they battled an' fought without musket or cannon-
Tbe folks glow'r wi' wonder at Bauldy Buchanan.
Or when he descends frae the grave to the witty.
An* telld some queer story, or sings some droll ditty,
Wi' his poetry, pleasantry, puzzlin', an punnin'.
Their sides are made sair wi' bly the iiauldy Buchanan.
But o' a' the attractions that Bauld y possesses,
Jlis greatest attractions are twa bonnie lasses ;
•.Mang a' the tine Icddies frae Crail to Clackmannan,
There's nane can match Bella an' Betty Buchanan.
For O they're sae clever, sae frank, an' sae furthy,
S le bonnie, sae bloomin', sae wise, an' sae worthy.
They keep the hale lads in the parish a-runnin'
An' strivin' for Bella an' Betty Buchanan.
SLY WIDOW SKINNER.
Air—" The Lothian lassie."
THK days when I strutted (to think o't I'm sad)
The heir to a cozy bit mailen,
When sly Widow Skinner gat round me, the jaud!
For she thought my auld daddy wasfailin', wasfailin'.
She thought my auld daddy was failin'.
1 promised to tak' her for better for worse.
Though sma' was my chance to be happy.
For I found she had courtit na me, but my parse ;
What's waur— that she liket a drappy, a drappy ;
WTiat's waur — that she liket a drappy.
85
Then a'e nicht at a kirn I saw Maggy Hay,
To see her was straight to adore her ;
The widow lookd blue when I pass'd herneist day,
An' waited na e'en to speer for her, speer for her,
An' waited na e'en to speer for her.
pity my case — I was sheepishly raw,
And she was a terrible Tartar !
She spak about " measures," and " takin' the law,*
And I set mysel' down for a martyr, a martyr,
. I set mysel' down for a martyr.
1 buckled wi' Mag, an' the blj'the honeymoon
Scarce was owre, when the widow I met her ;
She girningly whisper'd, " Ilcch ! weel ye ha'e dune.
But, tent me, lad, I can do better, do better.
But, tent me, lad, I can do better.
" * 'Gin ye canna get berries, put up wi' the hools !' "
Her proverb I countit a blether ;
But, — widows for ever for hookin' auld fules —
Neist week she was cry'd wi' my feyther, my feyther,
Neist week she was cry'd wi' my feyther.
-£^^(f^^^$~
A DECEMBER DITTY.
The merry bird o' simmer's flown,
"Wi" his brave companions a' ;
Grim Winter has the green leaf stown.
An' gifted us the sjiaw.
The big bough sings a dowie sang
As it swings in the deepening drift :
An' the glint o' day just creeps alang
The ledge o' the leaden lift.
86
But awa' wi' words in wintry weed,
An' thoughts that bode o' ill !
What ! are we o' the forest breed,
To dow wi' the daffodil ?
Let's roose up, merrj' daj's we've seen,
When carping Care was dumb ;
Let's think on flowers and simmers green —
There's Julys yet to come !
Though my lair is in a foreign land.
My friends ayont the sea,
There's fushion in affection's band
To draw them yet to me !
CA.X'T YOU BE ASY. -
Air — " ^?-raft, Catty, now, can't you be asy 9"
Oh what stories I'll tell when my sodgering's o'er,
And the gallantFourteenth is disbanded;
Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more.
When safely in Ireland landed.
With the blood that I spilt— the Frenchmen I kilt,
I'll drive the young girls half crazy ;
Ami some 'cute one will cry, with a wink of her ej'e,
JMister Free, now—" why can't you be asy?"
• Taken, with perroitsjon, from *' Charlea O'Malley, th* Iriih
Dragoon."
87
I'll tell how we routed the squadruns in fight.
And destroyed them all at '• Talaveia,"
And then I'll just add, how we finished the night.
In learning to dance the »' bolera ;"
now by the moonshine, we drank rael wine.
And rose next day fresh as a daisy ;
Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly,
" Arrah, Mickey— now; can't you be asy ?"
I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent,
jt^ Around a big fire in the air too,
Or may be enjoying ourselves in a tent.
Exactly like Donnybrook fair too ;
How he'd call out to me — "Pass the wine, Mr Free,
For you're a man never is lazy ! "
Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye,
" Arrah, Mickey dear — can't you be asy ?"
I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed.
Till Mounseer asked Bony to lead him ;
And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last,
Begged of one Mickey Free to succeed him.
" But, acushla," says I, " the truth is I'm shy .'
There's a lady in Ballynacrazy !"
" And I swore on the book—" he gave me a look.
And cried, Mickey—'* now cg,n't you be asy 9"
NOW SANDY MAUN AWA*.*
Air—" There's nae luck about the house."
The drum has beat the General,
Now Sandj' maun awa*.
But first he gaes the lasses roun'.
To bid God bless them a' !
Down smirking Sally's dimpled cheek
The tears begin to fa': —
"0 Sandy, I am wae to think
That ye maun leave us a'." "
Poor ]Maggy sighs, and sings the sang
He lik'd the best of a',
And hopes by that to ease her heart
AVhen Sandy's far awa'.
Alake ! poor silly maiden.
Your skill in love's but sma';
We shouldna think o' auld langsyne
When sweethearts are awa'.
In blythesome Nancy's open heart
His looks hae made a flaw,
An' yet she vows the men a' loons,
An' Sandy warst of a'!
Now Jennj' she affects to scorn,
An* snt'ers at their ill fa' ;
She reckons a' the warld thinks
She likes him best of a' !
At gentle Kitty's weel-kenn'd door
He ca'd the last ava'.
Because his heart bade him say mair
To her, than to them a'.
• This piece is from Miss Blamire's poetical works, collected by
Henry Lonsdale, M.D., with prefatory memoir and notes by Patrick
Kazwell, Esq.
89
Now Sandy's ta'en his bonnet ofir.
An' waves fareweel to a',
An' cries, just wait till I come back.
An' I will kiss ye a' !
THE GATHERING.
Risk ! rise ! lowland and liighlandmen •
Bald sire to beardless son, each come, and early ;
Rise.' rise! mainland and islandmen.
Belt on your broad clayni< ires— fi^ lit for Prince Charlie
Down from the nioimt.iin bteep —
Up from the valley deep-
Out from the elaehan, the bothy, and shieling —
Bugle and battle-drum,
Bid cliief and vassal come.
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing !
Rise ! rise ! &e.
Men of the mountains ! — descendants of hemes!
Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers ;
Say, sliall the Southern— the Sassenich fear us.
When to the warpeal eacli plaided clan gathers ?
Too long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls,
Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin ;
Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Braemar , and Braedalbane !
Rise I rise ! &c.
90
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward ?
When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal ?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart;
Follow your le.ider— the rightful— the royal!
Chief of Clanronald,
Donald M' Donald 1
Lovat ! Lochiel ! with the Grant and the Gordon!
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man,
Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on !
Rise! rise!
BONVTE MARY JAMIESON.
Atr— " Carle, now the hinges come."
Bonny Mary Jamieson,
Fairest flow'ret 'neath the sun !
Joy attend thee, lovely one-
Bonnie 3Iary Jamieson !
Weive a garland rtindem —
Rosfs, from their flowery stem,
"Wi" dew-drops glittering, mony a gem,
For bonnie Mary Jamieson !
Bonnie Mary Jamieson, <SiC.
Trinp tlie lily frae the lea.
The scented flower from hawthorn tree.
And they shall be a wreath for thee.
My bonnie Mary Jamieson !
Bonnie Mary Jamieson, &c.
91
Whou tne sun glides down the west.
And feather'd songsters seek their nest»
I'll meet wi' her whom I lo'e best^
3Iy bonnie Mary Jamieson !
Bonnie 3Iary Jamieson, &c.
And when the wintry tempests blaw,
Drifting round the whitening snaw,
I'll laugh the angry storm awa',
\Vi' bonnie Mary Jamieson.
Bonnie Mary Jamieson,
Fairest flow 'ret 'neath the sun,
Joy attend thee ! lovelv one,
My bonnie Mary Jamieson '
MY HEATHER LAND.
Am— " Black Watch."
Mv heather land, my heather land.
My dearest prayer be thine.
Although, upon thy ha|)lessknowe3
There breathes nae friend «' mine.
The hmely few that Heaven had spared
Kow tread a foreign strand,
An' 1 maun wait to weep wi' thee,
My dear loved heather land 1
92
My heather land, my heather land,
•* Though fairer lands there he,**
Your gow'nie braes in early days
yVere. gouden scenes to me I
Maun life's poor boon gae dark'ning down,
Nor set whar it first dawn'd —
But find a grave ayont the wave?
Alas ! my heather land !
My heather land, my heather land.
Thy chillin' winter pours
Its freezin' breath round fireless hearth,
■\Vhar breadless misery cow'rs.
Yet breaks the light that soon shall blight
The reiver's ruthless hand,
An' rampant tyranny shall cease
To blight our heather land.
^^.^^p^ /n//-7->^ — .
\VEET SERAPH OF THE PEACEFUL BROW.
Sweet seraph of the peaceful brow,
And of the btarry eye,
'Tis long since aught so fair as thou
Hath left yon azur* skj'.
And long ere one so good and bright
These eyes again may meet.
Or know the thrill of wild delight,
To gaze on aught so sweet.
How I have loved 'twere vain to tell.
Yet deep that love must be.
When nought on earth may break the epell
That binds this heart to thee.
93
Should years of absence o'er us lash
Their surges as they roll.
Not all the waves of time shall wash
Thy mem'ry from my soul.
No star e'er shone to pilgrim's eyes
So bright, so fair to see,
As when I watched thy beauty rise
A star of hope to me.
Away from whose soft peaceful rays
The eye may ne'er remove.
But rests, with still admiring gaze.
On thee, sweet star of love.
And ever, through life's troubled night.
The bliss will still be mine
To turn my gaze from others' light.
And tix mine eyes on thine.
For even at last, if hope and love
Could in this . osom die,
Thy peaceful beauty still would prove
A star of memory.
THE MARLED MITTENS.
Air— " Johnny Dow."
Mv aunty Kate raucht down her wheel.
That on tlie bauks had lien fu" lang ;
Sought out her whorles an' her reel.
An* fell to wark wi' merry bang.
94
She took hev cairds, an' cairdin' skin.
Her walgie* fu* o' creeshie woo, •
An' rave awa' wi* scrivin' din.
An' mixed it wi' a hair o' blue.
Bedeen the spokes she eident tirled,
AVi' viiT the rim an' spinnle span ;
And sune the rows to threads were whirled.
As back an' fore the floor she ran.
AVi' baith my een I stood and glow'r'd,
An' ferlied what she niest wad do,
As lichtsome ower the floor she scour'd,
An' blithely lilted " Tarry woo."
Syne frae the wheel, and eke the reel,
The aefauld yarn was ta'en awa'.
To the yarnitst niest, to lay an' twist — .
Ilk clew was bigger than ba' !
Then in twa e'enin's after dark
iler knittin' wires she ply'd wi' glee ;
An' what was a' my aunty's wark ?
Just marled miiteus wruugiit for me.
^^f^^^^yi^
"r2^^^:^t^-^
"THE MAID THAT I ADORE!
The rustling of the western gale
Is music sweet to me ;
It joyful conies, o'er moor and dale.
From off tlie distant sea,
• Walgie, a wool sack made of leather.
f V—itt, an instrument for vinding yarni.
95
Whose waves, in lines of snowy foam.
Salute tbe circling shore,
Which bounds my Mary's peaceful home-
♦' The maid that I adore ! "
Tbe slowly-sinking radiant sun
Is welcome to my sight,
When lofty ridge and summit dun
Are basking in his light ;
I deem the while, ere he depart.
He slieds his glory o'er
"lie dark-eyed damsel of my heart —
* ' The maid that I adore ! "
1 love to breathe, at early day.
The b:ilmy air of spring.
When dew-drops hang on every spray.
And birds unnumber'd sing.
The blossoms white, the foliage green.
Expanding more nnd more,
Ilecall to me my bosom-queen —
" The maid that I adore ! "
O I sweet is Summer's glorious smile.
And Autumn's promise rare!
But what, o'er land, o'er sea, or islo.
May with my love compare ?
So high in worth, surpassing far
All nature's precious store.
Is she — my bright— my leading-star,
"The maid that I adore! "
96
TELL ME, DEAR, &c.
Air— "Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes.
Tell me, dear ! in mercy speak.
Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie ?
Faint the rose is in thy cheek,
But still the rose is there, lassie !
Away, away, each dark foreboding.
Heavy days with anguish clouding ;
Youtbfu' love in sorrow shrouding.
Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie ;
Day and night I've tended thee,
"Watching, love ! thy changing e'e ;
Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'o
Say thou'rt happy now, lassie.
Jamie ! lay thy cheek to mine.
Kiss me, oh, my ain laddie!
Never mair may lip o' thine
Press where it hath lien, laddie !
Hark ! I hear the angels calling,
Heavenly strains are round me falling.
But the stroke— thy soul appalling—
'Tis my only pain, laddie!
Yet the love I bear to thee
Shall follow where I soon maun be ;
I'll tell how gude thou wert to me:
We part to meet again, laddie !
Lay thine arm beneath my head.
Grieve na sae for me, laddie !
I'll thole the doom that lays me dead.
But no a tear frae thee, laddie !
Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
AVhen the sun's last beam is shedding.
Where no earthly foot is treading,
By my grave thou'lt be, laddie !
97
Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
Frae on high my sonl shall speed
And hover nightly round thy head,
Altho' thou wilt na see, laddie !
y^T^ ^^^^
AULD JOHNNY TO YOUNG MAGGY.
Air—" Iha'c laid a lierrM in saut."
Lass, I'm Johnny Ripples o' Whappleton Ila',
An' you bonnie Maggy wha won at the Broom ;
Now, better late marry than never ava,
Sae to woo and to win ye, my dawtie, I've come.
I'm no unco auld yet — I'm only threescore-
Ay, threescore precisely, just coming neist Yule,
I'm hearty an' hale, an' fu' sound at the core,
An* gin ye refuse me, there's ane o' us fule.
I want na a tocher, — I ken ye ha'e nane.
But, hinny, I've plenty at ham ? for us baith ;
Just draw in your stool to i.iy cozie hearthstane,
J trow we'll ha'e nae scant o' meat an* o' claith.
I'm a bodie fu' bien, tho* I say it mysel',
I've a dizzen o' milk-kye, whilk rowt i' their sta',
An' ten score o' bob-tails a' gaun on the hill,
An' deeding the knowes arouu' Whappleton Ila'.
And whan that we gang to the fairs or the kirk,
Fu' braw-buss'd ahint me ye'll ride on the meer.
An' hear, as we pass, the folk say wi' a smirk,
•♦ There's douce Johimy Ripples an' his dainty dear !"
It's cannie, an' wyse-like, to be a gudewife.
Whan there's plenty to look to in pantry an' ha' ;
But hunger and hership soon soon lead to strife
When there's nought i* the house but a cauld coal to blaw.
OS
An', Maggy, my doo, some blythe comin' year,
"Wha kens whar a family blessin' may fa' ;
A bonny doo's cleckin' may aiblins appear
A* toddlin' their lane around Whappleton Ha'.
Now, Maggie, my dearie, I've said y. my say.
An' I will come back on neist Friday at e'en.
To hear frae your ain mouth your yea or your nay;
Sae, gudenight to ye, Maggie, my winsome young queen.
YOUNG MAGGY TO AULD JOHNNY.
Air— " / hae laid a herrin' in saut."
I've a bonny bit face o' my ain ,
Bodie, come here nae mair to woo ;
I'm gentle an* jimp, an' weol may be vain,
Sae, bodie, d'\e think I'll marry you?
I've twa e'en as black as a slae,
Carle, come here nae mair to woo ;
Twii cheeks like blossoms in flowery May;
Grey liaffits, d'ye tliink Til marry jou ?
I've a wee mnutliie ye ne'er ball kiss.
Grim bodie, come here nae mair to woo;
On ilka side dimples, as deep as you'd wise j
Auld runkles I d'ye think 111 marry you t
9P
I've a bonnie black mole on my chin,
Doilt bodie, come here nae mair to woo ;
Like ink is the drap, an' like paper my skin,
Grey-beard ! d'ye think I'll marry wi' you
I've a wee foot, there is music in't,
Hirples, come here nae mair to woo ;
In trippin' the green it is never ahint,
Nae lamitcr jo for me 1 trow.
I can sing— auld bodie gae back ;
John Ripples, come here nae mair to woo ;
An' tho' I ha'e yet my mercat to mak,
I'll never be bought, auld Grippie, by you.
THIS NIGHT YE'LL CROSS, &c.
This night ye'll cross the bosky glen,
A nee mair, O would ye meet me then ?
I'll seem as bygane bUss an' pain
Were a' forgot:
I winna weep to weary thee,
Nor seek the love ye canna gi'e ; —
Whar first we met, O let that be
Tiie parting spot \
100
The hour just when the faithless light
O' yon pale star forsakes the night ;
I wouldna pain ye wi' the blight
Ye've brought to me,
I would not that its proud eauld ray
Should mock me wi' its scornfu' play ; —
The sunken een and tresses gray
i e raaunna sec.
Wi' sindered hearts few words will sair.
An' brain-dried grief nae tears can spare ;
These bluidless lips shall never mair
Xame thine or thee.
At murky night O meet me then !
Restore my plighted troth again ;
Your bonnie bride shall never ken
i'our wrangs to me.
V^/^^/^.-^
c7
y%/^-K>-7
CREEP AFORE YE GANG.*
•^nrF.p awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang,
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang :
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn ;
Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang,
Duntin* a' your wee brow,— creep afore ye gang.
• Permission has kindly been given to extnwt this piece from "Th»
Gkberlunxie's Wallet."
101
Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither,
Watchin* ilka step o' your wee dousy brither ;
Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow Strang,
An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet, — creep afore ye gang.
The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee,
Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie ;
They wha canna walk right, are sure to come to wrang
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afnre ye gang.
LORD SPYNTE.
rnOM A TRADITION OF THE SEVF.NTEENTH CENTUKY.
Lord SpyNiK ye may pu' the rose.
An' spare the lily flower.
When ye gae through the garden green
To woo in ladye bower ;
An' ye may pu' the lightsome thyme.
An' leave the lonesome rue ;
For lang and sair will the ladye mourn
That ye gae there to woo !
For ye will look and talk of luvo*
An' kindly, kindly smile.
An' vow by grace, an' a that's gude,
An' lay the luring wile.
*Tis sair to rob the bonnie bird
That makes you melodie ;
Tie cruel to win a woman's iuve.
An' no ha'e love to gap
102
I wadna ha'e your wilfu' hand
Tho' a' the earth were thine ;
Yf^'vc broken many a maiden's peace,
\'i''ve mail- than broken mine.
I .-, ;>i!na ha'e your faithless heart,
'J id no ycur ain to gi'e ;
lUit sin ye ever think of heaven,
Oh .' ye maun think of me !
i/f&Md(U^
DRUCKEN TAM, THE BAKER.
A MVSTERY.
AfR— " The Quaker's Wife."
Miss Mysik Mill was aged— hem !
And ne'er a man would take her,
Yet how she blush M to hear the name
Of drucken Tani, the baker.
For oftentimes to tea and toast,
And otiier recreation,
Twas known she'd sent him tliro' the post
A card of invitatiuu.
Now you must know this queer-like beau,
TiiO' dusty as a miller,
In Mysie's eye was quite the go.
And quite a lady-killer.
His boots and hat (oh ! such a hat,)
Might well have claim'd a pension;
And how the coat stuck to his back
Was past all comprehension.
103
His head was like a cauliflower ;
His legs were short and bandy ;
His teeth were brown — he had but four-
As bits of sugar-candy.
His mouth was stretch'd from ear to ear,
A most expressive feature ;
But Mysie swore he was " a dear,"
The fascinating creature !
His nose was like a partan's back,
Or like a copper-kettle;
Tho* Mysie elegantly said,
'Twas like a rose's petal.
And as we differ in our tastes,
For white and crimson roses,
What wonder tho' Miss Mysie did
Prefer a red proboscis ?
O would my verse but flow like his
Who sung the Doon and Lugar,
I'd paint his smile, so very sweet,
It sav'd Miss Mysie's sugar:
But Mysie's beau was cold to love.
The fact there's no disguisin* ,
He roU'd his eye, then ey'd his roll,
And quietly sipp'd her Hyson.
And honest Tam, when o'er his dram,
Did womankind despise aye ;
He toasted baps, he toasted cheese.
But never toasted Mysie.
At last one summer's afternoon,
Oh ! how she did confuse him.
She press'd him to a cup of tea.
Then press'd him to— bor bosom.
r04
Could brute or baker gaze unmor'd
On IMysie's glowing charms ?
And now the flour of all the town
AVas clasp 'd within her arms.
Poor Thomas grinn'd a horrid grin.
What anguish he did cause her ;
She dropt a tear, while from his hand
There dropt a cup and saucer.
With face as long as baker's brod,
And staring goggle eyes, he
Was gasping like a dying cod
Within the hug Of Mysie.
One word she whisper'd in his ear.
But none may ever know it,
The secret rests with' Tarn himself.
And jMysie, and— the poet.
When, lo ! his optics strait he rais'd,
I'm wrong, alas ! he squinted ;
But sure as fate, a loving kiss
He on her lips imprinted.
My tale is told ; as to the rest
I'm mum as any Quaker ;
Miss Mysie's garret's now '♦ To let, '
And sober is the baker.
THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.
Music by R. Stetcart.
Kkv ye the land o' the haugh and the brae,
O' the meadow, the mountain, and rill ?
Ken ye the land whar the blu'art and 8lae
Grow fresh on the broo o" the hill ?—
105
The doo to the dooket, the whaup to the fen,
The young to their joy and their mirth,
I'm thirled to it like the hare to its den.
For that land was the place o' my birth.
Ken ye the land o' the pLintin' and bower,
()* the heatlier, the broom, and the whin ?
Ke I ye the land (»' the ca^itle and tower,
()• the river, the rook, and tlie linn ?—
The hawk to his eirie, the owl to his dream,
'1 he gull to hi'< rock in the firth —
I'm thirled to it like the tront to the stream,
For that land was the place o' my birth.
Ken ye the land whar the thistle is found.
The land o' the free and the bauM ?
I'm th rk'd to it like that (>lant to the ground,
Wi'a luve that will never grow cauld.
I'll cheri.>-h that flame still burning unbleached,
\Vi' a luve for my hame, and its hearth ;
j\nd, oh ! may those household (iresnever he quenched,
Th,jt hie ze bright in the land o'my birth.
SONG OF THE LITTLE FOAM-BELL.
LiKB a wandering beam,
On the breast of the stream,
I have come fr.^m my home on the hilla afar
I have leapt o'er the steeps
Where the hurricane sweeps.
And rings the wild song of the stormy war.
106
I have passed through the gorge.
Where the boiling surge
Was leaping the bounds of its ancient svray —
Where the lone owl wails,
And the Naiad sails.
In her flowing robes 'neath the pale moon's ray.
Where theNaiads lave
Tt eir necks in the wave.
And their breasts like floating snowballs seem,
I have whirled me round,
Likvi a fitful sound.
That rings in the ear in a pleasant di-eam.
A wandering sigh.
That was fluttering by,
Pursuing hope from a maiden's breast,
A lit on my bark.
Like the dove on the ark.
For it found on earth no place of rest.
A sunbeam, torn
From tlie brow of mom,
Like a living star on my pathway driven,
Beacon'd my flight,
When no other light
Beam'd from the starless arch of heaven.
I bore on my bosom
The leaf of a blossom,
That bloom'd in a bower where lovers sighed.
But a roaming sprite
In its wayward flight,
Stole it, and sank in the silvery tide.
In the balmy spring.
The Fairy-King
Oft sent his Queen with me afloat ;
107
When the glow-worm's heam.
And the lover's dream,
He wove for sails to his fairy boat.
On the waters I dwell,
A little foam bell :
O ! who will with me to the silvery sea-
I will sing a sweet song.
As I wandtr along
To the limitless realm of eternity.
THE BATTLE OF PRESTON.
Air — " Johnny Cope."
Thk blairin' trumpet sounded far.
And horsemen rode, weel gr lithed for war.
While Sir John Cope marched frae Dunbar,
Upon I misty morning.
Prince Charlie, wi' his Highland host,
Lay westward on the Lothian coast;
But .Jidmny bragg'd, wi' mony a boast.
He'd rout them ere neist morning.
Lang ere the co?k proclaimed it day.
The Prince's men stoid in arr ly ;
And, though impatient forthefraj'.
Bent iow the knee that morning.
When row-dow roll el the English drum.
The Highland bagpipe gied a bum.
And tauld the mountain clans had come.
Grim death and danger scorning.
108
Ilk nerve was strung, ilk heart was true ;
A shot ! and down their guns they threw ;
Then forth their deadly claymores drew.
Upon that fearfa' morning.
The English r;iise<i a loud huzza.
But dur.-.tna hide tlie hrunt ava ;
They wavered— turned — syne ran awa'.
Like sheep at shepherd's warning.
Fast, fast, their font and horsemen flew ;
And caps wcie mixed wi' bunnets blue.
Ami dirks were wet — but no wi'dew —
Upon that dre idfu' morning.
Few stayed— save ae devoted band —
To thole the sweep o' Iliehhiml bnuid.
That fl.isiied arouiiu — ami huid ami liand
Cropped, on that bluidy morning.
What sad mishaps that few befel !
When faint h id irrown the battle's yelT,
Still Giirdiner font-ht— and fiirhting fell,
Upon that awesome morning :
Nae hragg irt — but a sodger he,
Wha scorned wi' coward 1 ois to flee ;
Sac fell anenth the :iu'd thorn tree,
Upon that fatal morning .'
109
THE DAWTIE.
Am—" The haughs of CrumdaleJ"
JBNNY.
Though weel I like ye, Jwnhnny lad,
I cannot, mnnnet marry vet !
My peer anld miidrier's unco bnd,
Sae we a wlieyle nnin tarry yet ;
For ease or comfort she has neane—
Leyfe's just a lang, lang neot o* pain ;
I miinnet leave her aw her lane,
And wunnet, wunnet marry yet.
JWOHNNV.
O Jenny, dunnet brek this heart.
And say we munnet marry yet ;
Thou cannot act a jillet's pirt —
Why snd we tarry, tarry yet ?
Tliink, lass, of aw the pains I feel ;
I've leyk'd thee lang, nin kens how weel !
For thee, I'd fence the verra deil —
O say not we maun tarry yet.
JRNNY.
A weddet leyfe's oft de.irlj' bowt;
I cannot, munnet marry yet:
Ye ha'e but little— I tia'e nought—
Sae we a wheyle maun tarry yet.
My lieart's yer awn, ye needna fear.
But let us wait anudder year.
And luive, and toil, and scnape up gear —
We munnet, muimet marry yot.
'Twas but j'estreen, my mudder said,
O, dawtie, dunnet marry yet ;
I'll soon lig i'my last cauld bed ;
Tow's aw my comfort— tarry yet.
110
Whene'er I steal out o* her sect,
She seighs, and sobs, and nought gangs peet —
\V hisht >— that's her feeble voice ;— guid neet J
We munnet, munnet marry yet.
CRABBED CARE.
Hknck ! frae my bisrgin', crabbed Care,
Hence, ernusome carle, and never dare
Show face o' thine
In liame o' mine.
Go ! haunt the ha's o' spite and spleen.
Where Envy, withering witch, is seen ;
But come nae here.
To spoil our cheer,
Wi" thy sour looks and prospects drear.
Or faith, ye's get a fright, auld frien'.
Thou knowest I bore me like a saunt.
When your keen biting brother, Want^
Cam', e'er I wi:it.
And tof>in'd my kist —
lie cut my doublet's tender steelrs.
Rave saul and body o" my breeks;
Syne stole the dew.
And roses too.
That bloom'd wi' sic a healthy hue,
Frae my wee dearie's lips and cheeks.
1 fought the foul fiend late and ear*,
Wi" swinging flail I thrash 'd him sair ;
11
Wi' pick and spade
HisgraufF I made;
While fast before my blythe-^aim plough
Awa' his sooty spirit flew —
Haith ! frien', when he
AVas made to flee
Far frae my humble hame and me,
I wad be laith to yield to you.
Rut ere ye flit the road ye cam'.
Come, clatterin' bare banes, tak a dram ;
'Twill fire a glee
In your dead e'e—
'Twill ease ye o' your lade o' woes.
And a buirdly bulk ye bear, guid knows;
'Twill smooth awa'
Your brow's rough raw.
And melt wi" couthy, kindly thaw.
The ice-draps frae your raw red nose.
Care took the cup ivi' greedy gnip ;
Care toom'd his coggie at a whup;
Sine flung his pack
Aff's baney back,
Whilst glowed his face wi' n;duy fiame —
I own, quo' he, I'm e'en to blame ;
But there's my paw.
When neist I ca',
Or show my face in your bly the ha',
I'll turn my coat and change my name.
112
WE TWINED OUR HEART'S IN ANB.
We twined our lovin' hearts in ane,
I' the spring-time o' the year.
When the rejoicing earth seemed vain
O her braw bridal gear.
When larks aboon the brairdin* rig
Their warm leal loves were tellin'.
Our hearts, like theirs, wi' pleasure big.
Were proudly, fondly swellin*.
We twined our lovin' hearts in ane—
Alas! for Fate's decree —
Ere tlie green spring came back again.
Wide sindered hearts had we.
When next the laik aboon the braird
His sang was sweetly pourin",
Between our hearts, sae lately pair'd.
The billows big were roarin'.
And ere the braird had gT0^^'n to grain.
The laik had flown the lea,
Beneath the cnuld and cruel main
Lay a' was dear to me.
And, oh ! I wish the briny wave
That rows aboon my lover,
\'' ould take me to his deep, deep grave,
3Iy lanely heart to cover.
113
O FOLLOW HER NOT!
O FOLLOW her not ! O follow her not t
Though ehe lure thee with smile and song ;
Fair is her cheek, but her heart is black.
And the poison of death's on her tongue ,
She'll leave on thy innocence many a blut — •
Then follow her not ! O follow htr not !
Some call her Pleasure, and some call her Sin,
Some call her a Lady gay.
For her step is light, and her eye is bright,
And she carols a blithesome hiy.
•• Away to the bower where care is forgot!"
But follow her not ! O follow her not !
Though her step invite, though her eye burn bright.
Though green be the leaves in her bower.
Yet that step is false as a meteor-light.
And that eye hath the rattle-snake's power.
Her bower ! O wild and unblessed is the spot-
Then follow ber not ! O follow her not !
1/
AULD NANNIE CRUMMIE.
Ajr— Any cannie liU that will best answer.
When auld Nannie Crummie and I crap thegither.
Amid the lang dearth, in the cauld winter weather.
Folk jeering me, swore her as auld as my mither.
An' ca'd me an ass to be tied till her tctiier.
H
114
I heard a' their sneering, as mim as a dumbie.
An' could tholed muckle mair for my auld >"aii;i:v
Crummie.
The winter was cauld, an' my cleedin' was thin,
I couldna weel work, an' I cuuldna weel win',
T bad little without, I had little within,
I had wearied the frammit, an' herriet my kin, —
An', oh ! the blue reek wimplin' frae the wud-lummie
Led me by the nose to my auld Nannie Crummie.
I pree'd her fat bree, an' I felt me sae couthie.
That, fain to pree mair, I e'en pree'd her wee mouthi^- ;
Young jilts whiles gae daft, but auld maids are aye tootir.e,
Au' like food to the hungry, or drink to the drouthie,
AVere love an' i hame, to a loun like a hummie.
An' I met wi' them baith frae my auld Nannie Crunmiic
Kut an auld cripple sailor cam hame frae the main,
M'ha had left hame a callant, an' Nanny a wean.
An' he swore he wad lay my back laigh on the plain,
Hut I haikit him weel, an' wad do it ngain.
The auld witber'd bodie was dry as a mummy,
Jle ne'er could ha'efattened wi' auld Nannie Crummie.
T umgh we ha'ena a weanie to scan our meal luggie,
Ytt Nanse has a cattie, an' I hae a doggie ;
And tho' they whiles yaumcr an' youfif owre their coggie,
Ye'll no fin' twa totums that cuddle mair vogie.
Yc may rin, gin ye like, lest I crack your lug druiimie,
Wi' bawling the charms o' my auld Nannie Crummie.
^^!^4^
115
THE WARRIOR'S HOME.
Shall the warrior rest
When his battles are o'er?—
When his country's opitn'&s'd
By the tyrant no more?
Yes, yes to the arms of affection he'll come ;
Kor voice of the cannon, nor ougie, nor drum,
Shall again rouse the warrior—
Tiie noble old warrior.
He'll proudly enjoy the calm blessings of home !
On each gay festive night
When his galUmts sit round,
And the soft eye of liulit
In fair woman is found !
Then, then shall he tell of his feats on the plain,
And in fancy lead on his bright armies again !
This will cheer the old warrior.
The noble old warrior, —
Yet he'll weep for the brave who in battle were slain !
He shall throw down his shield.
And un^ird liis bright blade.
That flash'd in the field
When the onset was made; —
He shall hang up his helmet, and lay himself down.
Where love, and affection ne'er veil'd in a frown !
Then rest thee, old warrior I—
Thou noble old warrior
The praise of an empire take, take— 'tib thine own !
O^^^Ci^a^y^
116
AH NO !— I CANNOT SAY.
Ah no !— I cannot say •' farewell,"
'Twould pierce my bosom through.
And to tliis heart 'twere death's dread knell
To hear thee sigh—*' adieu."
Though soul and body both must part,
Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever,
For more to me than soul thou art.
And O ! I'll quit thee — never.
A^Tiate'er thrnugh life may be thy fate,
That fate with thee I'll share.
If prosperous — be moderate.
If adverse — meekly bear :
This bosom shall thy pillow be
In every change whatever,
And tear for tear I'll shed with thee.
But O ! forsake thee— never.
One home — one hearth shall ours be still.
And one our daily fare ;
One altar, ton, where we may kneel.
And breathe our humble prayer ;
And one our praise that shall ascend
To one all-bounteous Giver,
And one our will, our aim, our end.
For O ! we'll suuder — never.
And when that solemn hour shall come
Thnt sees thee breathe thy last.
That hour shall also fix my doom.
And seal my eyelids fast ;
117
cJne grave shall hold us, side by side.
One fehroud our clay shall cover —
And one then may we mount and glide
Through realms of love — for ever.
THE OCEAN CHIEF.
O'er the ocean-hero's bed
The loud shout of triumph raise;
To his spirit that hath fled.
Pour the hiUow'd song of praise !
For he listens from the skies to its tones,
And he peli!^h'd like a man,
In that best— his country's cause,
And the noble race he ran
Asks the meed of your apjilause,
Since no sculptured marble lies o'er his bono
He was fearless in the fight.
But a gentle dove at home :
'Twas hi> country's menaced right
Which had ^^ent him fnvth to loam— .
As a leader of her strife on the main —
And if he fell at last.
It was crown '<! with victory;
When the mover of the blast
Had been vanquish'd by the free,
And all his mighty conquests render'd vain.
Britannia long shall wail
For the loss of such a son ;
And her fallen foes grow pale.
When they think how much he won ;
But his name will be cherish 'd by the bravo
118
Of every creed and race.
When their prows shall chance to sweep
O'er the precincts of the place,
Where the spirits of the deep
Roll the wild foaming billows o'er his grave.
Y^Jtv~Zi^^
• J. C. Denovan wag bom in Edinbnrgh in 1798. He had the mis-
fortune of being born out of wedlock. His father was the late Mr,
Denovan, printer in that city. After obtaining a limited educatii
he showei an inclination for the sea, and made a trial voyage before
being fixed in the profession. Subsequently, through Iiis fat'ipr's i
ter^s^, he obtained a sitiiatinn on board of a sloop of war, ranking, bu4
not rated, as a n-.i.ishipman. The young volunteer was sent on a <
tip the Mediterrant an, with the eii>eet:ition of his f.ithf-r obtaining for
him a warrant on his return. Alas ! a sad disappointment waited him
upon that return; his father was dead, and his mother insane and
des"rted by her reUtions. Poor Drnovan was thns, in his sixteenth
year, thrown friendless on the world. Mr. Sinclair, tea.dealer, bar-
ing become acquainted with his destitute condition, took him into his
warehouse as an apprentice, where he conducted himself to the sa-
tisfaction of his employer during a term of four years; and during
that period several of his pieces were written. The Address to the
Ocean wa* composed when he was only nineteen years of age. After
leaving Mr. Sinclair, he obtained a situation in L?ith of the same des-
crip'ion. He displayed a warm temperament, kindly ft-elings, and s
gri'at s>nse of kindness fir favours received. Ultimately, he cm-
mf-no d b'isine's on liis own account as a coSTee-roaster, in a small yard
in Leith Wynd, Edinburgh.
He ventured to obtain from Sir Walter Scott the estimate which
that great man might form of his productions. He made copies of
119
O THOU OCEAN!
Oh thou Ocean ! as a sea boy, I have lain upon thy breast.
Ere a dream of evil after-days could steal upon my sleep ;
I have gazed upon thy beauty when thy spirit was at rest,
|Till my heart's full founts o'erfiowing made me turn away
and weep.
jl have plough'd thee in the tempest, I have plough *d thee
in the calm,
I have plough 'd thee when the cannon roar and battle din
was loud,
li At midnight, and at morn, when an Ether fraught with
i balm,
I ^^'as hanging o'er thy bosom in a rosy-colour'd cloud.
them. an<l, along with a lefer giving an outline of his history, he,
in a dark wintir night, and with an anxious mind. Iiatidcd in the
parcel at Cattle Street, the town residence of tlie great Nnvrlist, and
p.-icd, with palpitaiine heart, the pavement in front, in case Sir
U'al I er should send after him. One circumstance made Sir Walttr,
in 1 i* case, depart from a rule he usually ad< p'ed, not to give oum-
i VIS of Mn. pi'etrj- ; this, we helieve, was tie passnge in tlie letter
that stated that "oyer the smoke and heat of a charcoal fire, these
pi ce« were coniposi d, to relieve his mind fr.mi the sad reflr-ciifn, iliat
he had a frenzit-d uiotlier to support " Sir Wnlter's answer, wi ich we
have frequently seen, was worthy of his 'ame: it pumted out the
risks and dangf-rs of authorship, but atated that, to cheer the weary
hours of lahoiir, and to relieve the still more weary mind, no one conld
be better employed ; delicately adding, " that as he himself liked
sometliing better than empty praise, he ventured to enclose a pound
note for the pleasure the pifces hiid given him." Tliis was not the
only favour conf rred upon this unfortunate worshipp> r of the Muses
uy the Author of W'averley; for often, on his way lo the printing office,
which was in the neighbourhood, did the latter call at the cffee-work
and chat with Denovan in a most friendly way, and taking the moat
delicate roethod of making him a partaker of his bounty.
120
I have heard them talk of freedom ere I knew what freedom
meant,
I have heard them boast their lordship and dominion over
thee ;
I have seen their mighty bulwarks, like a bulrush cradle,
rent,
And in sorrow turning round, have cried, " Thou alone art
free.'"
I have loved thee in my childhood, I have loved thee in my
youth,
I have loved thee w hen thy savageness was tearing mast and
side ;
Still looking on thy bosom as a mirror cast by truth.
Where man might see his littleness and grow asham'd of
pride.
I have thought upon thy nature, but have found all cfTdrts
vain.
To make myself acquainted with the changes thou hast seen ;
Little more of Denovan's short life can be intpre«tine to the pii'.lic.
He striipgled on at his unhealthy occupation fur tlie mpp'Tt of hiiii-
Belfand mother, towards wliom, as her malady incr.-8Jied, lie .«ln>\v. d
a griater devotion. At length, freqiunt exposuren to lirat and cM,
viihoiit the comforts of home, made it apparent that dtsrase wamiti-
dermining a constitution by no means utroiig. Towards tl e <l>>se it
1826, hf WHS confined to bed, with none to attend hiin but 'h<» cniz d
mother, for wliose sake he had subrnitted to every privatiin, iind in
Jannary, 1S27, his spirit vaa relieved from i's eaithly priS' n, wh'cli it
had only tenanted for twenty-nine years. He was borne to the n: rr'w
houce by Mr Robert Gil6IIan, our much esteemed contribtit. r. t<
whom we are indebted for this notice, Mr. Robert Chaml-ers, and,
others of his litercry friends. His rt-mains repose in the Canongate ,
church-yard, not far from the unfortunate Ferguson, whom, in hit,
intellectnal and social qualities, as well as in his unhappy and prema
ture end, he greatly resembled.
121
I have heard of mighty cities, but could find no stone re-
main
jlTo point me with a certainty where such a one has been.
(But I loved thee in my boyhood, and will love thee in my ;ige,
1 liou vast unconquer'd element, which man would vainly
I brave!
And when my weary spirit has obtain'd her skyward gage,
Oil, in some uf thy recesses, let my body Mnd a grave.
THE MITllERLESS BAIRN.
Whem a* ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame.
By aunty, or cousiri, or freaky grand-r^anie,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly foifairn?
'Tis the puir dowie laddie — the mitherless biirn!
The mi therless bairnie creeps to liis lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his hare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn !
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaiin 1 is riark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a* reckless an* stern.
That lo'e na the locks o* the mitherless bairn !
The sister wha sang o'er his saftly roek'd bed,
Now rests in the mools where their manimie is laid ;
While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn.
An* kens na the wrangs o' his mitherle-s b lirn.
Hit spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth.
Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth.
122
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
"VVba couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn !
Oil ! speak him na harshly— lie trembles the while,
fie bends to ytmr bidding, and blesset. y<iur .-.mile : —
In tlieir dark hour .i' iinjriiir,h. the heartless shall learn,
Tuat Gud deals the blow for the mitherless bairn !
'Ik-u^^'^^ ^
^y^-^yi^ .
THE AULD .AIAN'S LAMENT.
JIy Beltane o' life and my gay days are gane.
And now I atn feckless and dowie alane;
And my Lammas o' life, wi' its wearifu' years.
Like L immas, has brought me its fi cds and its tears.
Full three score and ten times the gowan has spread.
Since hrst o'er the greensward wi' light foot I sped;
And three score and len times the blue bells ha'e blawn.
Since to pu* them I first spankit blythe o'er the lawn.
The burn-banks 1 lo'ed when a callan' to range.
And the ft-rny clad braes, a* seem eerie and strange;
The burn seems less clear, and the lift nae sae blue.
But it's aiblins my auld een th it dinna tell true.
The mates o'my young days are a' wede awa*,
They are missed in the meadow and missed in the shaw;
Like the swallows, they've fled when youth's warm days are
gane.
And I'm left like a wing'd ane a' winter alane.
It seems short to look back since my Peggy was yoimg.
Then bonnie she leukit, and blythely she sung ;
But my Peggy has left me, and gane wi' the lave,
And the night-wind moans dreary o'er Peggy's lone grave.
\2S
See yon aged hawthorn that bends o'er the burn !
Its wind-scattered blossomfl can never return:
Tliey are swept to the bca, o'ei the wild roariii' linn,
Lilic my friends wha ha'o flourished and died ane by ane.
TOE SOUTllLAN' BREEZE.
Ulaw tiaft. blaw saft, thou southlau' breoze,
Ulaw saft, and bi inir to me
A lovebreatli frue lier balmy lips
That wons in yon couiiti it ;
A warm love-bre.itli, a' redolent
O' beauty and o' bl<>om,
A fr.igr.mce far Hurpas>iiifj flowers —
The ladeo heart'b perfume.
You'll meet her at the break o' morn
Upon the bloomy knowcs.
And when the dewy gloamin' fa's,
Amang the ble itin' ewes.
You'll ken her by her winsom' gaii.
As !*lie gaes o'er the lea ,
You'll ken her by her lang brown lucks—
Her voice a* melody.
O ! southlan' breeze, I marvel not
That you are siift and sweet.
For, as you cross'd the heather braes,
51 y lassie you would meet :
You'd touzle a' her bosom charms.
You'd kias hercheek, her mou': —
O balmy, blissfu', southlan' breeze,
1 would that I were you
124
SPRING.
A NURSERY SONG.
The Spring comes linkin' and jinkin' thro' the wuds,
S. if ten in' and open in' bonny green and yellow buds;
There's flowers, an' showers, an' sweet sang o' little bird,
Au' the gowan, wi' his red croon, peepin' thro' the yird.
The hail comes rattlin' and brattlin' snell an' keen,
Daudin' an' blauriin', tho' red bet the sun at e'en ;
In bonnet an' wee loof the weans kep an' look for mair—
I^ancin' thro'ther wi' the white pearls shinin' in their hair.
We meet wi' blythesome an' kythsome cheerie weans,
Baffin* an' laughin'far a-down the leafy lanes,
Wr gowans and butter cups buskin' the thorny wards —
Sweetly singin', wi' the flower-blanch waviu' in their
hands.
•Boon a' that's in thee, to win me.sunny Spring—
Brichtcludsan'green buds, and »aiigs that the birdies sing —
Flow'r-dappled liill-side, and dewy bi-ech sae fresh at e'en—
Or the tappie-tf)orie fir-tree shiniu' a' in green —
Bairnies— bring treasure an' pleasure mair to me—
Stealin' an' spec-lin'— up to fondle on my knee ;
In Sp.ing-time the young things are bloomm' sae fresh an*
fair.
That I canna Spring but love, and bless thee evermair.
{Z/yir^.
ijiiaiTtLi^ia m kqUo
PrTTISQ UP THE PIPES.
FIFTH SERIES,
©i^^ll© E3©llE"irS©K, ©IL^§@i
WHISTLE-BINKIE.
FIFTH SERIES.
TEXAN CAMP SONG. *
Air—" Kelly-hum Braes."
Our rifles are ready,
And ready are we.
Neither fear, care, nor sorrow.
In this companie !
Our rifles are ready
To welcome the foe :
So away o'er the hlue wave
For Texas we go,—
For Texas, the land
Where the hright rising star
Leads to beauty in peace.
And to glory in war.
With aim never erring.
We bring down the deer—
We chill the false heart of
The red man with fear.
• Mr. Kennedy, the author of this song, is now (1843) British Con-
sul at GalvestoB in Texas.
t The flag of the Republic of Texas is a silver star on an azure field.
The blood of the Saxon
Flows full in the veins
Of the lads that must lord
Over Mexico's plains ;
O'er the plains where the breeze
Of the south woos the flowers.
As we press those we love
In their sweet summer bowers.
One pledge to our loves !
When the combat is done,
They shall share the broad lands
Which the rifle has won ;
No tear on their cheeks,
Should we sleep with the dead-
There are rovers to follow
Who wiil still go a-head ! —
Who will still go a-head
Where the bright rising star
Leads to beauty in peace,
And to glory in war.
THE SALMON RUN.
Air—" T?ie Brave old Oak"
Oh ! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much loved native stream,
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold.
Starts up like a quivering gleam.
To the Tweed, then, bo pure,
Where the wavelets can lure
The King of the waters to roam,
Ap he shoots far and free.
Through the boundless sea.
To the halls of his silvery home.
From his iron-hound keep.
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway —
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish 'd with silver and gold ;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light.
As again he sinks down in his hold.
Oh ! then hasten with speed
To the clear running Tweed,
The river of beauty and song.
Where the rod swinging high
Throws a Coldstream dress'd fly
O'er the hold of the salmon so strong.
With a soft western breeze
That just thrills through the trees.
And ripples the beautiful bay.
Throw the fly for a lure —
That's a rise ! strike him sure—
A clean fish— with a burst he's away.
6
Hark ! the ravel linesweel,
From the fast whirring reel,
With a music that gladdens the ear ;
And the thrill of delight.
In that glorious fight.
To the heart of the angler is dear.
Hold him tight !— for the leap.;
TSTiere the waters are deep
Give out line in the far steady run ;
Reel up quick, if he tire.
Though the wheel be on fire.
For in earnest to work he's begun.
Aroused up at length.
How he rolls in his strength,
And springs with a quivering bound :
Then away with a dash,
Like the lightning's flash.
Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.
Though he strain on the thread,
Down the stream with his head-
That burst from the run makes him cool-
Then spring out for the land,
On the rod change the hand.
And di-aw down for the deepening pool.
Slark the gleam of his side
As he shoots through the tide-
Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair ?
Fatigue now begins.
For his quivering fins
On the shallows are spread in despair.
Hi8 length now we'll stretch
On the smooth sandy beach.
With the flap from his gills waxing slow ;
The sport of an hour
Spent the strength of his power,
And the fresh-water monarch lies low.
WE'LL A* BE BRAWLY YET.
A[R— " Hlgliland Watch" or March in the 42d Regiment.
AuLD Rabbie sat wi' tearfu' een —
Wi'runkled brow, and pale—
Lamentin' owre what ance he'd been,
Wi' mony a sich and wail ;
An' Mirren yerk't her spinning wheel,
An' tauld him no to fret.
Quo' she, " Tho' poortith sair we feel,
We'll a' be brawly yet."
"O Mirren! Mirren! forty years
Wi* mony a stormy blast—
Tho' lyart noo wi' toil and tears^—
Thegither we ha'e past.
Since first the simmer sun o' life
On our young hopes has set ; —
Then dinna tell me noo, gudewife.
That we'll be brawly yet."
*' Gudeman! gudeman ! frae e'en to morn
'Bout warldly gear ye pine,
An' sae wad ye had ye been born
To heir a gowden mine ;
8
Ha'e we no had o* health our share ?—
An' af ten ha'e ye set
A wilfu' snare for grief and care —
But we'll be brawly yet ! "
*' tell na me o' what I've been,
Owre what I'm left to mourn ;
O tell na me that sunken een
Can e'er to joy return.
Jsor can this heart renew its life.
These lyart locks their jet ;
Tlien dinna tell me noo, gudewife.
That we'll be brawly yet."
'* feckless eild, can e'er j-e look
. Wi' pleasure owre the past ?
Or smile on memory's sakeless book
"When cluds your joys o'ercast ?
The baims that cheer'd our lichtsome hearth
How can I e'er forget ? —
They're gane ! an' lown's the voice o' mirth,
Or we'd be brawly yet."
*' Gudeman, gae lift your thochts aboon
This cauldrife warld o' care.
An' seek through Gude, baith late an' soon,
A balm for your despair ;
An' let ilk qualm o' youthfu' shame
Wi' penitence be met ;
Nae mair your luckless fortune blame,
An' we'll be brawly yet."
" 3Iy ain gudewife ! my dear gudewife !
Nae mair my failin's name ;
I'll bless, through a' my after life,
The day I brought ye hame
9
To be a leadin' star to me ;
Then ne'er again I'll fret.
To a' your wishes 1*11 agree—
—An' we'll be brawly yet.
FLOWN AWA ARE FROSTS AN' SNAWS.
Air—" Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed."
Flown awa are frosts and snaws ;
Thrifty Winter, auld an' duddie,
Has op'd her drawers to air her braws,
Whilk Spring has stown to dead her bodie :
Wi' glaikit air, Spring here and there
In spite o' Winter's snaw-white napery,
Btrew'd early flowers round cottage bow'rs,
And meadows dress'd in spangled di-apery.
The sharp-nos'd ghaist— gleed Winter snell,
Couldna sit down and see sic waistry ;
Sae out she spak wi' gousty yell.
And storm 'd and grat sleet cauld and blaistry.
Spring, thoughtless gilpy, leugh and sang.
The very birds join'd in the chorus.
Till canker'd Winter found ere lang
She be't tie up her bull-dog Bor'as.
Thus, the twa fought, till in danced May,
Spring's laughing, coaxing, rose-lip'd sister,
Wha fleech'd dame Winter, turned the day—
I'm tauld, but scarce believe't, she kiss'd her !
10
Be that as't will ; thae sisters fair
Deck'd a' the loan in braw new bravery,
An' ne'er wad stint. It grieves me sair.
To speak o' Farmer Autumn's knavery ;
Tho' neibour he to Spring and May,
He pu'd their flow'rs, stole a* their fruit,
Thrasht out their corn— indeed, they say,
He sang while doin't — menseless lout.
A claver gangs, this wealthy carle
Has thoughts o' wecldin' carlin Winter ;
Waes me ! far frae this heartless warl'
May 's gane, nor left sweet Spring behint her.
O
/ OAA^dt^-i/L.^
MY GUID COAT O' BLUE.
Air—" The Lass o' Glenshee."
The blue-bell was gane, and the bloom aff the heather ;
My cleedin' was thin, and my purse wasna fu' ;
I felt, like the glass, ev'ry change o' the weather.
And wish'd in my heart for a guid coat o' blue.
But fair fa' our wife, aye sae thriftj' and kin'ly.
As soon as she kent o' the wind piercin' through.
She ran to the wab^ter and fitted me finely.
And laid round my shouthers a guid coat o' blue.
And fair fa' the tailor, our ain honest Sandy,
He's gi'en me braw room in't, he ever cuts true ;
I'm no clippit aff like a daft idle dandie.
But gaucie and tosh in my guid coat o' blue.
11
I like weel to look on the fine glossy face o't ;
I like weel to straik it, sae sleek it the woo ;
I wish I may aye get as guid in the place o't ;
I'm ilka way pleas'd wi' my braw coat o' blue.
Now dark gloomy "Winter may rant, rage, and rustle,
And frae his hail-granaries wild tempests brew,
I carena for him nor his snaw blasts a whistle,
For weel lined wi' plaidin 's my guid coat o' blue.
Nae mair will I dread the white tap o' Benledi,
Or sigh when the snaw-cover'd Ochils I view;
I've often been lag, but for ance I am ready,
Weel bappit and snug in a guid coat o' blue.
I wish a' the world were just aye as weel theekit,
Wi' health, milk, and meal, and potatoes enow,
Then if they'd complain they should a' be well licket—
For me, I am proud o' my guid coat o' blue.
But wearj'-fu' pride, for it's never contented.
Ilk ane maun be drest now in fine Spanish woo ;
Thewarld was far better at first when I kent it.
Wi' warm plaidin'-hose and a guid coat o' blue.
Leeze me on auld Scotland, may nae ill assail her ;
Leeze me on auld fashions — I laugh at the new ;
A fig for the fallow that 's made by the tailor ;
Gi'e me sense and worth in a guid coat o' blue.
We fret at the taxes, and taxes are mony.
The meal whiles is dear, and we've ill winning through ;
But daft silly pride is the warst tax o' ony.
Well no be content wi' a gude coat o' blue.
12
SPUNK PETER.
Am—" Tlie Lowland Lads think they are fine."
Nab kindred had Peter to sigh o'er his bier,
Nae mockery o' woe, and nae emblems o' weeping;
The breeze was the sigh, and the rain-drap the tear.
That fell on the grave where auld Peter was sleeping.
Yet he had been blessed in his lanely abode
"Wi' comforts that aj-e made his cup taste the sweeter ,
Contentment and peace lightened life's weary load,
And buskit wi' flowers the rough road to auld Peter.
Nae beggar was he ! he had matches to sell,
As up stairs an' down stairs he tirled at our latches,
And ilka kind neibour their virtues would tell,
"Wlia lighted her ingle wi' auld Peter's matches.
He stood at the door wi' his hat in his hand.
When cam' the guidwife wi' his best bow he'd greet her,
And speer for their welfares sae courteous and bland—
The pink o' politeness was honest Spunk Peter !
His lang matted locks were as white as the snaw,
A staff in his hand, and a cloak owre his shouther;
Wi' basket an' matches he hirpled awa.
And aye gaed his rounds through the roughest o' weather.
Though lanely auld poortith be saddest of woes.
Yet to show how a friendless auld mortal could meet her.
Contentment and patience till life's latest close
Proclaimed to the world an example in Peter !
The dogs wagg'd their tails as the auld man drew nigh ;
E'en ill-manner 'd cm-s that would bark at a beggar.
Would ne'er gi'e a grumble as Peter gaed bye,
Sae familiar they grew wi' his face and his figure.
The bairns gathered round him and keek't in his face.
His kind-hearted looks made the rudest discreeter j
He gae each a spunk — but he gae't wi' a grace
That won their aflections for kindly auld Peter.
13
He liked a wee drap— but he never gat fou—
His blood it was thin and his banes they were weary.
And his spirit revived, like a flower in the dew.
When owre his lane ingle it made him mair cheery.
Wi' glorious old Nelson he sailed on the main,
When his spirits were young, and his limbs they wcrt
fleeter,
An' dreams o' his youth then would flit o'er the brain.
And light up the eye of the gallant Spunk Peter !
But lucifer-matches destroyed his auld trade ;
The march o' improvement brings sad innovation !
The brimstone was bankrupt— the tinder-box fled —
The flint and the frizzle gacd clean out o' fashion.
The new-fangled ferlies fuft up in a low !
And then— just to make sic a change the completer-
Grim Death laid his hand on the weary auld pow,
. And blew out the spunk o' the leal-hearted Peter!
/J^Ut^//^^
NAEBODY KENS YE.
Air—* ' Hooly and Fairly."
Aric ye doin' ought weel ?— are ye thrivin*, my man ?
V.c. thankfu' to Fortune for a' that she sen's ye ;
Yc'll ha'e plenty o' frien's aye to oflFer their ban'.
When ye needna their countenance— a' body kens ye ;
A' body kens ye,
A' body kens ye.
When ye needna their countenance— a' body ken's ye.
14
But wait ye a wee, till the tide tak's a turn !
An' awa' wi' the ebb drifts the favours she len's ye,
Cauld frien'ship will then leave ye lanely to mourn ;
When ye need a' their frien'ship, then naebody kens ye ;
iS aebody kens ye, &c.
The crony wha stuck like a burr to your side.
An' vow'd wi' his heart's dearest bluid to befrien'ye ;
A five guinea note, man ! will part ye as wide
As if oceans and deserts were lyin' between ye J
Naebody kens ye, &.c.
It's the siller that does't, man ! the siller ! the siller !
It's the siller that breaks ye ! an' mak's ye, an' men's ye ;
\Mien your pockets are toom an' nae wab i' the loom.
Then tak' ye my word for't there's naebody kens ye ;
Naebody kens ye, &c.
But thinkna I mean that a' mankind are sae —
It's the butterfly-fi"ien's that misfortune should fear, aye —
There are those worth the name, Gude sen' there were mae ]
Wha, the caulder the blast, aye the closer draw near ye ;
Naebody kens ye, &c.
The friend wha can tell us our fau'ts to our face.
But aye frae our foes in our absence defen's us,
Leeze me on sic hearts' o'life's pack he's the ace
Wha scorns to disown us when naebody kens us.
CHORUS.
Naebodv kens us, naebody kens us,
Poortith's a dry-nurse frae folly whilk speans us—
She deprives us o' means, just to show us our frien's,
\Mia winna disown us when naebody kens us.
15
WHEN HER MINNIE DISNA KEN.
Air — " When the kye come hame."
O BONNIE is the gowanie that blooms upo' the lea,
Wi' the dew-drap in its bosom , -when the sun fa's i' the sea ;
An' canty sings the burnie as it wimples down the glen,
Where I meet my bonnie lassie when her minnie disna ken ;
When her minnie disna ken, when her minnie disna ken,
AVhere I meet my bonnie lassie when her minnie disna
The bat he lo'es the gloamin', an' the lav'rock lo'es the
morn,
The howlet lo'es the mirky night, the lintwhite lo'es the
thorn ;
But I lo'e the bonnie lassie mair wha wons in yonder glen,
For she meets me by the burnie when her minnie disna ken;
When her minnie disna ken, when her minnie disna ken.
For she meets me by the burnie when her minnie disna
She comes whene'er the peesweep sings his lane sang in the
air.
An' ae blink o' her bonnie face frees me o' warld's care ;
The buffs frae cauld misfortune's blasts can hardly gar me
ben',
As I meet ray bonnie lassie when her minnie disna ken ;
When her minnie disna ken, when her minnie disna ken.
As I m£et my bonnie lassie when her minnie disna ken.
16
THE HIGHLANDER'S "^VELCOME TO THE QUEEN.
Air—" Donald iPDonald."
CoMK Tunean, what for jou be snorin' ?
Get up man, an' on wi' your praw,
Your kilt, an' your hose, an' your sporran,
Your plaid an' your ponnet and a';
Our Queen— pless he? leddyship's clory,
Is coming to see us ev'n noo.
Cresorst.' * tere pe Lauehie an' Rory,
An' a' ta lads waitin' 'pon you.
T'en hoogh for her ponnie young Queen !
An' heigh for her ponuie young Queen !
Go, sought all ta Heslan' an' Lanian',
A prettier never was seen.
Our Queen, she pe Queen o' ta Heelan',
An' Queen o' ta Lawlan' peside,
T'en quha wad refuse her a sheelin'
To shield her as lang as she'll pide.
Our faithers wad shelter Prince Sharlie,
Poor lad, quhan she had not a hame :
Nainsell love her Queen so sincerely,
T'at for her she'll shust tid tat same.
T'en hoogh for her ponnie braw Queen !
An' heigh for her ponnie praw Queen !
Ta Heelanmans ne'er pe tisloj'al.
Though change o' ta race she has seen.
Onr chiefs, how their clans they be gather,
A' trest in their tartans sae praw.
To welcome our Queen to ta heather,
An' ponnie Prince Alpert an' a'.
17
My sang ! he's a fine tecent laddie.
As praw as Prince Sharlie himsel'.
An' sets, too, him's ponnet and plaidie,
As weel as ta laird o' Dunkel'.
T'en hoogti-for our ponnie young Queen
An' heigh for our ponnie young Queen !
Let 's gie her ta grand Heelan welcome,
Ta kindest t'at ever has peen.
Cot pless you, our ponnie young leddy.
If you'll 'mang ta Heelan' remain.
Our hearts an' claymores will be ready.
Your honours an' rights to maintain.
Ta Gael has a hand for him's friend aye.
An' likewise a hand for him's foe ;
Ta Gael, your dear sel' she'll defend aye.
An' guard you wherever you go.
T'en welcome our ponnie young Queen !
Thrice welcome our ponnie young Queen !
Ta Gael may be rude in him's manner.
But quhar is ta warmer heart seen ?
Ji.-^ £o^
T^
A VOICE FROM HOLYROOD.*
Air — "il/j/ ain Fireside.
I CANNA weel greet, for my heart is owre sair ;
The days they are gane that shall come never mair.
•A fatal case of fever occurred in Holyrood a few days before her
Majesty arrived in Scotland, September, 1842, -which prevented the
Qaeen from visiting this ancient Royal residence.
18
I canna weel sab, for my breast is owre fou,
When I feel what I ha'e been an* -what I am noo.
An' 01 'mang the gallant, the fair, an' the good,
There's surely ae tear for puir auld Holyrood.
I deck't my auld pow in a rich wreath o' braws ;
I set my auld throne up, an' burnish'd my wa's ;
I keek't in my glass, and I thought me sae fine,
My auld heart grew young, an' I dream't o' langayne.
An' O ! I was vogie, and O ! I was proud.
While speering mysel'— " Are ye auld Holyrood ?"
When we think oursel's meikle we are whiles unco wee.
Death stalked through my court, when my yett stood ajee;
He cover'd my towers wi* his black sable wings.
An' whisper'd— " I bide nae for Queens or for Kings.
Your bonny young Queen maunna brave my dark mood,
Keep her frae the deadshade that wraps Holyrood."
Auld Sco'ia's lang tongue shouts wi' loud trumpet din,
" Gae open your Palace yetts, let your Queen in."
She comes at the summons— but heaves a sad sigh,
The hame of her faithers she's forced to pass by.
Her e'e fills to look at the black ribbon'd snood,
That haps up the high head o' auld Holyrood.
I ferlie, gin e'er she will come back again.
To stay in the courts and the ha's o' her ain ;
Though strangers be kindly, ye canna for shame
Spier them for the comforts ye ha'e when at hame.
She's feasted by nobles, and cheered by the crowd-
But she finds nae a hame like her ain Holyrood.
19
THE QUEEN O' BONNY SCOTLAND'S A MITHER
LIKE MYSEL'.
Music by W. M'Leod.
There's walth o* themes in Scotland,
That ham'art tongue might sing
Wi' glee sae canty, that wad mak*
Its laneliest valleys ring;
But there is ane I dearly lo'e
In wimplin' sang to swell —
The Queen o' bonny Scotland's
A mither like mysel'.
Her wee bit rum'lin' roguie,
When rowin' on her knee,
Or cuddlin' in her bosie.
Will gladden heart an* e'e,
Wi' kissin' owre an' owre again,
His rosy cheeks will tell —
The Queen o' bonny Scotland's
A mither like mysel'. >
She kens fu' weel how tenderly
A mither dauts her wean,
And a' tlie hinnied words that fa'
Atween them when alane ;
Oh ! if I were but near her,
O' breadless bairns to tell,
She'd listen, for our bonny Queen's
A mither like mysel'
Then come to bonny Scotland,
There's no a neuk in't a',
Frae hill to haugh, that disna bear
Baith buirdly men and braw ;
They'll welcome you to Scotland—
The thistle and blue-bell—
And ye'se be bless'd by women-fock.
And naithers like yoursel'.
d/yir^
THE WINTER HAS SET IN, LADS.
Air—" Colder Fair."
The winter has set in, lads, but what care we for frost,
Its snaw'y doublet, icy trews, its croighle or its hoast.
For I opine we can contrive to brew wi' little din
A cup, tho'ne'ersocauld without, vnU mak us warm within.
Then, kimmer, tak' the pint stoup, and bring it reaming ben,
This moment is our ain, for theneist— we dinna ken.
And rax me o^\-l•e your haun, man, my auld, my trusty frien'.
May the warst o' a' our days be bye— the days that we ha'e
seen.
What though our way in life through the brambles may
have been,
Yet here and there a rose 'mang the prickles we have seen.
We a' ha'e had om* troubles, sirs, but wherefore should we
fret ?—
In spite o' a' that's come and gane, we're here to tell them
yet.
And sae we'll aye keep up our hearts, though fortune whiles
may jar —
There never was an ill but there micht ha'e been a waur.
As lang's we ha'e our health and our cantie wifie's smile.
We've something left to sweeten life, and lichten a' our toil.
21
May the Hand that led us hitherto, support and lead us
still.
And grant us a'e sweet sunny blink to licht us doun the hi!'.
And when we're ca'd awa' at last, unsullied be our fame.
And by them we leave ahint us lang cherish'd be our
name.
SONG OF THE SPIRIT-LYRE.
Air—" Harh ! Vie hollow ivoods resounding.
chorus-
Fairy hands my wires are sounding,
In the greenwood merrily ;
Light feet to my notes are bounding.
Which no mortal eye can see.
Wandering thoughts and lovers' dreamings
Are the guardians of my shrine ;
Maidens' smiles and fancy's beamings
Lend my frame their light divine.
Love's first whispers, ere they're spoken.
Blossom in my airy hall ;
But when early vows are broken.
Sighs of sorrow round me fall.
Fairy hands my wires are sounding, &c.
Hopes that once in youth were blighted.
Seeking where sweet Peace may dwell.
By Despair and Time benighted.
Find a shelter 'neath my spell.
O'er their tear-dewed lonely pillow
Oft I pour my midnight lay.
Soft as when the weeping willow
Breathes its hymn at close of day.
Fairy hands my wires are sounding, &c.
22
Voices whose loved tones have faded
On the lonely mourner's ear ;
Life-glearas, which the grave hath shaded.
In their wanderings linger near ;
Whilst the Spirit of Affection
Plumes awhile its golden ^\^ngs,
And the strains of pale Dejection
Pour in ripplings from my strings.
Fairy hands my wires are sounding, ^.^c.
By the nameless tomb my numbers
Murmur like the sighs of spring,
And, 'midst mem'ry's deepest slumbers,
Oft m3' magic power I fling.
Virtue's throbbings, when forsaken,
Slingle with my votive swell ;
When the chords of life are shaken,
'Tis my voice alone can tell.
Fairy hands my wires are sounding, &o.
In the woodland's deep recesses.
O'er the broken heart I mourn,
When the hand of Sorrow presses
Life from out its fragile urn ;
When Devotion's soul is kneeling
By the altar's vestal fire.
In eich prayerful burst of feeling.
Speaks the mystic Spirit lyre.
Fairy hands my wires are sounding, &o.
23
THE LYART AN' LEAL.
Air — *' The Banks of the Devon."
" GuiDMAN," quo' the wifie, " the cauld sough blaws eerie,
Gae steek ye the winnock, for danger I dree ;
The hluidhounds o' Clavers, forebodin' an' dreary,
I've heard on the blast owre the snaw-covert lea —
A stranger I've seen through the dusk o' the gloamin',
Uncovert I saw the auld wanderer kneel ;
My heart fiU'd, as waefu' I heard him bemoanin'
The cauld thrawart fate o' the lyart an' leal.
The bleeze frae the ingle rose sparklin' an' cantie.
The clean aiken buffet was set on the floor ;
She thoughtna her ark o' the needfu' was scanty,
But sigh'd for the wanderer she saw on the moor.
" Ah ! wae for the land whar the cauld clifi's maun shelter
The warm heart that wishes our puir kintra weel :
In thy bluid, bonny Scotland, the tyrant maun welter,
The faggot maun bleeze roun' the lyart and leal."
The tear owre her cheek row'd— the aumry stood open —
She laid out her sma' store wi' sorrovvfu' heart—
The guidman a grace owre the mercies had spoken,
Whan a tirl at the door made the kin' wifie start.
•' I'm weary," a voice cried, " I'm hameless and harmless,
The cauld wintry blast, oh ! how keenly I feel—
I'm guiltless, I'm guileless, I'm friendless, an' bairnless,
Nae bluid 's on my hand:;," quo' the lyart an' leal.
•' Ye're welcome, auld carle, come ben to the ingle.
For snell has the blast been, an' cauld ye maun be ;
In the suaw-drift sae helpless ye gar'd my heart dinnel — .
Ye'll share our puir comforts, tho' scanty they be.
A warm sowp I've made ye, expectin' your comin'.
Like you for the waes o' puir Scotland we feel.
But death soon will end a' our wailin' an' nioanio'.
An' youth come again to the lyart an' leal."
24
She dichteda seat for the way-wearit stranger,
An' smilin' he sat himsel' down by the hearth —
♦* The Man wha our sins bore was laid in a manger,
2ia.e Prelate proclaim'd the mild innocent's birth."
Thus spak' the auld wandei-er, his een glist'n't wildly,
A sigh then escap'd for the cause he lo'ed weel.
The wifie drew closer, and spak' to him mildly.
But breathless an' cauld was the lyart an' leaL
^^^^u^^^^^^^^—
AN AULD MAN'S LOVE SONG.
Air — •' Thd mi-tinn-leis a Ghaol."*
Bonnie, modest, glimmerin' star,
Glintin' through the cluds o' life.
Thy waukrife care, baith near an' far,
Aye guides me safe through warldly strife.
Thy kindly beam, thro' winters cauld.
An' bitin' breath frae bleak nor'-east,
Keeps me fu' cozie, mak's me bauld
To face what fate may send me neist.
The girnin' miser owre his wealth
Sits cowrin*, shilpit, hungry, fear't —
Gowd-sickness gnaws him ; I hae health
And wealth, nor dreid the reiver near't.
O Jessie dear ! my star art thou !
Aye cheery in our canty bield ;
The smile that jinks about thy mou'
Wiled me in youth, charms me in eild.
» Vide Captain Eraser's HiglJand Airs.
25
And thy worth ! my wine dear,
I'll never bow at Mammon's shrine,
For aye it grows frae year to year.
Thy truth is wealth — that wealth is mine.
For faithfu' love shines in thine e'e.
And honour's sel' lives in thy breast.
An' ilk sweet bairnie on thy knee ^
Makes thee mair true, and me mair blest.
THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.
Air—'' There's nae luck about the House."
I srNO of gentle woodcroft gay, for Avell I love to rove
With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
For the noble bird which grac'd my hand I feel my spirit
swell,
Arrayed in all her hunting gear, hood, jessy, leish, and bell.
I have watch 'd her through the moult, till her castings all
were pure,
And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd up-
on the lure ;
While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring.
Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.
When drawn the leish and slipt the hood, her eye beams
black and bright,
And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight.
Away she darts on pinions free, above the mountains far.
Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.
26
Away, away, In farthest flight, I feel no fear or dread.
When a whistle or a whoop brings her towering o'er my head ;
A\hile poised on moveless wing, from her voice a miu-mur
swells,
To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her
bells.
-+■•
'Tis Rover's bark— halloo ! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry tlies.
"With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert
nigh.
But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is towering high.
My falcon's towering o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
Her pinions strong, with one short pull, aie gather'd to
her side,
When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the
bow.
In meteor fiight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.
The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling roimd and
round.
With wounded wkg the quariied game falls heavy on the
ground.
Away, awaj', my falcon fair, has spread her buoyant wings.
While on the ear her silver voice as clear asinetal rings.
Tho'high her soar, and far her fiight, my whoop has struck
her ear,
And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.
No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.
WTio mews a hawk, must nurse her as a mother would her
child.
And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild—
27
Must woo ber like a bride, wbile with love his bosom swells
For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leish, and
bells.
Uy^^C^^y ^^^
THE IMPATIENT LASSIE.
CUMBERLAND BALLAD.
Air—" Low down in the broom."
Deuce tek the clock, click-clackin sae.
Ay in a body's ear ;
It tells and tells the teyme is past
When Jwohnny sud been here.
Deuce tek the wheel ! 'twill nit rin roun'-
Nae mpir to-neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh.
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
How neyce the spunky fire it burns,
For twee to sit besyde !
And theer 's the seat where Jwohnny sits.
And I forget to cheyde !
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores !
My mudder's fast asleep —
He proniised oft, but oh ! I fear,
His word he wunnet keep.
WTiat can it be keeps him frae me ?
The ways are nit sae lang !
An' sleet an' snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang.
28
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feaee.
Has catch'd his wicked e'e.
An' I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay ! suiner let me dee.
durst we lasses nobbet gang
An' sweetheart them we leyke,
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke :
But custom 's sec a silly thing —
Thur men mun ha'e their way.
An' monie a bonnie lassie sit.
An' wish frae day to day.
1 yence hed sweethearts, monie a yen,
They'd weade through muck and mire ;
And when our f wok wer deed asleep.
Come tremlin' up to t' fire :
At lush Carel market lads wad stare.
An' talk, an' follow me ;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, aye frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be=
dear ! what changes women pruive.
In less than seeben year ;
1 walk the lonnins, owre the muir.
But deil a chap comes near !
An' Jwohnny I nee mair can trust-
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin' this sairy heart '11 burst !
I'll suin lig i' my grave.
But whisht ! I hear my Jwohnny's fit—
Ay ! that's his varra clog !
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh ! hang that cwoley dog !
29
Now, hey for seeghs an' suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few —
This warl's a perfect pai-adise
When lovers they pruive true»
*Jw^^ ^^:ij^^,^J%/
ONE OF THE HEART'S STRUGGLES.
Air—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks"
O ! LET me gang, j'e dinna ken
How sair my mither flate yestreen —
An', mournin' o'er and o'er again,
Speir'd whaur I gaed sae late at e'en.
An' aye I saw her dicht her een —
My very heart maist brak' to see't —
I'll byde a flyte tho' e'er sae keen.
But canna, canna thole her greet.
O ! hlessin's guard my lassie's brow.
And fend her couthie heart frae care ;
Her lowin' breast o' love sae fou —
How can I grudge a riiither's share.
The hinnysuckle 's no sae fair,
In gloamin's dewy pearl weet,
As my love's e'e when tremblin' there
The tear that owns a mither's greet.
A heart a* warmed to mither's love —
O ! that's the heart whaur I wad be ;
An' when a mither's lips reprove,
! gi'e me then the glist'nin' e'e.
30
For feckless fa's that look on me,
Ilowe'er sae feigned in cunnin's sweet —
And loveless — luckless — is the e'e
That, tearless, kens a mither's greet.
IIAME IS AYE HAMELY.
Am— "Xoiv"* Young Dream."
Oh ! hame is aye hamely still, tho' poor at times it be,
An' ye winna had a place like hame in lands beyond the
sea;
Tho' ye may wander east an' we&t, in quest o' wealth, or,
fame — ?'
There's aye a pulse within the heart, beats hame, hame,
hame,
Oh ! there's aye a pulse within the heart, beats hame,
hame, hame.
"There's gowd in gowpins got, they say, on India's sunny
strand —
Then wha would bear to linger here, in this bleak barren
land ?
I'll hie me owre the heaving wave, an' win myself a name.
And in a palace, or a grave, furget my Hieland hame."
'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native
stream,
And fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest
dream ;
His good sword won him wealth and power, and long and
louJ acclaim.
But could not banish from his thoughts bis dear loved
moimtain hame.
SI
No .' the Peasant's heart within the Peer beat true to na-
ture still,
For on liis visions oft would rise the cottage on the hill ;
And young compaiiioua, long forgot, would join him in tlie
game.
As erst in life's young morning, around hia Ilieland hanie.
Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and grey, his father's face he
saw, —
He thought upon his mother's tear the day he gaed awa'.
And her he lov'd, his lliclaud girl, — there's magic in the
name —
They a' combine to wile him back to his far Ilieland hame.
He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands.
And where his father's cottage stood, a stately palace stands ;
And with his grandchild on his knee, the old man's heart
on flame,
'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts o'
hame.
Oh ! hame is aye hamcly still, tho' poor at times it be.
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lauds beyond the sea ;
Oh ! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or
fame.
But there's aye a pulse within the heart, beats hame,
hame, hame.
Oh ! there's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame,
hame.
32
THE LADS AND THE LAND FAR AWA'.
Air — " My Ain Fireside."
When I think on the lads an' the land I ha'e left,
An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft.
How the hinnie o' hope has been jumilt in ga'.
Then I sigh for the lads and the land far awa'.
When I think on the days o' delight we ha'e seen,
When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the een.
Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a'.
Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa' ?
When I think on the nights we ha'e spent hand in hand,
Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band.
This warld gets dark, but ilk night has a daw,
An' I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'.
TO SPEAK TO ME.
Air—" The boatie rows."
To speak to me o' sic a thing, indeed ye are na blate !
I often wonder what ye mean— ye plague me ear' an' late ;
And though i aye deny ye, still ye winna let me be ;
Weel, mind, it's just to humour ye, I let ye sit wi' me.
The little table we maun set atween us a' the nicht,
And I sail ha'e a cau'le there to gi'e us pleasant licht ;
But ye're to keep your distance, now, an' dinna mak' sa
free.
Sin' it's onljr just to liumour ye, I let ye visit me.
83
Or should there neither boord nor licht" come you an' me
between,
Ye'll keep your arras fr.ie 'bout my neck, nor on my shou-
ther lean ;
We sail, at least, ha'e seats a piece — I'll no sit on your knee,
An', mind, it's just to humour ye, if ye get a kiss o' me.
Now, Sandy, a' your tales o' love owre me 'ill ha'e nae sway ;
I were a fule, would I believe a single word ye say ;
But if there's nae denyin' ye, an' I should yield a wee-
It's no to please mysel', but you, gin e'er we wedded be.
THE LARK HATH SOUGHT HIS GRASSY HOME.
AtR— " Charlie is my darling."
O REST a while with me, love.
With me, love, with me, love,
O rest a while with me, love.
Home ne'er had charms like this.
The breeze that steals so softly by
Hath caught the rose's kiss ;
The tear that wets the lily's eye
Is but a di-op of bliss.
O rest, &.C.
The lark hath sought his grassj' home,
The bee her eglantine ;
The silver lamps, in yon blue dome,
Have just begun to shine.
C
34
O rest a while with me, love,
With me, love, with me, love,
O rest a while with me, love.
This breast will pUlow thine.
'fti^lrz^^^
NOW ROSY SUM.AIER LAUGHS IN JOY.
Ki^—^' Bonnie Jeanf^ Grey."
Now rosj' summer laughs in joj'.
O'er mountain, glen, and tree ;
And drinks the glittering siller dew,
Frae gowans on the lea.
Blythe frae the clover springs the lark,
To hymn the op'nin' day ;
The wee waves dance beneath the sun,
Like baimies at their play.
Now frisks the maukin 'mang the grass,
Nor fears the rustlin' trees ;
Now Unties chant frae ilka spray,
To charm the lingering breeze.
Ye gay green birks, your breath is balm,—
Ye stately flowers o' June —
Thou little stream, that wimples by.
Thou sings a soothing tune.
O sweet Balgove ! aboon thy shades
How aft the Star o' Day
Has op'd his wauk'nia' e'e to ga^e.
On whom 1 daurna-eny.
35
Now chill rememb'rance, journeying back
O'er weary wastes o' gloom,
Rests fondly on the hours we spent
Amang the yellow broom.
And ha'e they bonnie walks aboon.
Where my love dwells afar ? —
Then we may wander yet beneath
A bonnier morning star.
Ah ! why could Heav'n take my flower, —
Nae fairer flower could bli w ?
Oh ! she waiJieav'n owre lang to me,
Sae she atos ta'en awa'.
A HIGHLAND PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.
Air— Kind reader, when you'll merry bet
You'll lilt him to the tone
0' " Kilderoy," or " Cramachree,"
Or " SJion o' Padenyon."
TwAS whan I left my faither's cot,
Some forty years ago.
He said that gear was to be got —
But where I did not know.
The world was wide, an' I was yoimg,
A hardy loon an' hale ;
Besides 1 had a sleekit tonguo
That ne'er was kent to fail.
36
Baith east an' west I glo\vr'd like daft,
To see what might befa';
For, och ! I hated handicraft.
An' manual labours a'.
Compc4rd at last to catch the plack,
"Whatever might betide ;
I took the elwaud an' the pack,
An' tramp'd the kintra side.
My mither, as a partin' boon,
Wi' tears intil her e'e,
A Bible an' a horn spoon
That day presented me.
She squeezed my hand, an' conjured m
To use them baith wi' care ;
An' ane o' them, as j-e may see,
I'm maister o' an' mair.
For twenty years, an' somewhat mair,
I wander'd mony a mile,
An' faithfully I gather'd gear
By mony a quirk an' wile.
At length a sonsy damsel's glance
Gar'd a' my ramblings stop ;
I woo'd her, for I stood a chance
To heir her faith er's shop.
Day after day I urged my claim—
O' naething stood in awe—
An' in a fortnight I became
A Bailie's sun-in-Iaw.
By mither-wit, an' norlan' skill,
I scal'd the Council stair,
J<or ever look'd behint, until
I fiU'd the ProYOSfs chair !
37
An' I'd ha'e ruled the roast an' race
Until my dyin' day,
But, och ! the Whigs rush'd into place.
An' made o' us their pi-ey !
Come, shentlemens, stan' to your feet—
We'll drink a toss right fittin',—
*' To a' the laads i' Townin' Street
An unco speedy flittin'."
LAMENT FOR THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.*
The last hues oi summer are sickly and fading,
And autumn winds hymn the decay of the year;
The sere yellow tints all the landscape pervading.
In silence proclaim that the winter draws near.
On the far heathy mountain the dark cloud sits broodinr.
And slow the mist column rolls up the lone glen ;
The big rain falls heavy, the streamlets o'erflooding.
And Ettrick rolls on her brown currents again.
Tlie summer hath pass'd o'er Yarrow's green mountains.
The birch trembled wild by Loch Clary's lone shore;
The winter approaches to bind up the fountains,
But the Bard of the Forest shall cheer us no more.
• This dirge, taken with the kind permission of Peter M'Leod, Esq.,
from his beautiful volume of " Original National Melodies of ScotlaQd,"
IB set to one of the most touching melodies we have ever heard.
38
No more sliall he stray in the still of the gloaming
To dream of the spirits in lands fai- away ;
No more shall he list to the tempest loud moaning.
For the Bard of the Forest lies cold in the clay.
He rests with his fathers, no more to awaken
Sweet strains by the streamlets that speed to the main ;
The wild echo sleeps in the plen of green bracken.
But the Shepherd shall never awake it again.
Bloom sweetly around him, ye pale drooping roses,
Breathe softly, ye winds, o'er his cold nan'ow bed ;
Fall gently, ye dews, where the minstrel reposes,
And hallow the wild-flowers t)iat wave o'er his head.
OWRE A' THE SWEET MAIDENS.
Air — " KeUyhiirn Braes.''
0\rRE a' the sweet maidens in England I've seen,
I rank you the fairest, I place you the queen ;
My love-swelling bosom yields homage to thee —
Will ye gang, bonnie lassie, to Scotland wi' me?
Dark, dark are your tresses — your wee mouth is meek ;
On your chin there's a dimple, an' clear is your cheek ;
Your form is sae gracefu', your step light and free —
Come away, lovely lassie, to Scotland wi' me !
"We'll stray where the wild-wood an' pure waters meet
I'll pu' ye the red rose, an' ilka thing sweet ;
Our talk of affection an' true love will be —
Will ye gang, bonnie lassie, to Scotland wi' me ?
39
On banks where the lav'rock sits down on her nest.
An' daisies grow thickly, together we'll rest :
Ah ! mine will be rapture Avhen seated by thee—
Come away, dearest lassie, to Scotland wi' me !
In dark days o' winter, when angry win's blaw,
Our wee house will shield us frae tempest an' snaw ;
Wi' tale, sang, an' music, the time we'll gar flee :
O ! haste ye, sweet lassie, to Scotland wi' me !
The clasp o' thy soft hand — this sweet melting kiss —
The glance o' thy dark e'e, foretel me 6' bliss ;
Than monarchs or princes mair joyfu' I'll be,
■NVhen at hame, bounie lassie, in Scotland wi' thee !
tS^
A BONNIE WEE LASSIE.
Air—" John Todd,
A BONNIE wee lassie I ken, I ken,
A bonnie wee lassie I ken.
The blink o' her e'e is heaven to me,
An' wow! but she's ane amang ten, amang ten.
An' wow ! but she 's ane amang ten.
A handsome wee lassie I lo'e, I lo'e,
A handsome wee lassie I lo'e,
The pawkie wee quean has doiter'd me clean,
An' mair mischief she'll work, I trow, 1 trow*
An' mair mischief she'll work, I trow
40
A winsome wee lassie I'll woo, I'll woo,
A winsome wee lassie I'll woo,
I'll keek in her e'e, an' aiblins may pree
Tlie wee hinny blobs o' her mou', her mou'.
The wee hinny blobs o' her mou'.
A mensefu' wee lassie I'll wale, I'll wale,
A mensefu' wee lassie I'll wale,
An' sud the wee dear ha'e gowpens o' gear,
She'll no be the waur for't, I'se bail, I'se bail.
She'll no be the waur for't, I'se bail.
A canty wee lassie I'll wed, I'll wed,
A canty wee lassie I'll wed ;
An' when she is mine, I'll busk her fu' fine.
An' a couthie bit life we'll lead, we'll lead.
An' a couthie bit life well lead.
i)uc.jL/i ^(l^±==:
LUFF HER UP.
Am—" Tlie Opera Hat."
Luff her up, luff her up, keep her sweating in the breeze.
Luff her up, luff her up, keep her dipping to the knees !
The foemen are out, boys, and we are tearing througli,
To meet with them, and match them, as Britons should do.
Here we go, here we go, like an arrow thnmgh the wave i
Here we go, here we go, to woo glory or a grave !
Here we go, with the wind o'er a full flowing sea.
Our faces to the foe, as a Briton's should bo.
41
We can die, we can die, without thinking of the pain !
We may die, we may die, like true hearts upon the main !
We will die ere a foe sets a foot upon our shore.
And show him that his path must he through British gore.
l^m
DREAMS OF ABSENCE.*
I dream'd o' a diamond mine, my love.
In the howe o' the hroomy hill,
AYhere we used to stray in bairnhood's day.
An' gambol an' laugh our fill ;
• The writer of this piece, and a few others ■which we intend shall
follow, was born in the parish of Upper Banchory, Kincardineshire,
in 1805. His father was a farmer, and the earlier years of the poet
■were spent in assisting his father. His education was scanty indeed,
and obtained in the parish school during the season of winter, when
the out door operations of the farmer are nearly suspended. A few
■winters served to educate Joseph in the elements of our national lan-
guage, writing, and knowledge of figures; but the youth more than
made up the want by reading and reflection, and keen observation of
men in their social relations. When asked how he had obtained so
much information, he replied — " 1 was taught to read ; does any
one need to know more than the twenty-six letters of the alphabet in
order to enable him to learn everything else ?" Mr Grant's first pub-
lication was in 1E28, entitled, "Juvenile Lays and Kincardine Tradi-
tions;" a collection of poeras and songs followed, in 1830; another
volume of poems, dedicated to Allan Cunningham, was given to the
public by him in 1334; and his last work, "Tales of the Glens," lie
sent to press the same year, but did not live to see it through the
press. He died, in consequence of a severe cold, in April, 1835. These
tales, which were written in prose, ■were published in 1836.
42
An* I pluck'd the bonnie stanes frae their beds,
An* ill was I to sei'.
For they a' had a licht like thy een sae bricht.
An' I coveted mair an' mair;
An' I loaded mysel' wi' the riches o" earth.
An', in tremblin' joy o' mind.
To thee wad ha'e sped, but the vision fled,
An' left me a plackless hind.
I dream'd o' a glorious hame, mj' love.
Where the midnicht shone like day.
An' music's soun' that thrill'd aroua'
Was saft as the voice o' Jlay ;
An' I was the chief o' that noble ha',
Wi' the wide warld's blessin's stored.
An' thou wert there, wi' thy smile sae rare,
An' I was thy honoured lord.
An' on sofa o' silk we twa reclined —
But I waked on my couch o* straw.
An' the cauld winds did swoof through the rifted roof.
An' thou wert far awa'.
I ance hoped to be rich, my love.
But that was a daft dream, too—
I pray'd for a while that fortune micht smile ;
(Oh, 'twas a' for the sake o' you!)
But she's thro^vn out our lot wi' a frownin' brow.
An' sindered us far an' lang.
An' the last words ye said were a' that I had
To saften my heart's warst pang.
But, oh, mair dear than the glint o' gowd
Is thy look o' love to me !
I'll dream nae mair o' wealth or o' care,
Kow that I'm near to thee.
43
OH! GIN I WERE TO WED AGAIN.
Afr — ♦' The bonnie Lass o' Livingstone."
Oh ! gin I vv^ere to wed again,
I'll tell you what, I'll tell you what,
I'd wale a lass wad lo'e mysel',
Mair than John INIaut, mair than John Maut '
For every kiss my wife gi'es me,
He gets a score, he gets a score.
And I've nae doubt ere lang they'll kiss
Me to the door, me to the door !
Morn, night, an' noon— noon, night, an* morn,
She trokes wi' him, she trokes wi' him.
And scours his bowls, when ither folk
Their house wad trim, their house wad trim.
The weans, in tatterwallops a'.
Kin wild ther'out, rin wild ther'out.
Till aft I'm fain, though sma' my skill.
Their claes to clout, their claes to clout.
At ilka ploy, the country round.
She roars an' rants, she roars an' rants.
And late and ear' her paramour
Wi' her gallants, wi' her gallants : —
She's danc'd the shoon frae aff her feet ;
And on her back, and on her back.
The remnant o' her waddin' gown,
Hings by a tack, hings by a tack.
She turns my pouches inside out,
Whe 1 I'm asleep, when I'm asleep ;
And rifles ilka hole an' bore,
Where gear I keep, where gear I keep ;
44
And every plack that she can clutch.
On him she'll ware, on him she'll ware ;
And never fash her thumh though I
Gang toom an' bare, gang toom an' bare.
The mice frae out the aumry keek,
Wi' tearfu' e'e, wi' tearf u' e'e ;
Its breadless boards, j-e needna doubt,
They mourn v.i' me, they mourn wi' me.
Auld haudrons stares me i' the face,
Wi' waefu' mew, ^\-i' waefu' mew ;
As if she said — " Haith maister, lad.
You're done for now, you're done for now."
And gin I hint my spouse does wrang,
The gude be here, the gude be here !
Ye never heard how loud and fierce
She'll storm an* swear, she'll storm an' swear.
O ! gin I were to wed again.
Believe ye me, believe ye me.
Before I buckled wi' the sex,
I'd think a wee, I'd think a wee !
VW^/t^;^^^
MY AULD AUNTY LIZZIE WAS FAMED FOR A
SPINNER.
Am—" I hae laid a herring in saut."
Mv auld aunty Lizzie was famed for a spinner.
An' monie a thread she had dra's\-n in her day,
Baith even an' knotty— for know her bread winner
Had a queer fascheous temper— like owre monie mae.
45
At times she wad flist an' wad casten the band,
Then Lizzie wad coax her, as I've heard her tell,
Wi' a lick o' sweet oil an' a feeze o' her hand,
She soon brought the dorty jaud back to hersel*.
Ilk thing has a reason — this Lizzie saw through.
For the temper was made when the timmer was green ;
The drouth it had krin'd up and slacken'd the screw,
Till it lost a' the power o' her toutie machine.
iS'oo, tho' we, like Lizzie, view cause an' effect,
[low aft out o' tune gaes our feckless machine.
An' for feezin' an' oilin' we've little respect,
Sae canker'd an' crooked 's our temper wi' spleen.
Baith twitter'd and knottj' 's the thread o' our life»
An' brittle an' short as we wind up its clew—
Sae marled an' mixt 'tis wi' malice an' str-.fe,
That there's scarcely a hank but is ting'd wi' dark blue.
There's temper in matter, and temper in mind,
An' baith frae the forest are ta'en when they're green ;
An' wi' sma' observation you'll find a' mankind
Are fractious an' toutie as Lizzie's machine.
WOMAN'S WITCHFU' E'E.
Air — " Comin' through the Rye."
I LiKK the sun that shines sae bricht,
I like the midnicht moon ;
The stars that gem the Milky Way,
An* a' the orbs aboon.
46
I like to see the mornin' star
Blink bonnie owre the sea ;
But there's an orb outshines them a*—
'Tis woman's witchf u' e'e.
Ae beam o' love frae that blest orb
Gi'es youth a livelier hue,
An' drives awa' the clouds o' fate
Frae sorrow's sickly brow ;
Dispels the darkest shades o' woe
The heart is doom'd to dree ;
There's no an orb in yonder sky
Like woman's witchf u' e'e.
'Tis there the heart pours forth the woes,
Owre sad for tongue to share ;
The tears o' love, and pity's tears.
Speak nameless secrets there :
'Tis there the trembling lover reads
The soul's sincerity ;
O, whar's the orb in yonder sky
Like woman's witchfu' e'e !
Ye powers that watch my countless steps,
'An a' my wand'rings ken.
In this my weary pilgrimage.
In pleasure or in pain ;
Whare'er my hameless feet may roam,
Whate'er I'm doom'd to dree,
0, let me live beneath the licht
O' woman's Mitchfu' e'e !
47
THOCHTFU' LOVE.
Air — " Jessie the Flower o' Bumblane."
How aft, when the saft winds o' simmer were blawin',
I wander'd wi' Jeanie by bonnie Woodside,
When pearly dev^-blabs in the gloamin' were fa 'in'.
An' Kelvin crecp'd croonin' awa' to the Clyde :
The wee birds, then wearied, were nestled and sleepin'.
The sough o' the waterfa' blent wi' the breeze
That fann'd us sae gently, as light it gaed sweepin'
O'er the harp-strings o' nature, the boughs o' the trees.
We wended awa' to our leaf-theekit shielin',
A cozie wee bield whar the cauldest micht woo,
Frae whose mossy couch we could see the moon speelin'
Her way far on high, through the starnie deep blue :
At our feet, on the grassy bank, like a wee rosie.
The redtappit gowan lay droukit in dew.
Like bairnie asleep in a mither's saft bozie.
Or me in the arms o' the lassie I lo'e.
How fain was our wooin', when silence was reignin',
A' blent wi' the glint o' the bonnie white moon ;
An', luU'd wi' its stillness, our spirits were twinin'
Deep love 'tween oursels an' the warl aroun'.
But winter has come noo, grim, darksome, and scowrle.
In blatt'rin' cauld rain an' hail, pourin' its spleen ;
Its stoor frosty winds ha'e untheekit our bowrie.
An' refted the sward o' its bonny bricht green.
But yet, tho' its blast rides the ridge o' the mountain.
An' scampers in mirth owre the breast o' the lea.
An' leaves a cauld cloak on the burn an' the fountain —
It cools nae the love atween Jeanie an' me.
48
At the close o' the day, in her father's low dwellin',
AVe meet as we met aye, as happy an' calm ;
We lo'e and we lang for the spring, again swellin'
The buds till they burst \vi' the wealth o' their balm.
^^
WHISTLIN' TAM.
Air—" Comt under my plaidy."
Kend ye little Tammy wha lived on the knowe,
Mang the woods o' Drumcuthlie, whare blaeberries grow ?
His bonnet was aj-e cockit heigh on h is brow,
A queer lookin' carlie was Tammy, I trow.
He was ca'd Whist. in' Tam 'cause he had sic a gait o't.
An* uae muckle ferlie his mou' had the set o't,
And gang whar he likit he ne'er miss'd a bit o't.
Aye whoo ye, whoo, whoo ye, sowth'd Whistlin' Tam.
An' Meg, his gudewife, wi' her twa-handit wheel.
Span mony braw wabs o' biith plainen and tweel ;
JBaith bodies toil'd sair to mak' gowd in a lump,
But Maggie was counted the stang o' the trump.
A sma' shop they keepit, twa kye an' a mare.
For the peats were to lead, and the land was to ear.
An* hame frae the bruch, wi' the gudcs and the gear,
Hipp, Mally ! whoo, whoo ye, cam' Whistlin' Tam.
Their ae dautit laddie, their hope an' their care,
I' the bruch at the schulin' was drill 'd lang an' sair ;
"While three sonsie cummers at hame had, I ween,
Mony trysts wi' the lads, i' the plantin' at e'en.
49
Vnung Meg an' the miller were bnckled wi' ither ;
H ion after the cobbler and Kate gaed thegither ;
] 'ut Nell miss'd that luck, to the grief o' her mither,
V. hile whoo ye, whoo, whoo ye, sowth'd Whistlin' Tam.
Some neibours wad threep— but 'twas maybe no true-
That Tam i' the kirk gied a whoo ye, whoo whoo !
When the lettergae,* tryin'*new tunes, wad gae wrang,
Or the parson was prosy and keepit them lang.
Young Jamie took on wi' tl;e red-coated train.
And fell i' the front o' the tulzie in Spain,
His poor dowie mither made nae little mane,
But whoo ye, whoo, whoo ye, sowth'd Whistlin' Tam.
Ae blawin' spring morning Tam's biggin' took fire,
An' the lowe spread aroun' to the barn an' the byre ;
The neibours cam' rinnin' to help wi' gudewill,
But the blaze gaed aboon a' their maughts an' their skill.
Alack ! for the sufferers there was nae remeid.
Night cam', an' they hadna a roof owre their head,
Kor blanket to hap them, nor bannock o' bread-
Yet whoo ye! whoo, whoo ye! sowth'd Whistlin' Tam!
:??^^?^ /'^ro^^^^:^t^.^
MY HAME.t
Am — " A7inie Laurie."
O ! I ha'e loved the heather hills,
Whar simmer breezes blaw.
An' I ha'e loved the glades that gang
Through yonder greenwood shaw ;
* Precentor.
t Robert Nicoll ■was bom January 7, 1814, at Tullybeltane, in th»
parish of Auchtergaveo, Perthshire. His parents -were poor but vir-
D
.50
But noo the spot maLst dear to me
Is whar the moon doth beam
Doon through the sleepin' leaves, to watch
Jly ain wee cantie hanie.
tuous cottagers, and unable to give their son even an ordinary educa-
tion. At an early age he was sent to a neighbouring farmer to tend
cattle, and amidst the romantic scenery of his native county he laid
the foundation of much that is excellent in his writiugs. AVhen he
■was seventeen years old, he was apprenticed to a grocer in Perth, and
on the expiry of his apprenticeship he went to Dundee, and opened a
small circulating library, by which he contrived to support himself.
In 1835 he published a small volume, entitled " Poems and Lyrics,"
which received much praise from the periodicals of the day. An ela-
borate notice of it appeared in Tail's Magazine, from the pen of Mrs.
Johnstone, authoress of Elizabeth De Bruce, and other popular works.
In 183G, Nicoll became editor of the Leeds Times, a weekly nt-wspaper,
of radical politics. When he took charge of this journal its circulation
was only a thousand, but before he left the paper it had increased to
nearly four times that number— a fact which shows the force and vigour
of his mind, and the untiring perseverance with wliich he followed out
every undertaking in which his heart was engaged. Such close appli-
cation was too much for a constitution never robust, and hastened the
terminationof his brief career. At the urgent request of his friends in
£dinburgh, he resigned his situation, and returned to Scotland, in the
hope that his native air would aid in restoring him to health. With a
kindness highly honourable to him, Mr. Johnstone received him and
his young wife — for he had recently been married— into his house, and
every means which the best medical skill could suggest was tried for
his recovery — but in vain. He gradually declined, and breathed his
last on the 0th Dec, 1837. His taltnts were of a very high order, and
his writings full of promise. His disposition was frank, social, and
kindly; his feelings warm and generous, and his friendships lasting.
A volume of his poems has been published by Mr. Tait, fur the benefit
51
My cantie hame ! its roof o' strae,
Aneatli j'on thorn I see —
Yon cozie bush that couthie keeps
My wife an' bairnies three.
There's green garse roun' my cottage sma.'.
An* by it rins a stream
Whilk ever sings a bonnie sang,
To glad my cantie hame.
When delvin' i' the sheugh at e'en,
Its curlin' reek I see,
I ken the precious things at hame
Are thinkin' upon me.
I ken my restin' chair is set
Whar comes the warmest gleam —
I ken there's langin' hearts in thee.
My ain wee cantie hame.
O ! can I do but love it weel
When a' thing 's luvesome tliere ?
My cheerfu' wife, my laughin' weans,
The morn and e'enin' prayer;
The sabbath's walk amang the woods.
Or by the saut-sea faem —
The warst o' hearts may learn to lo'e
My ain wee cantie hame.
The blessin's o' a hame — bless'd heart
Be warm upon it a',—
On wife an' bairns may love an* peace,
Like sunbeams, joyous fa' !
of his bereaved mother, with a memoir by his friend Mr». Johnstone.
Mr. Tait has kindly granted us permission to transfer a few of the
young poet's productions to our pages.
52
Blj'the thoclits are rinnin' through my heart,
O ! thochts I canna name—
Sae glad are they — while thinkin' o'
illy ain wee cantie hame.
I NEVER WILL GET FCJ' AGAIN.
ArR — " Ml/ ici/e 's aye teazing me.*'
I'm sick, I'm sick, I'm unco sick.
My head's maist rent in twa ;
I never found as now I find —
I'm no mysel' ava.
51 y mouth 's as het *s a lowin* peat.
My tongue 's as dry 's a stick —
I never will get fu' again,
For, O ! I'm unco sick.
I ha'e a drouth, an awfu' drouth.
An' water does nae gud ;
Tho' I wad drink Lochlomond dry.
It wadna cool my blude.
I wish I had a clag o' snaw.
Or dad o' ice, to lick—
I never will get fu' again,
For, O ! I'm unco sick.
I will put in the pin — I will—
I'll ne'er mair tak' a drap.
Except, indeed, some orra time,
Thea I'll but smell the caup.
. 53
O ! that I were near Greenland's seas,
I'd plunge in heels o'er neck—
I never will get fu' again.
For, O ! I'm unco sick.
I dinna ken right what to do—
I maist wish I were dead ;
My hand is shaking like a strae.
Or like a corn-stauk head.
I stoiter doited out an' in,
My shanks are slack an' weak —
I never will get fu' again.
For, O ! I'm unco sick.
I sicken at the sight o' meat.
The smell o't gars me grue ;
I daurna think o' tastin' maut —
'Twas maut that hll'd me fu'.
I will put in the pin, I will.
To that I'll firmly stick—
I never will get fu' again.
For, O ! I'm unco sick.
I winna join the Rechahites,
For they're a stingy crew.
They wadna let me tak' a drap.
Though frozen were my mou'.
Cauld water may be very good.
Yet ne'er to it I'll stick —
But, O ! I'll ne'er get f u' again.
It mak's me aye sae sick.
J
54
BONNIE BESSY BALLANTINE.
Am—" Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks."
My bonnie Bessj- Ballantine,
I'm fu' o' lowin' love for thee ;
1 canna sny I've been mysel'.
Sin' yon cauld look ye gae to me.
I'd bide the tbraws o' a' my kin.
An* warld's wrangs light on me fa' ;
But frowns frae Bessy Ballantine
My senses they drive clean awa'.
My dwellin's hamely, cauld, an' bare,
A leal heart's a' that I ca' mine ;
So come an' cheer my lanely cot.
My canty Bessy Ballantine.
Blan's road through life is fu' o" crooks.
But at them I shall ne'er repine ;
I'd climb the crag, I'd swim the sea
Wi' bonnie Bessy Ballantine.
31 Y MARY AND ME.
Air—" My ain fireside.
When first I met Mary my heart was right fain,
Sae modest and bonny I wish'd her my ain ;
I wish'd her my ain, and my ain soon was she.
And wha was sae blest as my 3Iary wi' me?
"When we baith crap thegither our stock was but sma*-
Our faithers were dead, and our mithers and a',
Nae kind hand to help us nor counsel to gi'e.
Yet that never daunted my Mary and me.
55
We toil'd late and early— were caref u' and cann.v,
On daft silly falderals war'd ne'er a penny,
And tho' whiles at night unco wearied were we.
We slept a' the sounder, my JIary and me.
And when round the ingle, like steps o' a stair.
Wee bairnies sprung up, we just doubled our care,
Lean'd weel to the meal, and but light on the tea.
And bravely fought through, my sweet Mary and me.
We learn 'd them to work, and we learn 'd them to revi,
Made honour and honesty ever our creed ;
Now braw lads and lasses are under our e'e,
And that gi'es delight to my Mary and me.
Nae langer we dread that kind fortune may w\iver,
Tlie battle's our ain, and we're richer than ever:
A spot o' gude grund, and a cow on the lea,
Is mair than eneugh for my Slary and me.
And what though the rose on her fair cheek is fading.
And fast o'er my thin locks the grey hairs are spreading ?
A life rightly spent keeps the heart fu' o' glee.
And such has been aim'd at by Mary and me.
THE BONNY TWEED FOR ME.
Air—" Yontiirnskle"
The hunter's e'e grows bright as the fox frae covert steals.
The fowler lo'es the gun, wi' the pointer at ^is heels.
But of a' the sports I ken, that can stir the heart wi'glee,
The troutin' stream, the fishin'gad, the bonny Tweed for
me.
56
WV the gowan at the waterside, the primrose on the biae,
When sheets o' snawy blossom deed the cherry and the
slae,
Vrhen sun and wind are wooin' baitli, the leaflet on the
tree ;
Then the troutin' stream, the fishiu' gad, the bonny Tweed
for me.
"Wlien the fresh green sward is yieldin' wi' a spring aneath
the fit,
A nd swallows thrang on eager wing out owre the waters
flit;
While the joyous laverocks, toorin' high, shoor out their
concert free-
Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed
for me.
Cheer' d wi' the honest ploughman's sang, that mak's his
wark nae toil—
The flocks o' sea-gulls round him as his coulter tears the
soil,
When the craw-schule meets in council grave upon the fur-
rowed len —
Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed
for me.
The modest wagtail joukin' past, wi' saft and buoyantflight,
And gurglin' streams are glancin' by, pure as the crystal
blight.
When fish rise thick and threefauld, at the drake or wood-
cock flee —
Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed
for me.
I like the merry spring, wi' the bluid in nature's veins.
The dancin' streamlet's music, as it trinkles through the
stanes ,
57
The silver white upon the hook, my light gad bending free —
Wha wadna visit bonny Tweed and share sic sport wi' me?
While there ! time wingg wi' speed o' thought, the day flees
past sae sune,
That wha wad dream o' weariness till a' the sport is dune ?
We hanker till the latest blink is shed frae gloamin's e*e,
Laith, laith to quit the troutin' stream, the fishin'gad, and
flee!
ALLA MIA SPOSA.*
Air—" Home, stveet home."
Although for me no English home
Prepares the feast to-day ;
Although where giant billows foam
I've sped a weary way ;
Though— mock'd by baflfling winds — the shora
Is to my sight denied.
My spirit chafes not as of yore.
For THOU art by my side.
Although I may not hope to find,
'Mid changing scenes and new,
Friends dear as those I've left behind —
The trusted and the true ;
Yet, while those absent friends I bless.
My heart shall not repine.
Since in my wand'rings I may press
, Thy faithful hand in mine.
• These lines, addressed by Mr. Kennedy to his -wife, -who accom-
panied him, were -written off the entrance of the Mississippi, on board
the Yazoo, New York packet, December 25, (Christmas Day,) l&ll.
58
Safe in the shadow of thy love,
The southern sun I'd hrave,
AYarm'd by thy smile, I'd cheerly rove
Where Polar tempests rave.
The fairest land, where thou art not.
Seems desolate to be —
And where thou art, the dreariest spot
Is home, sweet home to me !
OLD FATHER TIME !
Old Father Time is a healthy old sage,
Though his brow it is bare, and his locks they are grey ;
For though he has lived to a wonderful age,
No further he tastes of the power of decay.
He comes uninvited
To see blossoms blighted.
And sits like a monarch of might in his prime ;
And while all is pleasing,
He surely is teazing.
Was e'er such a fellow as old Father Time ?
Onward he steals where sweet infancy lies ;
Where gay youth is in dreams, and where manhood is
seen ;
The maid he pursues, as before him she flies.
Nor stops to inquire, he she peasant or queen,
lie waves his green willow
O'er those on the billow ;
59
He wanders in haste to each far distant clime ;
But why should Ave sorrow ?
More hope let us borrow.
Was e'er such a fellow as old Father Time !
(^9uAaa}Mi^
THE CITY GUARD.*
Air—" Tlie Battle of Sheriff muir."
Sing glory to the gallant corps
Wha keep Auld Reekie's keys, man ;
An' ope and steek the Black-hole door,
Just as their honours please, man :
Wha mak' their faes their might to feel,
Wi' balls o' lead, or points o' steel,
Syne toom their maut aboon their meal ;
An' strunt an' stuff their beaks Avi' snuff,
Then snort an' puff, sae grim an' gruff,
That every scoundrel flees, man.
O see them on their grand field days,
An' marchin' •' raAV by raw, man ;"
To show how they had backed the Greys,
AVhen in the Forty-tAva, man ;
How Gallia's lords, an' Gallia's bands.
Were just like mice in Scotland's hands;
And hoAV they conquered kings and lands ;
Syne a' came here, to Avin a cheer
For their career, in ancient Avear,
Afore they dozed aAva', man.
• We heartily acknowledge ourobligations to Mr. James Ballantine,
author of the " Gaberlunzie," and " IMiller of Deanhaugh," for per.,
mission to extract this exceedingly graphic piece from the latter work.
60
Lang live the brave an' doughty band
To guard our ancient town, man ;
An' lang may norland pith command
An' keep tho causeway crown, man ;
Though mither wives, and laddie weans.
Attack them whiles wi' clods an' stanes.
An' strive to bieak their Highland banes ;
They tak the rout, when wi' a shout
The Guard rush out, an' wi' a bout
Ding bauld rebellion down, man.
SONG OF THE SEA.-BOUND MARINER.
Arn— •' Chevy Chace."
Unfurl the sail
To the pleasant gale ;
Our bark shall wend her way
O'er ocean wide,
Through the rippling tide.
Like a maiden, light and gay.
Farewell to the isle
Whose beautiful smile
Awakens each fond emotion.
As we gaze on her hills
And her sparkling rills,
From the heaving breast of the ocean.
Unfurl the sail, (tec.
61
To each beating breast
Our loves we haye prest.
And bade them a long adieu,
But their mem'ry shall dwell
In our hearts, mid the swell
Of the billows* foaming blue.
Unfurl the sail, &c.
'Neath the cloudless dye
Of a far-off sky.
We'll sing the songs of our land.
And the wine-cup, too,
"VVe shall quaff to you,
Her daughters fair and bland.
Unfurl the sail, &c.
In the midnight storm.
Each beautiful form
That gladdened our hearts of yore,
Like a beacon bright
Our dream shall light,
And lure our spirits to shore.
Unfurl the sail, &c.
O life is a sea —
Let us weather with glee
Its perils and manifold woes,
Till our anchors we drop
In the haven of hope.
Where the tide of forgetfulness flows.
Unfurl the sail, &c.
62
MY GRANNY'S FIRESIDE.
Air—" Come under my plaidie."
My granny's fireside in the days that are gane I
I mind it sin' first I could toddle my lane ;
The auld oily cruisie hung down frae the tow,
And the clear rashy wick lent a cheery bit lowe ;
And there, while my grannj- indulged in a reek
O' her wee cutty pipe at her ain ingle cheek,
My grand-daddy sat i' the neuk in his chair,
And pored through his specks on the volume of lear'.
He kent ilka planet that glints in the lift,
How they swim in their orbits, baith siccar an' swift,
And how the auld earth stands on naething ava.
But rows round the sun in the air like a bu'.
He ilka thing kent, for he read a' the news ;
Could speak o' the auld-warld Romans an' Jews ;
An* a' thing that happen'd langsyne he could tell.
An' aye point a moral frae a' that befel.
IVIy grannj- was skilled in a' ailments and pains,
And brawly could doctor the wives an' the weans ;
To bin' a cut finger, or row up a tae,
'Twas aye to my granny we roarin' wad gae ;
My granny had pouthers an* pills o' her ain.
And cures o' rare virtue nae doctor micht ken.
And ill-tasted herbs made our faces to thraw,
But wi' something she aye put the swither awa'.
My grand-daddy's oes were his pleasure an' pride,
The crown and the glory o' granny's fireside —
Save bairns in abundance nae treasure had he,
But they were more precious than gowd in his e'e.
Though wild an' mislear'd, I was dear to his heart.
When ithers misca'd me he aye took my part ;
His lessons I heard, an' his errands I ran.
And he prophesied aye I wad yet be a man.
63
Come pain or come pleasure, whate'er might betide.
There was nae place on earth like my granny's fireside ;
Her weel-butter'd bannocks she never wad hain.
An' a bawbee frae granny wad ease ilka pain.
Sly granny ne'er gloom'd on the bairns at their play,
Her heart aye was young, though her hairs they were grey;
The sports an' the joys o* her youth she wad tell.
An' min'd aye when she was a lassie hersel'.
O weel do I mind, in the days o' langsyne,
"When a pair o* new breeks or a jacket was mine.
To granny I flew in my newfangled pride.
An' my pouch was aye hansell'd at granny's fireside.
At Pace, or at Yule, or at blythe Hallowe'en,
At granny's fireside how delighted I've been!
TJnscath'd by the canker of sorrow or pain —
O wha wadna be a wee laddie again !
KATE MACVEAN.
Air—" There's nae luck about the house."
'Mang hielan' folk an' lawlan' folk ye may gang far an'near,
Ye even may tak' through the Shaws,* that 's famed for
bodies queer,
An' yet ne'er fin' the equal o' this couthie crone, I ween,
Wha's kent to a' folk roun' about by blythe auld Kate
Macvean—
• Pollockshawa.
64
Cracky Kate Macvean, linaeT<y Kate Macvean,
O wha can cheer the sinkin* saul like blythe auld Kate
Wacvean ?
She needs nae brod aboon her door to tell she sells a gill,
A bleezin' ingle's a' her sign, wi' rowth o' reamin' yill,
Whare queer auld-fashion'd carles meet to crack their jokes
at een,
An' tell their tales o' auld langsjTie wi' blythe auld Kate
Macvean —
Stumpy Kate .Macvean, dumpy Kate Macvean,
Aye but an' ben, wi'tappit hen, gangs stoitin' Kate Macvean.
There's ne'er a chiel that blaws the pipes or draws a fiddle-
bow.
Gangs near her door, but 's bade gae in, an' sit as lang 's he
dow ;
Her ingle-neuk gi'es shelter e'en to ballad-singer louns,
An' a^ siclike clarjampbry, when gaun to borough-touns—
Trusty Kate Macvean, lusty Kate ^lacvean,
The very brute beast shaws gudewill to blythe auld Kate
Macvean.
O wha wad count their time misspent though they should
chance to sit
At least twa hours 'hint sober folk, wi' sic a flash o' wit!
She gars auld kimmers baud their sides while tears drap
frae their e'en.
An* youngsters giggle an' gufifaw— auld pawky Kate Mac-
vean —
Gashy Kate Macvean, pashy Kate Macvean,
A' Scotland through, nane dings, I trow, auld rantiii' Kate
Macvean.
65
YE MAY TALK O* Y^OUR LEARNING.*
Air—" Up in the mornij^g early"
Ye may talk o' your learning, and talk o' your schools,
An' how they mak' boobies sae clever ;
Gude sooth ! ye will never mak' wise men o' fools,
Altho' ye should study for ever.
• We are indebted to onr much esteemed correspondent, David
Vedder, Esq., for the following biographical notice of the unfortunate
Andrew Mercer. To the same pen are uire also indebted for the pre-
ceding: one of Robert Nicol. — EniTos.
Andrew Mercer was the son of a respectable traaesman in Selkirk,
and was bom there in 1775. He was destined to the profession of a
elergyman in the Secession Church, and entered the nniversity of
Edinbargh in 1790. He was a fellow-student with Dr. John Leyden
and Dr. Alexander Murray, and was not undistinguished among the
young men of his standing. Like his celebrated compeers, he became
addicted to the pursuit of general literature, and contributed numerous
essays, in prose and verse, to the periodicals of the day. Mr. Mercer
formed one of the circle thai often met in the house of Dr. Robert
Anderson, — a circle in which the genius of Campbell was kindled and
fanned, until the "Pleasures of Hope " burst forth, and commanded
the admiration of his countrymen— of the world. Dr. Thomas Brown
and Mungo Park were also among his associates ; and he was likewise
accustomed to receive the courtesies of literary intercourse from AValter
Scott. Mr. Mercer gradually weaned his mind from his original pro-
fessional object, which is much to be regretted.
In addition to his literary tastes, he took a fancy to painting ; and,
abandoning his theological studies, he devoted his attention to draw-
ing, and ultimately to miniature painting, combined with literary
contributions to the magazines, as the precarious means of his subsis-
tence. This was an unfortunate decision; for, instead of having any
wtll defined professional object in view, as the most likely way of at-
taining independence and comfort, his talents, which were of no mean
£
66
If poor be tlie soil, ye may labour an' toil
On a common where naething will grow, man.
But, 'gainst sic barren sods, I will lay you some odda
On the head of an Ayrshire ploughman.
Book-lear' an' the like o't, an' a' the fine things
That ye hear an' ye get at the college,
If there's no something here that school-craft quite dinj
At best ye're a hotch-potch o' knowledge.
But ye've heard o' a heckler wha wonn'd i' the west.
To whom Nature had gi'en sic a pow, man.
The brairds o' his brain excell'd ither folks' best.
An' mony ran after his tow, man.
order, and his attention, were dissipated on a variety of pursuits, which
were, alas! irreconcilable ^^-ith steadiness of purpose; and ultimately
habits of indolence were superinduced in a spirit which, had it beea
energetically devoted to some professional pursuit, might have enabled
him to have attained a respectable and useful position in society. His
fate, however, was of a different character. He never arrived
either at eminence or reputation as an artist; and in 1804, "The
North British Magazine," which was begun and encouraged by some
of his friends for his behoof, was discontinued at the end of thirteen
months. He subsequently went to Dunfermline, where for several
years he earned a maintenance by drawing patterns for the manufac-
turers, and teaching ; but here, too, his evil genius attended him,
and he gradually sunk under his besetting infirmity of indolence, into
obscurity and penury. He died in June, 1842. Yet, with all hii
frailties and infirmities, he was beloved by all who knew him, and his
remains were followed to the grave by many of the most respectable
inhabitants of Dunfermline, who sympathised with hia misfortunes,
and regarded his imperfections with a generous sorrow. His only se-
parate publications were a history of Dunfermline, which appeared ia
18i8, and a small volume of poems a few years ago. Peace to his ashes.
67
AMiat signifies polish without there be pith ?
I\Iind that, a' ye gets o' Apollo ;
A farmer ance dwelt by tiie banks o' the Nith,
By my sang, he wad beat you a' hollow ;
For hj; sang an* he sowed, an' he penned an' he ploughed,
An' though his barnyard was but sorry,
Frae his girnal o' brain he sowed siccan grain,
As produced him a harvest o' glory.
Ance mair, a poor fallow there dwelt in the south,
An' he to his trade was a guager —
He excelled a' the songsters, the auld an* the youth,
I'll baud you a pint for a wager.
1 farther might tell, he'd a mind like a stell.
An' such was his wonderfu' merits.
That the haill country rang, an' the haill country sang,
When they tasted the strength o' his spirits.
Now, wha was this ploughman and heckler sae braw.
An' wha was this farmer-exciseman ?
It was just Robin Burns— for he was them a' —
An' ye ken that I dinna tell lies, man.
So here's to his memory again an' again,
Tho' learning is gude, we ne'er doubt it.
But a bumper to him who had got bic a brain.
That could do just as weel maist without it I
68
MANIAC SONG.*
There is a radiance beaming round her yetj
As fraught with loveliness, as when she smiled
Before her sun of reason thus had set.
And left her foot and fancy wand'ring wild.
The youth she loved her soul can ne'er forget —
The youth whom dark unfeeling hearts exiled ;
And still in this green vale, where oft they met.
And life's bright hours in tender love beguiled.
She strays, and thus, while pain her bosom wrings,
Hark, hark ! how sweet, how wildly sweet, she sings !
I had a hame, and I had hope, and ane who lo'ed me too,
But him they banish'd far awa', and others came to woo ;
And now, like ane that's in a dream, I roam by glen and
lea.
And have a fancy thus to sing — The grave, the grave, for
me!
And hark ! the echoes still reply,
The grave ! the grave for me !
They tell me that the clay is caul^, tho' a' be warm else-
where.
And that nae ray o' light can meet the bonny black e'e there ;
But they hu'e hearts mair cauld, I trow, than aught that
there can be.
Who taught me thus to stray, and sing— The grave ! the
grave for me !
And hark ! the echoes still reply.
The grave ! the grave for me !
It was na weel to chase the hue o' this pale cheek away.
And waken in my heart the pain that sleeps not night or
day ;
• We have Mr. M'Leod's permission to extract this toncbing pieca
from liis " Original National Melodies of Scotland."
69
It was na weel to part me thus frae him I ne'er shall see,
And leave me here to stray, and bing— The grave ! the
grave for me !
And hark ! the echoes still reply.
The grave ! the grave for me !
Lir meeting still was in the bower when dowie midnight
came.
For love is like a flower that blooms aye sweetest far frae
hame ;
My h me will soon be far away, and I at rest shall be,
And thus I have delight to sing— The grave ! the grave for
me!
And hark ! the echoes still reply.
The grave ! the grave for me!
HEQUISITES FOR A LOVE LYRIC.
Take two bright eyes of black or blue.
Two cheeks of roseate dj'e.
One brow of very snowy hue.
Some ringlets and a sigh.
One grove or glen, one mountain rill,
Some very clear blue sky,
One lowly cot, one lofty hill.
And then another sigh —
One happy hour, one ne'er forget.
One ever constant prove.
Two hearts till death together knit.
And one, my only love.
70
These, season'd with some fresh wild flowers.
And spread on gilt-edged vellum.
Will make a song, and, by the Powers,
To anj' bard I'll sell 'em.
THE BROKEN HEART.*
Air—" What ails this heart o' mine?*'
Farewell ! my dream is o'er :
Could I have called thee mine,
O ! love, fond love ! a boundless store
Had all, had all been thine.
But now, need'st thou be told.
Since thou thyself hast prov'd
Bo cold— alas ! so very cold.
How well I could have lov'd ?
Farewell ! — yet though we part,
May'st thou no sorrow prove ;
Whilst life remains, my constant heart
Will love thee — hopeless love !
• The above song is founded on the unhappy story of the Count
Oginsky. The lady of his affections gave the preference to another.
On the day of her marriage, the Count besought her, as a last favour,
to dance with him a beautiful Polonoise waltz which he had composed,
and it is presumed in her honour. At its close, in the tumult of his
feelings, he rushed from the house and shot himself.
Ah me ! the trial's past ;
Recorded is thy vow ;
BIy life away is fleeting fast :
Thou art another's now.
Thy hlandishments, dear maid !
Can not avert my doom ;
My heart is dead ere it be laid
"Within the quiet tomb.
What ! if I could still live ?
O ! is there aught on earth
Can now begxiile me to believe
It is for living worth !
/^^^^^TZ^^c^^-^-^
BONNIE COQUET-SIDE.
Air—" Aye teazing me"
O Marv, look how sweetly Spring
Revives ilk opening flower :
Here in this brake, where lintwhites siiij
1*11 form a simmer bower.
Beneath whase shade, in sultry days.
We'll see the burnies glide,
And sportive lambkins deck the braes.
By bonnie Coquet-side.
At morn I'll mark how melting shine
Thy een sae deeply blue ;
Or, tempted thereby, press to mine
Thy lips o' rosy hue.
72
To breathe the halesorae air, we'll rovi?
Amang the hazels wide ;
And rest betimes to speak o' love,
By bonnie Coquet-sidc.
The wild rose pure, that scents the gale.
Shall grace thy bosom fair :
The violet dark, and cowslip pale,
I'll pu' to wreath thy hair.
O'er shelving banks, or wimpling streams.
Thy gi-acefu' steps I'll guide,
To spots where Nature loveliest seems.
By bonnie Coquet-side.
And when we view ilk furzy dale,
AVhere hang the dews o* mom, —
Ilk winding, deep, romantic vale, —
Ilk snaw-white blossom'd thorn ;
Frae every eharm, I'll turn to thee,
And think my winsome bride
Mair sweet than aught that meets my e'e.
By bonnie Coquet-side.
THE GOWDEN RING.
Air — " Low dozen in the broom.
O Jamie, whare's the gowden ring I
An' whare's the necklace rare Y
An* whare's the pretty velvet string,
To tie my raven hair?
73
An' whare the gloves, the gaudy gloves —
The silken gown sae line ?
An' whare the pretty flowers o' love,
Ye said wad a' be mine ?
When last we met, Jamie, think
On vows ye made to me ;
Reca' the burnie's flowery brink,
Reca' the birken tree.
Ye ken ye vow'd — I heard ye plead.
An' couldna say ye ua —
O Jamie, hand my heavy head,
It's like to rend in twa.
To name the ring, or necklace braw,
Nae mair in time I'll daur ;
But whare's the heart ye wiled awa' ? —
O Jamie, tell me whare.
1*11 hie me to the burnie side.
An' aye I'll seek it there ;
I'll be the burnie's dowie bride.
An' never fash ye mair.
I'll tell the burnie a' my waes,
I'll tell the birken tree,
I'll kneel me on the gow'ny braes.
An' aye I'll pray for thee :
An' to the bonnie moon I'll sing.
Beneath the birken tree.
An' I'll forget the gowden ring
Ye fausely promised me.
74
YE DINNA KEN YON BOW'R.
Air — " Jenny Nettles"
Ye dinna ken yon bow'r,
Frae the glow'rin warl' hidden.
Ye maunna ken yon bow'r,
Bonnie in the gloamin'.
Nae woodbine sheds its fragrance there,
Kae rose, nae daffodillie fair ;
But, O .' the flow'r 's beyond compare,
That blossoms in the gloamin'
There's little licht in yon bow'r.
Day and darkness elbow ither.
That's the licht in yon bow'r,
Bonnie in the gloamin'.
Awa', thou sim, wi' lavish licht.
And bid bro«-n Benachie guid nicht ;
To me a star mair dearly bricht
Aye glimmers iu the gloamin".
There's no a sound in yon bow'r,
Merl's sough nor mavis singin' ;
Whispers saft in yon bow'r,
SI ingle in the gloamin*.
What tho' drowsie lav'rocks rest,
Cow'rin' in their sangless nest?
When, O ! the voice that I like best,
Cheers me in the gloamin'.
There's artless truth in yon bow'r,
Sweeter than the scented blossom ;
Bindin' hearts in yon bow'r,
Glowin' in the gloamin'.
The freshness o' the upland lea.
The fragrance o' the blossom'd pea,
A' mingle in her breath to me,
Sichin* in the gloamin'.
75
Then baud awa' frae yon bow'r,
Caxildrife breast or loveless bosom ;
True love dwells in yon bow'r,
Gladdest in the gloamin'.
SONG OF THE BEE.
Air—" Wha'U be king but Charlie 9 "
CHORUS.
I SING a song, a merry song,
O who can sing like me !
There's none can chime the whole day long
So joyful as the Bee.
The bursting bud, the full-blown flower,
Reward me with a kiss ;
And hail me to their fragrant bower.
To drink their streams of bliss.
1 wither not their lovely smiles.
Yet bear their sweets away.
And soon they lure me back with wiles.
Some other sunny day.
I sing a song, &c.
Before the dew is off the spray.
My matin hymn 1 sing,
Ere fair Aurora's virgin ray
Has glanced upon my wing.
Within the cottage eaves my note
Awakes the cottar's child ;
I love to charm the hallowed spot
With warblings sweet and wild.
I sing a song, &c.
76
I love the primrose on the waste—
The heathbell on the lea —
Each bears a treasure in its breast.
To cheer the roaming Bee ;
Each has a beauty all its ow-n,
Which wisdom may define ;
A simple charm around it thro\vn
By Nature's hand divine.
I sing a song, &c.
I love the woodlands when their nooks
Are shadowed o'er with blo<5m ;
Where lovers, by the noisy brooks.
Delight amid perfume.
Where oft the maiden's rosy lip
Allures me with its dye,
And when I fain its sweets would sip,
I'm stai'tled by her sigh.
I sing a song, &c.
I love the Spring because it brings
Hope's pleasures back again —
I love the Summer, for it flings
Sweet blossoms o'er the plain —
I love the Autumn, for its store
Seals pallid Famine's doom ;
But, ah ! the Winter's surly roar
To me is fraught with gloom.
1 sing a song, «5ic.
77
FIE! FAIR MAIDEN.
ArR— " Tihby Fowler."
Fie ' fair maiden, young and pretty —
Is it not a shocking pity
Lips so rosy, tongue so witty,
Should tell aught but truth ?
Spread it must through all the city
That thou speak'st not sooth !
Beauty feigning false excuses
IMore than half its lustre loses ;
Shun, oh ! shun thy lips* abuses-
Lips with pout so sweet
Sure were made for other uses,
Than to breathe deceit 3
"When a witless song-bird viewing,
To the net some crumb pursuing.
Tranced by wily fowler's wooing.
Then of thee I think.
Bent upon thine own undoing —
Close on ruin's brink !
Maiden ! wherefore all this bother !
Wherefore all this noise and pother ?
Why attempt the truth to smother —
Truth that will be out ?
One false word begets another—
Think what thou'rt about !
Beauteous are the leaves of roses.
Sweet the bells the fount discloses ;
But when flowers that deck our posies
Bear the worms we loathe.
Or the spring its freshness loses—
now we shun them both 1
78
Then, fair maiden, young and pretty,
Is it not a shocking pity
Lips so rosy, tongue so witty,
Should tell aught but truth ?—
\\^oald that for thy sake this ditty
Might be found unsnoth !
"ru/ /fSdtX^^^^'
AW A' wi' YOUR '\^^sDo:\I.
Air — " Last May a braw wooer.""
Awa' wi' your w-isdom, Sir Waefu', the wise,
Your tiresome advice I'm no spierin' —
Y'our face, man, it looks as ye fed upon sighs.
An' to laugh, as a sin ye were feariu'— were fearin'.
To laugh, as a sin ye were fearin'.
Man, think ye 't nae sin that this beautifu' warl'
Ye wad nickname the birth-place o' sorrow^
At the cheerfu' to-day, ye do naething but snarl.
An' conjure up clouds for to-morrow— to-morrow,
An' conjure up clouds for to-morrow.
Ye flee frae the face o' a bonnie sweet lass.
The loveliest gem in creation,
Y'e ban at a bottle, an' growl at a glass.
An' ye libel the wale o'our nation — our nation,
Y'e libel the wale o' our nation.
We honour the man, wha is sound at the heart,
Ev'n rough chields, like me, man revere hira;
But the lang chaftit loon wha is playing apart.
He's sae ugsome we canna come near him — come
near him.
He's sae ugsome we canna come near him.
79
Then awa' wi' your wisdom, Sir Waefu*, the wise !
Keep your counsel for them that are spierin' ;
An', ere ye throw stour in ither folk's eyes,
Gi'e your ain, for they need it, a clearin'— a clearin',
Gi'e your ain, for they need it, a clearin'.
m'^'%D
SCOTCH SERKNADE.
Air— '• The New Highland Laddie."
O COME to me, lassie.
And dinna be saucy.
The moon owre the hill-top is glintin fu' clearly.
What makes ye now tarry,
]My winsome wee fairy ?
O come to the laddie that lo'es ye sae dearly .'
The stars o' the heaven
Their bright hames are leavin'.
To hap their wee breasts in the lake sleeping clearly ;
While owre them are leaning
The fond cluds of e'ening,
To steal a saft kiss frae the lips they lo'e dearly.
The elves o' the fountain.
On dew-blobs are mountin'.
To sport in the moonlight that flashes sae cheerly ;
The glen is a' ringing
Wi' daffin and singing.
And a' speaks o' love but the lass I lo'e dearly.
80
lassie, 'believe me,
1 winna deceive thee.
My heart it has lo'ed thee baith lang and sincerely;
In dool and m gladness.
In joy and in sadness.
It aye has been faithfu' to her I lo'e dearl^'.
The lamp o' the morning
Will smie be adorning
Ilk place where we've dander'd baith latesome and earl;.
Then what makes ye tarry.
My winsome wee f ;iiry ?
O come to the laddie that lo'es ye sae dearly.
ui/(u~i^'L
I HA'E LOST MY HEART.
Set to Music by J. C. Keisser, Edinburgh.
I iia'e lost my heirt, I ha'e lost my heart,
AVhaur has the wand'rer flown ?
I'm sad and wae for the silly wee thing,
I wish it be na sto'.vn.
It 's awa' to the lassie blythe an' sweet,
Wi* sunlight in her e'e,
And, oh ! gin the wilfu' wee tiling ye meet,
Gae bring it back to me.
Oh ! it's unco sair a lassie to lo'e,
'\^'ha'a fickle as the wind ;
An' it 's unco sair when ye lose your heart,
Anither no to find :
81
But, oh ! it '8 heaven the las8ie to lo'e,
Wha gi'es ye love again-
Then strive ye to borrow a maiden's heart,
An' niffer't wi' your ain.
MY MOTHER, CAN I E'ER RETURN?
Air — " Corning through the Rye."
My mother, can I e'er return
The love I owe to you ?
Can I forget the smile that hurst
Frae 'neath thy cloudit brow?
Whan toddlin' round thy widow'd hearth.
Ilk thoughtless tottie's tongue
Had music in't to charm the dool
That ower thine ingle hung.
Then let me kiss the pearlie draps
Frae aff that sunken e'e.
An' press to mine thae wither'd lips
That aft ha*e pi-ayed for me.
A wearie weird ye've had to dree.
An eirie lot was thine ;
A cauldrife warld was laith to gi'o.
It left thee lane to pine.
Sair scrimp't aye o' fortune's gifts,
Ye've toU'd baith late and air' ;
And strove to lift our youthfu' hearts,
Aboon this warld o' care.
Then let me kiss the pearlie drapa, &c.
F
82
The fleichin' tongue was never thine.
That laithsome falsehood wears ;
The warldlin' kentna what i ken.
For secret were the tears
That waukrife mem'iy bade to flow
Owre love's untimely urn,
That scaith'd the lentryne o' thy life.
An' left thee lane to mourn.
Then let me kiss the pearlie draps
Frae afif that sunken e'e,
An' press to mine thae wither'd lips
That aft ha'e prayed for me.
A-
LADY COCKPEN.
Air— TAg Laird o' that Ilk.
The Laird o' Cockpen, fu' o' ailments and years.
Was laid at the last wi' his ancient forebears.
Some aucht years or sae, *yont the threescore and ten,
And a lone woman now was the Lady Cockpen.
The Lady Cockpen was a widow, 'tis true,
But the Lady Cockpen was as gude as when new ;
The sum o' her years about twenty and ten,
Nor waiiT 0' the wear was the Lady Cockpen.
For man 'twas decreed he should livena his lane,
But mak' flesh o' his flesh, and mak' bane o' his bane.
And women are no an exception to men —
Bde thocht and saeetfled the Lady" Cockpen.
83
And Captain M*Turk, hangin' lang on half-pay,
Wi' little to do, but vvi' muokle to say,
Wi' leisure to spare, tho' wi' little to spen'.
He sigh'd for the lady and lands o' Cockpen !
Brawnie legs and braid shouthers, red whiskers and hair,
Twa yards and twa inches his stature, and mair,
Wi' a strut like a turkey — the crouse tappit hen
Was the game for the Captain — the Lady Cockpen.
The Captain was bauld, yet the Captain was slee.
The widow he wooed wi' the tear in her e'e,
In the saft meltin' moments that come now and then
In a lone woman's life— as wi' Lady Cockpen.
Now sorrow will soothe in the fulness o* time.
And widows turn wives without reason or rhyme ;
Sae booket and buckled, the blythest o' men,
Is Captain M'Turk wi' the Lady Cockyeu.
He married the lady for sake o' the Ian',
She married the Captain for sake o' the man ;
And the gossips ha'e got it down by our gate-en'.
That the howdy has hopes in late Lady Cockpen !
DINNA GREET FOR ME.
Air — " John Andersoii, my joe."
O OENTLV, gently raise me up on this sad bed, my spouse,
To look ance mair upon the wood where first we changed
vows ;
The Spring is comin', Jeanie, for the trees begin to blaw,
84
But ere the leaf is fully blawn, a widow's tears will fa' !
IVIy heart is beatin' loud and fast, and ilka beat a pang.
The dead-bell soundin' in my lug has tauld me I maun
gaiig,
And death has come to our bedside, but oh ! it 's hard to
dee,
And part wi' a' I've loved sae weel— yet dinna greet for me
I had a waefu' dream yestreen — what gars me tell it now? —
Methought I saw a stranger lad, and he was courtin' you ;
But the willow-tree hung o'er you, for I watch'd its
branches wave.
And the wither'd bink ye sat on was a newly cover'd grave !
The hea^T moon was risin' on the simmer day's decline.
And dead men's banes a' glimmer'd white beneath the pale
moonsbine.
It was a sad, ungratefu' dream — for, oh ! your kindly e'e
Has mair than warld's wealth in its look— ye maunna greet
for me !
We'll meet within a happier land that opens to my view;
And yet, Heav'n kens, my earthly heart wad rather stay
wi' you,
Wi' you and that wee bairn, that ancewe thocht sae muckle
bliss,
Owre weak a flower to leave alane in sic a warld as this !
For mony a tear her little e'e may ba'e to gather yet,
And haply mony a wearie gait awaits her hameless fit ;
But " The Father of the fatherless " maun fend for her and
thee —
To doubt wad be a sin, my Jean— sae dinna greet for me !
85
MY AULD GUIDMAN.
Bar the ha* door, my dearie—
Hech, sirs ! sic a din
This wild winter malces wi*
His weet an* his win',
Wi' hail hard as whunstanes,
Wi' thick chokin' sna' —
Bar the ha' door, my dearie,
Fu' crouse let him craw.
When the hig arm-chair near
The ingle is drawn,
And my wheel birrs wi' joy
'Side my auld guidman,
O the blink o' his e'e
Makes a summer to me,
Sae sunny 's the glee
O' my auld guidman.
In vain, gloomy winter.
Ye try ilka art
To bend his straught back, or
To freeze his kind heart ;
When loud roar thy tempests,
\Mien fierce flow thy floods.
When the wind bites the bark
Frae snaw-covered w'oods.
As he wears his sheep hame,
Frae hill or laigh Ian',
He laughs in your face, trowth !
My buirdly auld man.
For the wild winds o' ni^ht
That the feckless affright.
Send songs o' delight
To my auld guidman.
86
And, losh ! ho-w he loups frae
The ingle's blythe blink
When he hears the loud roar
O' the curler's rink.
His ban' still is steady.
Though aften, waes me !
Eild murk clouds will fa* owre
The aim o' his e'e ;
Yet through the hale parish
The rumour has ran,
That there 's nane takes the tee
Like my auld guidman.
At ilk beef an' green feast,
A new medal, at least.
Hangs bright at the breast
O* my auld guidman;
I ha'e laugh'd, aye, an* laugh'd,
Till my auld sides were sair.
To see him 'mang younkers
At bridal or fair —
When he cracks his brown thums
I' the foursome reel.
As he thinks himsel' still
A supple young chiel ;
When the lasses ne'er swither
To gi'e him their ban',
'An swing through the reel wi'
My auld guidman.
O ! he aye looks sae cheerie,
Ca's ilk ane " his dearie,"
Haith > the night ne'er gets eerie
Wi* my auld guidman.
My heart 's grit wV gladness.
Yet tears fill my e'e.
87
Whrai I think that the m«*e
O' my bosom maun dee ;
Yet bending wi' meekness
I'd bow to my fate, •
If we baith the same hour
Could gang the same gate ;
Or get but a lease o'
This life's mortal span,
I could wear out a score wi'
My auld guidman.
I'd climb the steep brae.
And strew, as I stray.
Glad flowers on the way
O' my auld guidman.
Nine wee anes we've christen'd —
We'll maybe name ten I
Some young sprouts ha'e sprung up
To women and men.
The lasses are modest.
As lasses should be —
The young rogues are wild-like.
And thoughtless awee ;
liut to scauld or to skelp them
Was never my plan,
Ajq' a word 's quite enough
Frae my auld guidman.
Hard knocks aye gi'e place
To sound lessons o' grace,
Frae the saul and the face
O' my auld guidman.
Our faith has been constant.
Our love has been Strang,
They ha'e worn sae weel, they
Ha'e lasted sae lang.
88
Lang, lang may they last I
But O ! well-a-day !
if sad fate before me should
"Wede him away,
I'll take the stroke kindly,
Frae Death's baney ban',
Whilk lays me beside him.
My auld guidman.
But sighing and sadness
Is even doon madness.
When livin* in gladness
Wi' thee, my auld man.
JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.
Air—'* Bonnie Wood o' Craigie lea."
Let •WTapt musicians strike the lyre,
"While plaudits shake the vaulted fane ;
Let warriors rush through flood and fire,
A never-dying name to gain —
Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing.
Pursue some high or holy theme, —
Be 't mine in simple strains to sing
My darling Jeanie's welcome hame.
Sweet is the morn of flow'ry May,
When incense breathes frae heath and wold ,
When lav'rocKs hymn the matin lay,
And mountain peaks are bathed in gold.
89
And swallows frae some foreign strand
Are wheeling o'er the winding stream,—
But sweeter to extend my hand.
And bid my Jeanie welcome hame.
Poor Colley, oiu- auld-farrant dog,
AVill bark wi' joy whene'er she comes.
And baudrons, on the ingle rug.
Will blithely churm at " auld gray thrums;"
The mavis, frae our apple tree,
Shall warble forth a joyous strain.
The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy.
Shall welcome Jeanie hame again.
Like dewdrops on a fading rose,
Maternal tears shall start for thee.
And low-breathed blessings rise, like those
Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.
Come to my arms, my timid dove !
I'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more —
The fountain of thy father's love
Is welling all its banks out o'er.
V/J/^.
LAMExXT FOR ABERCAIRNIE.
A MOURNFU' gloom is owre the earth,
A' nature seems in pain.
An' joins the dolefu' wailin' sang,
*' Gude Abercairnie 's gane."
90
Nae children's play was in the glen
That heard his bugle's swell,
And night closed on a bloody day
When Abercairnie fell.
We brought him hame upon his shield.
His tartans died in gore ;
And tears were seen in stem auld e'en,
Whaur ne'er were tears before.
His mither and his bride cam' down —
Ae shudd'ring look they cast —
Ae waefu' look — it mair than tauld
Their day o' joy had pass'd.
O ! for ae saft an' dewy tear
Of pity, not of ire.
For mine are bursting frae my e'en.
Like draps o' scorching fire ;
Or for a blade, whose sweep were death.
And let me face them a".
The traitors wha ha'e slain my chief —
But I'll avenge his fa'.
O ! I could lay me dows an* de?,
Sin' Abercairnie's gane;
But lang for him the tears shaU fa',
And deep shall be our main.
Awa' thou pipe that pleased him sae,
Kae mair thy sti-ains he'll hear —
Dead now the stormy pibroch falls
Oa Abercairnie's ear.
'^^^^^ ^^^i^
91
CUDDIE WILLIE.
Air—" The Gaberlunzie Man."
AuLD Cuddie "Willie gaed to the sea side.
To howk for cockles at ebb o' the tide ;
He stappit the shore wi* a manly stride.
An' steevely he shool'd up the sand, O ;
He wrought an' he sung as merry an' free
As wee curly waves that wimple the sea —
But little guessed he o' the winsome fee
That Beauty had biding his hand, O.
A genty young leddy, bloomin' an' fair.
Cam' down to the shore for the fresh sea air.
An' aye she gazed an' she winkit the mair,
Fu' kind on the strappin' auld man, O.
Auld Cuddie Willie, he looted him low.
He doffed his bonnet an' made her a bow ;
Quo' he, " Fair leddy, what's come o' your joe.
That ye're daunderin' here alane, O ?"
" Troth, carle," quo' she, " I ha'e wooers no fe^v.
But nane o' them kens, nor has wit to woo —
Gin I had ane wi' the smeddum o' you,
Fu' blythely I'd gi'e him my hand, O."
Bauld Willie, he passed his arm round her neck.
An' ga'e her wee mou sic a stoundin' smack.
Her auld faither heard the sound o' the crack
For a mile out owre the land, O.
The faither, he keek't owre his castle wa'.
An' grim gloom'd the carle whan his auld een saw
His bonnie young lassie riding awa*
On the cuddy ahint the auld man, O.
92
*• The cockle gatherer 's aff wi' my daughter —
Gird every man for the chase an' the slaughter,
Ride ye an' rin until back ye ha'e brought her — |
An' I'll gi'e ye a gude strong can, O." I
Sic muntin' o' steeds, sic girdin* o' swords —
*3Iang hedgers and ditchers, 'mang flunkies and lords, b
Her wooers are roarin' their new-fangled words.
An' loudly an' fiercely they ban, O.
The ploughman has munted his auld grey naig,
The herd owre the foal has striddled his leg,
Blin' uncle Jock carries lame aunty 3Ieg,
An' they're aff like the whirl win', O.
Sic scuddin' and thuddin', sic swearin' an'slnnin'.
Sic gallopin*, wallopin', rinnin', and pinnin',
Ilk ane to be foremost wad gi'e a' his wirmin'.
An' pap his bit breekums in pawn, O.
Bauld Willie, he look'd out owre his shouther.
Syne cramm'd his pistols wi' pease an' pouther,
•' My dear," quo* he, " I'll gi'e them a scouther —
I'll strew them thick on the Ian*, O."
The first shot he fired, the foremost fell.
Riders and racers a' courin' pell-mell.
Syne up an' ran hame their mischance to tell.
While the bride kissed her brave auld man, O.
Wi* laughin' a' day, an' lovin' a* night.
The comely pair are as canty an* light
As gin she were leddy and he were knight —
They are ILnkit in true love's ban', O.
93
THE MINISTER'S DOCHTER.
' Air—" Johnny M'Gill."
O ! THE minister's dochter for duffin 's a deil.
There 's firo in her e'e, an' there 'e spunk in licr heel
I kenna what ails me— I'm no very weol,
Since tlie minister's dochter blinked slyly on mc.
It '8 no for hor beauty, it 's no th;it she 's braw,
Tho' sunny her smile, an' her skin like the snaw,
But I dinna ken wlrit has come owre me ava.
Since the minister's dochter blinked slyly on me.
I
y cronies a' jeer, for their presence I shun,
They say I am doufF, and ha'e tint a' my fun,
An' just like a foggy day wantin' the sun,
For ancc I was canty as caiity could be.
I look like a man that 's been haul'd into law.
Or puir dyvor loon, wi' his back at the wa' —
I whiles try to sing, but the sound dees awa'.
Since the minister's dochter blinked slyly on me.
But how should I bother the company sae,
'Tis folly outright to be dowie and wae—
I've nought to complain o' — what mair wad I ha'e?
For did na the lassie blink kindly on me?
How lang I've been proggen my courage in vain —
But birds now or eggs I'm resolved to obtain,
I'm no gaun to sleep this cauld winter my lane—
Is'a ! the minister's dochter maun cuddle wi' me.
J^7?U/ ^.
94
MY AIX WIFE.
Air—" John Anderson, viyjo."
I WADNA gi'e my ain wife for ony wife I see.
For, O my daintie ain wife, she's aye sae dear to me ;
A bonnier yet I've never seen, a better cauna be—
I wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife I see.
Though beauty is a fading flower, as fading as it's fair.
It looks fu' weel in ony wife, an' mine has a' her share ;
She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass— she's bonnie aye to me ;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife I see.
An' couthie is my ingle cheek, an* cheerie is my Jean,
I never see her angry look, nor hear her word on ane—
She's gude wi a' the neebours roun', and aj-e gude wi' me;
I wa«ina gi'e my ain wife for ony wife I see.
An' O her looks sae kindly, they melt my heart outright,
When owre the baby at her breast she hangs wi' fond delight ;
She looks iutill its bonnie face, an' syne looks to me ;
I wadoa gi'e my ain m ife for ony wife I see.
^/K^c^:^^^^
on THE DREIGH DAYS 0' WINTER.
Air—" Come under my Plaidie."
Oh ! the dreigh days o' winter are uksome to bear,
When feedin' and cleediu' are baith unco dear.
When the wee birdie haps frae the shelterless tree.
To seek the wheen moolius our table can gi'e;
When the storm-gowlin' cluds row back i' the lift.
And the doors an' the winuocks ai'e chokit wi' di'ift ;
When the snaw's fa'in' fast, and the wind's blawiii' keen,
I can uae langer dauuUer wi' Jesde at e'en.
95
But the bleak winds o' winter, when ance they blaw by,
Nae mair passin' poortith will cause me to sigh ;
For a weel-plenish'd biggin' I ettle to gain.
And syne, my sweet Jessie, I'll ca* ye my ain ;
But, tho' fortune should frown, still contented I'll be.
Gin I'm blest wi' the light o* your laughiu' black e'e.
Come, simmer, in kirtle o' gowden and green.
That again I may daunder wi' Jessie at e'en.
WHEN WE WERE AT THE SCHULE.
Air—" There's nae luck about the house."
The laddies plague me for a sang,
I e'en maun play the fule,
I'll sing them ane about the days
When we were at the schule.
Though now the frosty pow is seen
Whaur ance wav'd gowden hair ;
An' mony a blythsome heart is cauld
Sin' first we sported there.
When we were at the schule, my frien'
When we were at the schule ;
An' O sae merry pranks we play'd
When we were at the schule.
Yet muckle Jock is to the fore.
That used our lugs to pu'.
An' Rob, the pest, an' Sugai" Pouch,
An* canny Davie Dow.
96
O do ye mind the maister's hat,
Sae auld, sae bare, an' brown,
We carried to the bumie's side.
An' sent it soomia* down ?
When we, &c.
We thocht how clever a' was plann'd,
When, whatna voice was that ?
A head is raised aboon the hedge, —
" I'll thank ye for my hat .'"
O weel I mind our hingin' lugs, —
Our het an' tinglin' paws,—
O weel I mind his awf u' look.
An' weel I mind his taws J
When we, (kc.
O do ye mind the countin' time.
How watchfu' he has lain.
To catch us steal frae ither's slates,
An' jot it on our ain?
An' how we fear'd at writin* hour
His glunches an' his glooms,
How mony times a day he said.
Our fingers a' were thooms ?
When we, &c.
I'll ne'er forget the day ye stood,
'Twas manfu' like, j-oursel'.
An' 'took the pawmies an' the shame
To save wee Johnnie Bell ;
The maister found it out bely ve.
He took ye on his knee.
An' as he gaz'd into your face.
The tear was in his e'e.
When we, <kc.
97
But mind ye, lad, yon afternoon
How fleet ye skipp'd awa'.
For ye had crack'd auld Jenny's pane
When pla>-in' at the ba'.
Nae pennies had we : Jenny grat ;—
It cut us to the core ;
Ye took your mither's hen at nicht,
An' left it at her door.
When we, &c.
An* sic a steer as granny made,
When tale-py't Jamie Rae
We dookit roarin' at the pump.
Syne row'd him down the brae.
But how the very maister leucli
\VTien leein' saddler Wat
Cam' in an' threep't that cripple Tam
Had chas'd an' kill'd his cat.
When we, &c.
Ah, laddies, ye may wink awa' I
Truth maunna aye be tauld,
I fear the schules o' modern days
Are just siclike's the auld.
An' are na we but laddies yet.
An' get the name o' men ?
How sweet at ane's fireside to live
The happy days again !
When we were at the schule, my frien'
When we were at the schule.
An' fling the snawba's owre again
We flang when at the schule.
98
I'SE REDE YE TAK TENT.
AtR — " Laird o' Cockpen."
I'sE rede ye tak' tent o' your heart, young man ,
I'se rede ye tak' tent o' your heart, young man ,
There's a hizzy I ken,
Wha wons down in the glen ,
To wheedle't awa' has the airt, young man.
An' O ! she is pawky an' slee, young man.
An' O ! she is pawky an' slee, young man,
For sae sweet is her smile
That a saunt she'd beguile,
Sae witchin's the hlink o' her e'e, young man.
She's packed wi' mischief an' fun, yoimg man.
She's packed wi' mischief an' fun, young man-
Gin ye dinna beware.
An' tak' unco guid care.
She'll wile you as sure as a gun, young man.
But then she's baith bonny an' gude, young man,
But then she's baith bonny an' gude, young man,
Tho' a wee bit thought wild,
Yet her temper is mild.
An' her kin are o' gentle blude, young man.
Her faither's fu' bien, I can tell, young man,
Her faither's fu' bien, I can tell, young man —
He's a keen canty carl ,
Weel to do in the warl'—
Losh, lad ! I'm her faither mysel', young man.
Gin ye wish a gude wife to earn, young man.
Gin ye wish a guid wife to earn, young man,
Fast ! gae get her consent.
An' ye'll never repent —
Ye'll get a gude wife in my bairn, young man.
99
GI'E MY LOVE GEAR.
Gi'e my love gear, gear,
Gi'e my love gear an' siller ;
She'll aye be blythe, and fondly kythe,
As lang as ye bring till her.
Gin I were row'd in bings o' gowd,
Had garners stow'd wi' wealth at will,
I mak' nae doubt she'd drain them out.
And speedily my cofifers spill.
Where comes the gear., or cheap, or dear.
She'll never speer siclike, I trow,—
E'en beg or steal— gang to the deil !
Saebe't ye keep her happer fu".
Gi'e my love gear, gear, &c.
At kirk an' fair the lads they stare.
And grudge me sair her courtesy ;
They little reck that sic respeck
Has cost maist feck my towmond's fee !
For ilka smile, a plack she'll wile,
For ilka kiss, a crown at least ;
And troth I'll swear, the auld ye'll clear
Afore she'll trust you wi the neist.
Gi'e my love gear, gear, &c.
The tither morn, wi' meikle scorn.
She bann'd me for a niggard loon.
And tauld how Pate had coft to Kate
At Lammas fair a braw new gown ;
I'll tak' a wad, I've gi'en the jaud
O' better far a score, d'ye see ;
But fient may care! she'll yet ha'e mair-
Ye'll never sair her greedy e'e.
Gi'e my love gear, gear, &c.
100
I've maidens seen, that roose their een,
Their Lips, their cheeks o' rosy hue.
Say they were fair, beyond compare.
Ye had but little mair ado :
To siclike phrase, sic wooster ways.
My love she pays but sma' regard —
Tak' ye my word, like simple bird,
Wi' caflf for corn she'll ne'er be snared.
Gi'e my love gear, gear, &c.
JOHNNY'S GREY PLAID.
Air — " Johnny's grey breeks."
I'VE Goft a stane o' haslock woo,
To mak' a plaid to Johnny o't ;
For Johnny is my only joe,
I lo'e him best o' ony yet.
Gin kindness shou'd wi' kindness meet,
I'm mair in debt than mony, O ;
Gin freely gi'en, should freely get,
I owe the plaid to Johnny, O.
I'll wile awa', wi' canny skill,
The cardin' an' the spinnin' o't ;
I'll gi'e a tenty honest chiel'
The weavin' an' the wynnin' o't ;
An' syne I'll tak' a sunny day,
An' scour it clean an' bonny, O ;
An' o' the soncy wab o' grey
I'll mak* a plaid to Johuny, O
101
O, lang an' weary is the way,
An' Johnny lo'es sae dearly, that
In comin' aye a-courtin' me.
The laddie's late an' early out ;
An' aye the early mornin's raw,
An' aft the e'enin's rainy, O,
But in a bizzy week or twa
I'll ha'e a plaid to Johnny, O.
My Johnny is the wale o' men.
There's nane sae leal an' canty, yet-
That sic a laddie is my ain,
Indeed I'm unco vaunty o't.
1*11 do my best— I'll be a wife
As gude an' kind as ony, O,
An' i' the stormy days o' life
I'll share the plaid wi' Johnny, O.
ij^^wda^
MY HEART'S 'MONG THE HEATHER.
Air—" FailU na Miosg."
Mv heart's 'mong the heather, where fearless and far
Bounds the fleet-footed deer over mountain and scaur ;
Where hangs the wild goat like a shrub on the steep,
Where down the deep ravines the cataracts leap ;
Where the strong-pinioned tempests in slumber repose,
Or revel in wrath which no strength may oppose ;
Whei-e far overhead the proud eagle floats free,
Oh ! my heart's 'mong the heather, wherever I be.
They may dungeon me deep, where the day's blessed light
Cometh never to gladden my soul or my sight ;
102
Where grim-bearded silence and solitude reign,
But, scaithless, the spirit will burst from this chain,
Away from the gloom, like a bird on the wing.
O'er the heather-clad mountains I'll soar and I'll sing,
Inhaling the beauty, the breeze, and the bloom ;
Oh! my heart's 'mong the heather, whatever my doom.
My heart's 'mong the heather— O, never, O, never !
Can aught from this bosom my father-land sever ;
Long years have gone by since I left it, a child,
And years from its bosom may keep me exiled ;
But if ages on ages might over me roll,
It's features Avould ne'er be erased from my soul.
And the love which I bear it can never decay—
Oh ! my heart's 'mong the heather for ever and aye I
OUR AULD UNCLE JOHN.
Air—" WTien Autumn has laid her sickle bp.
Our auld imcle John is an odd sort o' chiel.
As prim as the priest, an' as deep as the deil,
He's proud o' his person, his parts, and his pelf.
But sae closely encased in the mail-coat o' self.
That if saving frae sl^aith wad but cost a bawbee.
Even that for his mither he scarcely wad gi'e.
Though now near the fifty-third milestane o' life.
He ne'er could be tempted to think on a wife.
• See M'Leod'a " Original Scottish Melodies."
103
" They're fashious," quo' John, " and they're costly besiile,
Wi' their muflFs, ruffs, and ruffles, their pinks and their
pride ;
Na, na," quo' our uncle, " nae woman for me,
The clack o' her clapper I never could dree."
Our auld imcle John keeps a house by himsel',
But few, very few, ever tinkle his bell.
Except some poor victim to borrow or pay,
And wae on the debtor wha keeps na his day.
" Ye'U mind. Sir," quo' John, " that the rule is wi' me.
When due, ye maun pay me down plack and bawbee."
Yet auld uncle's biggin' is cosie and bein,
Where a' things are polish'd like ony new preen.
In ilk scouring dish ye may view your ain face.
Ilk stool and ilk chair keeps its ain proper place.
Gin the carpet be crumpled, or hearth-rug ajee,
The moment it's noticed it righted maun be.
Gin the least pufFo' reek down the vent chance to come,
He's up wi' the besom an bannin' the lum ;
Should a flee just but light on his winnock or wa'.
He's up v.i' the dishclout to daud it awa', —
" Get out 0' my house, ye vile vermin," cries he,
" Though I've meat for mysel', I ha'e nane for the flee."
Nae poor beggar bodies e'er darken his door.
The print o' their baucbels would sully his floor ;
The toon collies daurna snoke in as they pass,
E'en baudrons maun dight her saft feet on the bass.
" Ay, pussy ! ye'll no quat your raking," quo' he,
" But just clean your feet ere you venture to me."
Our youngsters wad visit him last new-year's day,—
He ne'er bade them welcome, nor wish'd them to stay,
But dealt them a crust frae a hard penny brick,
Saying, " Now, weans, our cheese, ye see, winna cut thick ;
104
Kin hame to your mither, and tell her frae me,
1 wantna your visits,— I've naething to gi'e."
Our auld uncle John, when he sleeps his last sleep.
What friend wiil lament him— what kinsman will weep !
Poor pussy may miss him, hut that will he a',
And her he just keeps to fricht mousie awa' ;
Weel— e'en let him gang, never mair here to be,
A tear for his loss ne'er shall moisten an e'e.
THE WANDER'D BAIRN.
The cluds gaed hurlin' owre the lift,
The snaw in divots fell.
An', like the wuUcat's dreesome din,
The limi gi'ed mony a yell ;
An' waukrife scream'd the bieldless bird,
An' flafift its flaket bouk.
An' whirrin' thro' the leafless trees.
The frozen brake forsook ;
' ' Guid guide us aye !" quo' auld Dunrod,
' ' An' shield us a' frae harm,
I hear a jirmin' i' the blast ! —
' Let in a wander'd bairn ! ' "
" O tak' the puir wee wand'rer in ! "
"Was heard frae ilka tongue,
AVhile frae the bairnie's tautit hair
The frozen crystals hung.
An' cauld an* blae her gentie ban's.
Her feet a' tash'd an' torn.
An' duddie bare her brats o' claes,
Unlike a nicht o' storm ,
\0i
An' 'wilder'd row'd her watery een,
That nane the tale coiUd learn
That tauld o' schillin, scaith, an' wac.
To that wee wander'd bairn.
The auld guidwife, wi' kin'Iy words,
The hameless wand'rer cheer'd,
An' frae the cozie ingle neuk
The grumlin' collie steer 'd.
Ilk sough that shook the lanely bicld,
The smorin' cluds sent down.
That gar'd the kin'Iy wifie's heart
Wi' kin'lier feelin'a stoun ;
For artless was the sonsie face,
'Twad thow'd a heart o' aim.
To see the trinklin' teardraps fa'
O' that wee wander'd haim.
But nane ere kent the wand'rer 's tale,
Tho' months an' years gaed past.
Sin' first the lanely muirlan' bield
Had screen'd her frae the blast ;
An' wooers cam' to seek the han',
The lily han' that strove
To mak' her foster-father's hame
The hame o' peace an' love ;
But aye thetear-drap dimm'd her e'c,
Tho' ne'er a ane could learn
The saikless sorrows that oppress'd
Dunrod's Avee wander'd bairn.
Now simmer clad ilk bower an' brake ;
An' thirlin' ower the lea.
The 1 in tie sang a lichtsome lilt
O' love an' liberty.
106
To roam amang the snawy flachts
That spairged the speckled lift,
The lav 'rock left its leesome lair.
An' bathed its head in licht ;
An' sweetly smiled the loved o' a",
Nae mair wi' thocht forfairn,
Tor Lady o' Ardgowan ha'
Was now the wander'd bairn.
Saft pity aft a balm has brocht
To lanely widow'd grief.
An' kindred waes ha'e aften socht
In kindred tears relief.
Wi' fortune's favours aft comes pride
Wi' fortune's frowns despair.
An' often has the pauchty breast
Been torn wi' grief an' care ;
But ne'er the kindly feelin' hearts
That could owre sorrow yearn.
Had cause to rue the love they shew'd
To that wee wander'd bairn.
-^ouu^^^^'^—-
PITY ME ! WHAT I DREE.
WrlUenfor a St. KUda air, or" Hand awa'/rae me, Donald.
Pity me ! what I dree !
This poor aching heart is breakinp;,
Here I lie, moan and sigh.
Lanely and forsaken.
107
Lately I was blythe and cheery.
As the merry maukin ;
Now I'm dowie, dull, and dreary,
Baith asleep and waukin'.
Pity me ! <S:c.
On the primrose bank nae mair
I'll flowery chaplets weave me,
Nor deck wi' silken snood ray hair.
For ane wha'd sae deceive me.
Pity me! &c.
A' my thochts are thochts o* sorrow,
A' my dreams are sadness ;
Not a hope to light the morrow
Wl* a gleam o' gladness.
Pity me! &c.
O ! that I had never met him—
Never loved sae fondly,
O ! that I could now forget him
Whom I lived for only.
Pity me! &c.
A' my joys are fled for ever,
A' my peace is broken ;
Bear, O bear to my fause lover
This unhonoured token.
Pity me! <&c.
Tell him o' a tender blossom.
Trampled down and faded.
Tell him o' a stainless bosom,
Now, alas ! degraded.
Pity me ! &c.
Yet amid this wreck and ruin-
Not a starlet gleamin',
She he wrong'd for peace is suing
To her faithless leman.
108
Pity me .' what I dree !
This poor aching heart is breaking.
Here I lie, moan and sigh,
Lanely and forsaken.
THE AULD EMIGRANTS FAREWEEL.
Air — *' Of a' the airts."
Land of my fathers ! night's dark gloom
Now shrouds thee from my view ;
Land of my birth — my hearth— my home —
A. long and last adieu.
Thy sparkling streams— thy plantin's green.
That ring with melodie.
Thy flowery vales— thy hills and dales
Again I'll never see.
IIow aft ha'e I thy heathy hills
Climb'd in life's early day.
Or pierced the dark depths of thy woods,
To pu' the nit or slae ;
Or lain beneath the " milk-white thorn,"
Hid frae the sim's bright beams,
While on my raptured ear was borne
The music of thy streams.
And aft, when frae the schule set free,
I've join'd a merry ban',
Wha's hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,
Fresh as the morning dawn ;
And waimder'd, Crookston, by thy tower,
Or through thy leafy shaw.
The live lang day, nor thocht o' hamc,
Till nicht began to fa'.
109
But now the lichtsomeness o' youth.
And a' its joys are gane,
My children scatter'd far an' wide,
And I am left alane ;
For she wha was my hope and stay.
And sooth'd me when distress'd,
"Within the " dark and narrow house"
Has lang heen laid at rest.
And puirtith's clouds do me enshroud,
Sae, after a' my toil,
I'm gaun to lay my puir auld clay
Within a foreign soil.
Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotland dear,
A lang fareweel to thee.
Thy tinkling rills, thy heathy hills,
Nae mair, nae mair I'll see.
HEATON MILL.*
Am—" Awa" to bonnie Tweed side
Wr boundin' step and gladsome e'c,
I'U aff for Heaton Mill,
To steep the line and throw the flee
Amang the streams o' TilL
Jly end-hook wears a woodcock wing.
Its body dubb'd wi' greeu ,
The freckled drake will upmost swing,
A spider bob between.
• Heaton Mill is situated near Twizel bridge, in the vicinity of tii
pUl where the fatal battle of Flodden was fought.
110
5Iy taper gad sae light and fair,
A clear gleg rinnin' wheel.
Wi' sparklin' gut like ony hair,
The tackle-book and creel ;
The lang sma' taper gad is swung
Around vri' easy slight,
Across the stream the flies are flung,
Like gossamer they light.
The water-gowan's silken stem
Floats wavin' on the tide,
And 'neath the flow'rets bonnie gem.
The trooties like to hide.
I'll try my hand— a lucky hit
May bide the ither throw, —
IVIy hook's just struck the very bit.
Light as three flaiks o' snow.
Frae 'neath the weed a gowden gleam
Flash 'd frae his burnish'd side.
And at the hook a boil is seen
That scarcely stirs the tide ;
The bendin' gad wi' stricken'd line,
Shug-shuggin' like a wand,
A' workin' on a thread sae fine.
Yet brings him safe to land.
There ne'er was aught in nature seen
Whose colour could outvie
The glitter o' its side sae green,
Bathed in the rainbow's dye.
The olive back, the gowden fin,
The belly's silver hue,
A' spread upon a pinkie skin,
That scarcely blushes through.
Ill
The mottled drops that mantle far
Out owre his spangled scale,
A' glist'nin' like the gorgeous star
That gems the peacock's tail.
A fishing day, bj' dam or weir
Could aye my feelings bind,
And muekle in 't there is to cheer
A nature-loving mind.
Aneath yon auld saugh tree 1*11 lean
Upon a mossy seat,
Wi' Tiptoe braes afore my een.
Till streamin* at my feet ;
And list the sandy lav'rock's ca*.
Lood wheeplin' out his strain ,
Or sweet sang o' yon Avater craw,
Doup doupin' on the stane.
Gude e'en— the day is wearin' ben,
Far wast the sun has row'd.
The trees adown steep Twizel Glen
Are steep'd in burnish 'd gowd.
May peace and plenty mingle there,
And saftly row the Till,
For welcome kind to hamely fare
Is aye at Heaton JMill.
SONG OP THE WANDERING SEA-BREEZE.
Oh ! I am the child of an eastern land,
I have roam'd o'er the waters wild.
And I danced a while with a bridal band,
When the spirit of gladness smiled ;
11-2
'Neath the spreading Banyan's ample shade,
Where they held their revelry,
I stole a kiss from each beautiful maid.
And mng'd me out to sea.
I shook the sails of a lonely bark,
Becalm'd on the glassy deep,
That lay at night 'mid the shoreless dark,
Like a drooping maid asleep ;
And the mariner sprang from his dreamy rest,
As he heard the rippling seas,
Ue look'd to heaven, his sins confess'd.
Then bless'd the wandering breeze.
I curl'd the wave o'er a hero's grave.
■\\Tio sank 'mid the battle's storm.
And I heard the shriek that his true-love gave,
As I fann'd her phantom form ;
When she lightly wing'd o'er the billow's crest.
With the speed of a spiiit's flight,
And she sank in the deep, deep ocean's breast,
Like a living beam of light.
I have gather'd the sweets of the sunny isles,
Where the spirit of beauty dwells,
'3Iidst the evergreen bloom of fair nature's smiles,
That are woven with hidden spells ;
I have tuned my soft voice Avith the mellow notes
Of a sea-born syren's lyre.
And the magic song of the mermaid floats
Round my harp's unfinger'd wire.
I caught the last prayer of a drowning man.
Ere the chord of life was riven ,
And I soai'd to a place that the e3'e cannot scan,
Till I met the herald of heaven ;
. 113
And the guerdon I sought Avas the smile that beam'd
In the anger's lovelit eye.
And the chorus of praise that around him stream'd,
As he bore his charge on high.
Where the man-hunter lay, like a serpent coil'd,
'Mid Afric's palmy shades—
I rustled the leaves, and his purpose foil'd,
For I startled the sable maids ;
And I bore back his curse to his blacken'd heart.
And murmur'd revenge in his ear.
When a hidden hand launch 'd a poison 'd dart.
And his life-stream dyed the spear.
I hasten'd the flight of two lovers that fled
In a light and tiny bark,
For I fill'd their white sail when its folds were spread,
Like the wing of the swan in the dai-k ;
And the blossoms of bliss were around them shed,
From hope's unfading bowers,
Where the spirit of love, with soundless tread,
Displays its mystic powers.
Oh ! I am the pilgi-im of ocean deep.
And I speed to the golden west.
With whisperings of hope to the hearts that weep,
And joy to the weary breast ;
The tints of the east are on my wing.
And they smile as I sigh along—
]\Iy>breath is the kiss of the rosy spring,
And my voice is the fount of song.
114
'TIS NAE TO HARP.
Air — " My heart and lute."
'Tis nae to harp, to lyre, nor lute,
I ettle noo to sing —
To thee alane, my lo'csome flute,
This simple strain I bring.
Then let me flee, on memory's wiug—
O'er twice ten -w-inters flee ;
An' try, ance mair, that ae sweet spring
That young love breath'd in thee.
Companion of my happy then !
Wi' smilin' friends around —
In ilka " but " — in ilka " ben"
A couthie welcome found ;
Ere yet thy master proved the wound
That ne'er gaed skaithless bye ;
Thatgi'es to flutes their saftest soimd.
To hearts— their saddest sigh.
Since then, my bairns ha'e danced to thee,
To thee my Jean has simg ;
An' mony a night, yn' guileless glee.
Our hearty hallan rimg.
But noo wi' hardships worn and wrung,
I'll roam the world about ;
For her, and for our friendless young,
Come forth, my faithfu' flute !
Thy artless notes may win the ear
That wadna hear me speak.
An', for thy sake, that pity spare
IVIy full heart couldna seek.
115
Aa' when the winter's cranreuch bleak
Drives houseless bodies in —
I'll aiblins get the ingle cheek,
A' for thy lightsome din.
O ! HOPE'S LIKE A MINSTREL.
Air — " Dumbarton's bonny dell."
O ! Hope's like a little minstrel bird,
That sings by the path o' a child,
Aye flittin' frae bloomy bough to bough
AVI' an air sae merry an' wild ;
An' maist within grasp o' his gowden wings
He lets the bairnie creep.
Syne, aff bangs he
To a high high tree.
An' the wee thing 's left to weep.
O Hope's like a maiden o' fair fifteen ,
Wi' an e'e as dazzlingly bright
As the dew that blinks i' the violet's cup,
When the sun has reached his height ;
An' she bows her bright head to your sweet waled words,
Till love turns burning pain,
Syne, wi' sudden scorn.
She leaves ye forlorn ,
To smile on anither swain.
O Hope's like a sun-burst on distant hills.
When stern and cloudy's the day,
An' the wanderer thinks it a heaven-blest spot.
An' his spirit grows licht by the way ;
116
The bloomy moors seem lakes o' gowd,
An' the rocks glance like castles braw —
But he wins na near
The spot sae dear-
It glides aye awa' an' awa'.
An' whiles Hope comes like a prophet auld,
Wi' a beard richt lang an' gray,
An' he brags o' visions glitterin' an' gran'.
An' speaks o' a blither day.
Ne'er heed him ;— he's but a hair- brained bard,
A-biggin' towers i' the air —
A lyin' seer,
AVTia will scoff an' jeer,
Though your heart's baith cauld an' sair.
HE THAT THOLES OWRECOMES.
Air— " Auld Langsyne."
A CANTiK sang, my auld guidman,
I'll lilt wi' lichtsome glee,
AVe wrnna, shanna yaumerin yirm,
Though fortunes freaks we dree.
tSae, stamp your foot— mak' sorrow flee.
And blythely crack yoiu- thum's !
We've fouchten sair, baith late an' ear' —
But he that tholes owi-ecomes.
We've been thegither, man an" wife.
For forty years an' mair.
An' leal we've warslet through the warld.
An' gl'en our bairnies lair.
117
An' aye ye've muckle thocht o' me,
Tho' mony hicks an' hums,
Ye've war'd owre puirtith's antrin dauds^
But he that tholes o\vrecome8.
Sax buirdly chiel's, baith stark an' stieve.
An' bonny dochters throe.
As e'er drewhuik owre harvest rig.
Or blest a mither's e'e,
"We've rear'd an' lair'd ; an' weel may we
Think muckle o' ova sons.
For aft their kindness to us proves
That he who tholes owrecomes.
Our dochters, women-muckle grown,
Wi' a' their winnin' airts.
Can thow the icy tags that hing
About our wallow't hearts.
They bind wi' flowers our ^vrinkled brows-
Eke out life's brittle thrums.
An' tell us, by their smiles o' love.
That he that tholes owrecomes.
Sae round about, and round about.
We'll jump an' dance an* sing ;
Noo, up an* till't, my auld guidman.
We'll gar the kebars ring.
Sae, stamp your foot — mak* sorrow flee.
And gaily snap your thum's,
A guid life mak's a happy death.
An' he that tholes owrecomes.
A^
118
LAST WEEK AS I SAT.
Air — " Last May a bravo wooer."
Last week, as I sat wi' my wheel by the fire,
I heard our wee winnock play dirl,
And said to my mother 'twas time for the byre,
For weel I kent Johnie's love-tirl, love-tirl.
For weel I kent Johnie's love-tirl.
I lifted the leglin and hied out in haste,
Bein' laith that my lover should wearie,
And, swith ! ere I kent he'd his arms round my waist,
And kiss'd me, and ca'd me his dearie, his dearie.
And kiss'd me, and ca'd me his dearie.
But ere we had weel gotten time for a smack,
3Iy mother cam' out in a hurry.
And wi' the grape-shank o'er his head cam' a thwack—
Losh guide 's ! but she was in a flurry, a flurry,
Losh guides ! but she was in a fluxrj'.
She ca'd me a limmer, she ca'd me a slut.
And vowed she would cure me o' clockin';
Said how that I neither had havens nor wit,
In my life I ne'er gat sic a yokin, a yokin'.
In my life I ne'er gat sic a yokin'.
Neist she flew at my lover, wi' tongue like a sword,
Himsel' and his kindred misca'in' ;
While he, silly doofart, said never a word.
But aye his clower'd cantle keept clawin', keept clawiu".
But aye his clower'd cantle keept clawin'.
She said, if again to our town-end he cam'.
Or look'd but the gate o' her daughter,
Wi' an auld hazle rung or a wheel-barrow tram.
His mucMe thick skuU she would flaughter, would
flaughter !
His rauckle thick skull she would flaughter !
119
Dumfounder'd at length, he snooved out o' the byre,
As I've aft seen a weel thrashen collie,
And trudged his wa's hameward through dub and through
mire,
IVe nae doubt, lamentin' his folly, his folly,
I've nae doubt, lamentin' his folly.
And ever sin' syne, when we meet, he looks blate,
As if we had ne'er been acquainted —
He ettles, it 's plain, to leave me to my fate,
But, believe me ! I'll no gang demented, demented.
Believe me, I'll no gang demented.
For the lover that 's scared by an auld woman's tongue.
Though e'en like a dart it rin through him.
Or yet by the weight o' her wrath in a rung,
111 deserves that a lassie should lo'e him, should lo'e him,
111 deserves that a lassie should lo'e him.
MADIE'S SCHULE.
Air—" The Campbell's are comin'."
When weary wi' toil, or when canker'd wi' care,
Remembrance takes wing like a bird of the air.
And free as a thought that ye canna confine.
It flees to the pleasures o' bonnie langsyne.
In fancy I bound o'er the green sunny braes.
And drink up the bliss o' the lang summer days.
Or sit sae demure on a wee creepy stool.
And con ower my lesson in auld Madie's schule.
120
Up four timmer stairs, in a garrot fu' clean,
In awful authority iVIadie was seen ;
Her close-luggit mutch tower'd aloft in its priile.
Her lang winsey apron flowed down by her side.
The taws on her lap like some dreaded snake lay.
Aye watchin' an' ready to spring on its prey ;
The wheel at her foot, an' the cat on her knee,—
Nae queen on her throne mair majestic than she !
To the whir o' the wheel while auld baudrons wad sing,
On stools, wee an' muckle, a' ranged in a ring
Ilk idle bit urchin, wha glower 'd aff his book
Was caught in a twinklin' by INIadie's dread look.
She ne'er spak' a word, but the taws she wad fling !
The sad leather whang up the culprit maun bring,
TNTiile his sair bluther'd face, as the palmies wad fa',
Proclaim'd through the schule an example to a'.
But though Madie could punish, she weel could reward,
The gude and the eydant aye won her regard —
A Saturday penny she freely wad gi'e.
And the second best scholar got aye a bawbee.
It sweeten 'd the joys o' that dear afternoon,
WTien free as the breeze in the blossoms o' June,
And blythe as the lav'rock that sang ower the lea.
Were the happy wee laddies frae bondage set free.
And then when she washed we were sure o' the play.
And Wednesday aye brought the grand washin' day,
When ^Madie relaxed frae her sternness a wee.
And annoimced the event wi' a smile in her e'e.
The tidings were hail'd wi' a thrill C delight —
E'en drowsy auld baudrons r^oiced at the sight,
While Madie, dread Madie ! wad laugh in her chair.
As in order we tript down the lang timmer stair.
121
But the schule now is skailt, and will ne'er again meet-
Nae mair on the timmer stair sound our wee feet ;
The taws an' the penny are vanish 'd for aye.
And gane is the charm o' the dear washin' day.
Her subjects are scatter'd — some lang dead and gane—
But dear to remembrance, wi' them wha remain.
Are the days when they sat on a wee creepy stool,
An' con'd ower their lesson in auld Madie's schule.
COME, BILLIES, LET'S STEER FOR OUR
HAMMOCKS.
Air — " Rattlin* roarin' Willie."
Comb, billies, let's steer for our hammocks.
Consider the nicht's growing late,
Fy rax us our plaids and om- crummocks,
It's time we were takin' the gate ;
Our dawties at hame will be weary,
Wi' waiting upon us sae lang.
Then why keep them lanely and eerie
While we ai"e enjoying our sang ?
It's guid to be social and canty.
It's cheering to coup aff our horn-
But makin' owre free wi' our aunty*
Is sure to bring trouble the morn ;
• " Aunty," — the bottle — a debauch. It is a common saying, -when
a [lerson is seen in liquor — " He's been seeing his aunty.''
122
For aunty 's a dangerous kimmer.
And no to be dallied wi* aye.
She'll turn to bleak winter our simmer,
And sprinkle our haffets wi' grey.
Come now, we ha'e a' gotten ready,
Na, laird, no anither drap mair,
Weel, Johnny, ye're foremost — be steady,
And mind there's a turn in the stair-
Shoot out your best fit now before ye.
And eannily catch ilka step,
Ae stagger, my blade, and we're owi-e ye.
Syne wha your fat carcase will kep ?
Now, since we're a' landed on Terra,
Let ilk tak' his several road.
Enough we may manage to carry,
Owre meikle 's a troublesome load.
Guid e'en — ilka man to his dearie.
As fast as he's able to gang-
To meet a wife smiling and cheery.
Is ten times mair sweet than a sang.
THE LINTIES' WOOING.
Ae day twa wee gray Unties sat on a twig.
An' the cock bird sang this canty strain,
"I'll mak' thee my hen, in a nest o' our ain"—
Then he lilted the o'ercome wi' might an' maiu-
" I will," quoth the merry wee grig.
123
Avva' then they flew by bush and by brier.
Till they cam' to a bonnie shady bow'r,
An' they sat there fu' cozielie mair than an hour.
Till the drizzlin' drap cam' down in a show'r.
When the canty cock, cunnin' an' queer,
He lifted his wing an* he happit the hen.
An' he chirpit sae cagielie, what do ye think,
That he fairly bamboozl't the hen in a blink,
In the conjugal mire she was willing to sink.
Nor car'd she for clerkly amen.
Fu' blithely they wrought baith stark an' stour,
An' fu' neat was the biggin'— but here ends the joke.
O' their flytin', an' billin', an' cooin', the book
Telleth not ; but I'se warrant thae wee feather'd folk
'Mang their sweets found a sprinklin' o' sour.
THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.
Music by John Purdie, Esq.
Barb was our burn brae,
December's blast had bla^vn.
The last flower was dead.
An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
It was dark in the deep glen.
Hoary was our hill.
An' the win' frae the cauld north
Cam' heavy an' chill,
124
Where 1 said, " Fare-yewcel,"
To my kith an' my kin ;
My barque, it lay a-head.
An' my cot-house ahin :
I had nocht left to tine,
I'd a wide warl' to try.
But my heart, it wadna lift,
An' my e'e, it wadna dry.
I look'd lang at the ha'
Thro' the mist o' my tears,
■V^'llere the kind lassie lived
I had ran wi' for years :
E'en the glens where we sat,
Wi' their broom-cover'd knowcs.
Took a hank on this heart
That I ne'er can unlouse.
I ha'e wander'd sin' syne
By gay temples and towers.
Where the ungather'd spice
Scents the breeze in their bowers :—
O ! sic scenes I could leave.
Without pain or regret.
But the last look o' hame
I never can forget.
125
ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP
O* DEW.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind.
And bear ye a' life's changes wi* a calm and tranquil mind.
Tho' press'd and hemm'd on ev'ry side, ha'e faith and ye'll
win through,
For illca blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt
ye've been.
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your
een;
Believe it for the best, an' trow there's gude in store for you,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
In lang lang days o' Simmer, when the clear an* cludless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd an' dry.
The genial night wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring
anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
So lest 'mid Fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud
an' hie.
An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith*s ee;
Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence
or how.
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
126
MORTAL HAPPINESS.
To sing of human happiness, when all is peace and piping.
Or laugh at love and handkerchiefs, when eyelids need no
wiping,
Is but to mock the cruel pangs that now my heart is tear-
ing,
And smuder up the hearty groans that's rowling for a
hearing :
Och ! if I had my paice of mind, that cruel piece of plunder,
I'd let the jades die wrinkled maids, and then they'd see
their blunder.
' Sure, now, an' are they not desarvin to live an' die, wid never a
mouth to spake to but thir own ? Och! if I had my own way ont, Td
see them rot an' die like praties in a frost, wid never a morsel of mother
earth over them to purtect the blessin. My heart is batein agin the
sides of my body, an' roarin like the livin thunder. I'm t.hinltin every
joinin an' comer an' tumin in my body will be in pieces, lyin lookiu
at aich other, and sayin, "Will ye shake hands and be finends agin?"
They're all roarin and croakia— and cryin and singin, ever liko-tha
win' does through the ropes and riggin and canvas of the onld Molly
of Ballynahinch, when she's standin up for't agin them cross-grained
win's that's wantin to bate the carpenter.'
The lovely craturs every one are jewels of perfection,
And mighty need they have indeed of comfort and pur-
tection ;
But I, who'd be their guardian through each future gene-
ration.
Am trated like the blackguard scamps that roam about the
nation.
127
Oh ! paice, throughout the wholesome day, and I have long
been strangers.
And all the night in woeful plight I dream of fearful
dangers.
Where'er I turn my aching eyes for paice or consolation,
Some cheek, or eye, or lip, or brow, works furder tribula-
tion—
Och murther ! but it seems my fate, that some one will
tormint me.
Whene'er I turn me round from one, another is fomint me;
The saucy flirts, if but a word I'd speak of adoration,
With ' Sur ?" as sharp's a sword they'd cut the thread of
conversation.
•Now, Tennis, will ye lave off talking ? your tongue will be worn as
thin as a sliilllng, rowlin' an' roarin' agin your teeth. At once't an' for
ever, tie up the four comers of your mouth wid the tail of your tongue,
Tennis, and hould your breath to cool your broth wid when they are too
hot for the spooni' » Och I Europe and the Black Sea to the bargain I
—will ye make my heart go all to pieces batein' agin the bone, going
ag^ it that one knock cannot get oufn the way ov the other ?—ould
Father Time could'nt, for the life on him, wish it faster— at the rate
of twenty hunner knocks in a minute— at least two days in the
hour. I'm thinkin' it will lape out an' spake to you for itsel£ Och!
yonll not repate thim cruel words agin. Look now! an' have they not
broken the skin of them lips, like rose laves, my darlint? Och, now !
let them just doso sweetly and softly and quietly, like them laves I am
spakingof ! when thir going to thir bed for the night, and spake a kind
word wid the comer of your eye I'
No wonder that the married wives are happy and contented.
Sure of her vows no dacent spouse has ever yet repented;
128
Whate'er they want their husbands grant, that's fitting foi
their station,
"While nought they do, 'tween me and you, but raising
botheration.
Then let the female sex now learn to know what most
they're needing.
Nor screw their pretty mouths to No !— when Yes ! woulc
show their breeding.
THE TROUTIN* DAY.
I'll mount the creel upon my back, and aff wi' merry glee,
And hae a gallant troutin' day wi' minnie or wi' flee :
I ken ilk stream and wimplin' pool— ilk plaintain, brae,
and mead.
By Beaumont fair, the sleepy Till, or the majestic Tweed.
Your swivel mount, the minnie spin, the water's porter
brown.
And try the cast aboon the Cauld, below sweet Coldstream
town.
The wind is saft, the sky is grey, the colour o' the tide
Proclaims the spate frae Slittrick brae, or Yarrow's moun
talh^side.
129
The laverock'g chirlin' in the sky, far, far aboon our ken ;
The blackbird's notes are ringin' high, frae out the quarry
glen;
The brairdin' bear sae sweet to smell, a' wat wi' dewy spray,
Mak' high our bounding spirits swell, on sic a troutin' day.
The saft winds pirlin' through the trees, the gowans at my
fit.
The big trouts boilin' at the flees, as owre the stream they
flit;
The salmon ware upon the ford, just new run frae the sea ;
The swallows swarming owre the tide,— a' please the
fisher's ee.
Fling owre to whaur the eddies boil, aboon their rocky bed :
I hae him fast, the greedy gowl, — he struck it like a ged ;
The tackle's stout— the baud is fast— for landing, famous
ground ;
I've work'd him down— he's out at last— his weight aboon
a pound.
Anither and anither still— they're rising by the score ;
Like draps that tail a summer shower, far spreads ilk wimp*
ling bore.
But night is closing in at last— my pouches heavy feel—
I scarce can get the lid made fast, wi' sic a stockit creel.
I'll hame, on Sandy Foster ca'— o' fishers he's the sire—
And wi' the lave we's hae a blaw, around his kitchen fire ;
The warm cheerer, circling bright— the weary turning gay,
A' listening to the hard-won fight that crowns a troutin' day.
The fish upon the table spread in ashets bright and clean,
The larger spread aboon the fry to glamour anxious een ;
130
The cantle laugh o' harmless glee, the royal lots o' fun
Wi' auld Tain Smith, blythe Uncle John, or cannie Willie|
Dun.
O Coldstream fair! there's ane, at least, that bears a love |
for thee —
A fervent, deep, and stirring love, that time will ne'er let
dee!
I'd sooner swing at Coldstream Cross, or to a stake be
boun'.
Than die an honest fair strae death in ony ither toon 1
WATTY, THE POACHER.
Wi' a lang rusty gun that looks nae worth a groat,
A horn fu' o' pouther, a pouch fu' o' shot,
An' a black cutty pipe in his cheek reeking hot.
You'll meet auld cunnin' Watty, the poacher.
E'er the grey o' the moon he lea's his theek'd house,
Creeps up the lee side o' the hedge like a mouse ;
Though cunnin' an' pawky's the wiles o' puir puss.
She's nae match for slee Watty, the poacher.
Ilk slap that he thinks maukin shoudna gae throu',
He puffs his tobacco reek a' roun' the mou
Whan they push for the ane whaur his gin's, I trow.
Hangs them dead for auld Watty, the poachsr.
131
When the snell, snawy blast, or the wild drivin' sleet
Gars the paitricks a' croodle thegither for heat,
A shot frae his gun maks thein turn up their feet,
The hale covey for Watty, the poacher.
Or whan winter's white coat lies fu' deep on the grun
And smoor'd raaukin's breath maks a hole like a luna,
Tho' snug 'neath the snaw, yet without dog or gun,
He's the spoil o' slee Watty, the poacher.
The squire and his keeper, a ne'er-do-weel chiel
Try a' kin' o' traps to lay Wat by the heel ;
The farmers they bribe, but they a' like owre weel
Their frien', cunnin' Watty, the poacher.
Wat wishes the gentry a' roun' at the deil ;
He thinks a' the birds an' beasts o' the fiel'
Belang by fair nature to ilk honest chiel
That can kill them like Watty, the poacher.
The cadgers aye ca' as they pass to the town ;
He fills their box fu' for a white siller crown,
Or barters for beef, wi' a drap to wash down
A' their bargains wi' Watty, the poacher.
Wat's aye guid to the puir— aft a farl o' cake,
Wi' the leg o' a pheasant or cutty they get ;
An' aftimes this benison's left at his gate —
O' lang life to bauld Watty, the poacher.
132
THE DRYGATE BRIG.
Last Monday night, at sax o'clock.
To Mirran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap,
It was my hale intent, man :
So down I sat an' pried the yill.
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun* about the room,
To gie ilk ane a scent, man.
The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round.
The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade, and daily news,
To wear the time awa' man ;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-fashion'd bodies met.
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet.
Nor eating care got footing there,
But friendship rare, aye found sincere.
An' hearts without a flaw, man.
To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
How rich they are an' great, man.
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man ;
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk and fell.
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell.
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel'.
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld.
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.
133
But what are a' sic mighty schemes.
When ance the spell is broke, man ?
A set o' maut -inspired whims,
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An* bring us to oursel's again ?
As was the fate o' my auld pate.
When that night late, I took the gate.
As crouse as ony cock, man.
For, sad misluck ! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man.
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw, man.
When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig.
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' ray view,
While I stood glow'ring, waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my stafiF, man,
I coupet owre a meikle stane,
An' skailed my pickle snuff, man ;
My staff out o' my hand did jump.
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump.
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue.
It looks sae fleesome waff, man.
O had you seen ray waefu' plight.
Your mirth had been but 3ma', man.
134
An' yet, a queerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fifty years an' malr.
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae eair ;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof.
An' brak my snout an' a', man.
Now wad you profit by my loss ?
Then tak' advice frae me, man.
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing.
On fumes o' barley bree, man ;
For drink can heeze a man sae high
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky.
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud.
That aft it's guid, if dirt and bluid,
Be a' he has to dree, man.
WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH AM
SLEEPING.
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping.
Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more ?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping
Of heretofore ?
135
When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
Like full hearts break.
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Sad music make ;
Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing
Mourn for my sake ?
When the bright sun upon that spot is shining
With purest ray,
And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining.
Burst through that clay ;
Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day ?
When the Night shadows, with the ample sweeping
Of her dark pall.
The world and all its manifold creation sleeping.
The great and small-
Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping
For me— for all ?
When no star twinklet with its eye of glory,
On that low mound ;
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crowned ;
Will there be then one versed in misery's story
Pacing it round ?
It may be so,— but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed, —
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
From hearts that bleed,
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow
Shall never need.
136
Lay rae then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart ;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling.
Let no tear start ;
It were in vain,— for Time hath long been knelling—
Sad one, depart !
CiAVl
MMm^mjH
CAULD WINTER IS COME.
Cauld Winter is come, wi' his mantle o' snaw,
To spread over moorland and lea:
The daisy-deck'd web o' green velvet's awa,
An' the last leaf .s fa'n frae the tree.
Oh ! sad is the soi i o' the cauld norlan blast,
As it sweeps round the haraestead at e'en :
It speaks to the heart, like the voice o' the past.
Thai comes with its shadows the soul to o'ercast,
As it wails for the things that ha'e been.
Sage grey-beard may tell us 'tis vain to repine!
And reason forbids us to mourn —
But the heart maun hae vent when it dreams o* langsyne.
And the joys that will never return.
And there's something that touches its innermost springs
When Summer's last looks disappear;
O'er the spirit a mantle o' sadness it flings —
A' the past, wi' its joys and its sorrows, it brings
At this cauld dowie fa' o' the year.
137
By the warm ingle side, when the night closes in.
Such musings will come, when alane,
(But sadness is selfish, and selfishness sin,)
Let us feel for the poor that ha'e nane,—
That ha'e nae ingle side ! nor a house ! nor a hame I
In a' the wide warl, — nor a fi*ien' !
But maun bear the cauld blast on a hunger-bit frame,
Life's manifold waes that ha'e never a name.
An' the buffets o' misery keen.
The fox has a home in the deep hollow dell.
And the hare has a form on the lea ;
There's a beild for the creatures in forest and fell,
But there's none, human outcast ! for thee,
And now that the desolate vesture is thrown
Wide, wide over valley and hill.
Let humanity's balm-pouring spirit be shown.
Let us leel for tlie woes of the nature we own,
And our being's best purpose fulfil.
0fl JJf^hD
THE WEE, WEE MAN.
A WEE, wee man, wi' an unco din.
Cam' to our beild yestreen.
An' siccan a rippet the bodie raised
As seldom was heard or seen ;—
He wantit claes, he wantit shoon.
And something to weet his mou' ;
138
"While aye he spurr'd wi' his tiny feet.
And blink'd wi' his een o' blue.
His face, which nane had seen before,
Thrill'd strangely through ilk min*,
Wi' gowden dreams frae mem'ry's store
Of loved anes lost langsyne.
A fuither's brow, a mither's een,
A brither's dimpled chin,
Were mingled a' on that sweet face.
Fresh sent frae a Hand abune.
Oh, soon ilk heart grew grit wi* love.
And draps o' joy were seen
To trinkle fast ower channel'd cheeks,
Where streams o' wae had been.
A welcome blythe we gied the chiel
To share our lowly ha' ;
And we row'd him warm in fleecy duds,
Wi' linen like Januar snaw.
Our gudeman has a way o' his ain.
His word maun aye be law —
Frae Candlemas to blythe Yule e'en
He rules baith grit an' sma ;
But the howdie reign'd last nicht, I trow,
And swagger'd baith but and ben —
Even the big arm-chair was push'd ajee
Frae the cosie chimley en'.
The gudeman snooved about the house
Aye rinnin' in some ane's way.
Yet aft he glanced at the wee thing's face
On the auld wife's lap that lay;
139
His brelst grew grit wi' love and pride
"Whiie the bairn was hush'd asleep.
And a gush of blessings frae his heart
Came welling warm and deep.
I canna boast o' gowd, quoth he—
My wealth a willing arm ;
Yet health and strength and wark be mine,
And wha shall bode thee harm ?
To fill thy wee bit caup and cog,
And gie thee claes and lair,
"Wi' joy I'll strive, and sweet content
Through poortith, toil, and care.
There's joy within the simmer woods
When wee birds chip the shell,
When firstling roses tint wi' bloom
The lip of sunlit dell ;
But sweeter than the nestling bird.
Or rosebud on the lea,
Is yon wee smiling gift of love
Unto a parent's ee.
THE MILLER OF DEANHAUGH.
KEX ye the auld mill o' bonnie Deanhaugh,
Whaur the wheel tears in tatters the wud waterfa'
Ye mauna rin by it, but pap in and ca'.
For blythe is the miller o' bonnie Deanhaugh.
140
He maun hae his mouter, he maun hae his maut,
He taks rauckle gowpins, but wha can find faut ?
"What he skims afF the fou dish, the toom get awa',
The poor bless the miller o' bonnie Deanhaugh.
His hand is aye open to help poortith's woes,
Poor folk may want brogues, but they never want brose
And gin stern Oppression owre them shakes his paw,
He's felled by the miller o' bonnie Deanhaugh.
It's gude to be muckle, it's gude to be kind,
It's gude when a weak chield can boast a stout mind ;
Gin strength succoured weakness, how blest were we a',
Heaven bless the stout miller o' bonnie Deanhaugh
Z
^/^ei.^^^££^$^Z&^t.t»
liU^NIE NELLY RICHARDSON.
Bonnie Nelly Richardson,
Bonnie Nelly Richardson,
Fairest lass in a' the toun !
Bonnie Nelly Richardson.
Frae the gowden yetts on hie.
Spring peeps out wi' laughing ee.
To wile thee to the flow'ry lea.
My bonnie Nelly Richardson.
Winter now has fled awa'.
Sweetly blooms the birken shaw,
Saft the dews o' e'ening fa'.
My bonnie Nelly Richardson.
141
streams are dancing thro' the wuds,
Birds are singing in the cluds.
Bees are sipping hinny buds,
My bonnie Nelly Richardson.
Roses sweet for thee I'll pu' —
Wat wi' blobs o' siller dew —
To wreath aroun' thy pearly brow,
My bonnie Nelly Richardson.
In some flow'ry scented glen-
Far awa' frae din o' men —
Hours o' transport there we'll spen',
My bonnie Nelly Richardson.
Bonnie Nelly Richardson,
Bonnie Nelly Richardson,
Fairest lass in a' the toun !
Bonnie Nelly Richardson.
THE FLOWER OP BANCHORY.
To a Melody by Alexander Mackenzie.
Young Spring, with opening flowers.
Was bright'ning vale and lea ;
While Love, 'mid budding bowers.
Woke sweet melody :
I
142
When by Dee's noble river
I strayed in happy glee.
And left my heart for ever
In fair Banchory,
Banchory! fair Banchory!
How dear that happy day to me,
1 wandered by the banks o' Dee,
And won the flower o' Banchory I
How was't that I, a rover
So reckless and so free,
Became a constant lover
By flowing Dee ?
Because, like Spring, my charmer,
When fondly, kindly press'd.
Became like Summer warmer,
And Love's power confess'd.
O Banchory ! &c.
The streamlet onward flowing.
Still gathers as it flows ;
The breast with true love glowing,
Still warmer glows.
And my fond heart grows fonder,
More firm my constancy,
For dearer still and kinder
Is my Love to me.
Banchory ! fair Banchory !
How dear that happy day to me,
1 wandered by the banks o* Dee,
And won the flower o' Banchory !
143
OULD MURPHY THE PIPER.
Aia— ' The Boys of Kilkenny:
OcLD Murphy the Piper lay on his death-bed.
To his only son, Tim, the last words he said :
• My eyes they grow dim, and ray bosom grows could,
But ye'U get all I have, Tim, when I slip ray hould,
Ye'U get all I have, boy, when I slip ray hould.
•There's three cows and three pigs and three acres of land.
And this house shall be yours, Tim, as long as 'twill stand;
All my fortune is threescore bright guineas of gould.
And ye'U get all I have, Tim, when I slip my hould,
Ye'U get all I have, Tim, when I slip my hould.
' Go fetch me my pipes, Tim, till I play my last tune.
For Death is a- coming, he'll be here very soon ;
Those pipes that I've played on, ne'er let them be sould,
If you sell all I have, Tim, when I slip my hould.
If you sell all I have, Tim, when I slip my hould.'
Then ould Murphy the Piper, wid the last breath he drew.
He played on his pipes like an Irishman true ;
He played up the anthem of green Erin so hould —
Then calmly he lay down, and so slipt his hould !
Then gently he lay down, and slipt his last hould !
144
A SCOTTISH WELCOME
TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
As SONQ AT THE BaNQUET GIVEN HEB IN EdINBDKGH, 01
Wednesday, 20th Apkil, 1853.
AiB,— ' Carle, an* the King come.'
Come, Scotland, tune your stock and horn,»
And hail with song this joyous morn,
When on Love's eagle pinions borne,
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Freedom's angel now's come,
Mercy's sister now's come :
Grim Oppression drees his doom :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Through hostile ranks our sires of yore,
Fair Freedom's flag unsullied bore,
And still she fills our bosom's core :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Chonis,
A woman's arm Truth's falchion bears,
A sweet low voice stem Conscience fears.
And stony hearts dissolve in tears :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Chorus.
And far as rolls the ocean wave,
Is heard that voice now raised to save,
Alike the slaver and the slave :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Chorus.
* The ttock and horn, the ancient pastoral pipe of Scot
land.
145
i
And tyrants scared the writing scan,
O'er-arching heaven with rainbow span,
Man hath no pbopeett in man :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Chorut.
Then welcome be that honoxxred name.
So dear to freedom and to fame ;
Come, rend the welkin with acclaim :
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.
Chorus.
MARY'S FLITTIN'.
The term o' Martimas cam' roun',
When Mary had to flit;
She sich'd an' sabb'd wi' dowie soun'.
Her heart was sair and grit.
She faulded up her workin' claes,
Her kist-lid stood ajee —
Look'd roun' wi' sair bewilder'd gaze.
Syne cried out, 'O waes me V
' When fell disease spread owre the muir,
Heaven took my parents twain —
I was left pennyless an' bare,
An' lost my couthie hame 1
You acted then a faither's part.
An' dried my tearfu' ee—
Syne brought me here in your ain cart,
But noo, alas, waes me !'
146
' You hired me then to tent your weans,
At ae set penny-fee—
Your kin'ness fley'd awa' my pains.
You've a' been guid to me.
You treat me as I'd been your bairn,
My heart lap licht wi' glee ;
But noo a heavy weight, like aim,
Lies on my breast, waes me I
• O dool's the day an' dool's the hour,
When frae the tryst ye came I
Ye look'd as ye ne'er look'd afore,
And surly cried, " Gae hame I
Nae idlers here ! Na, na, forsooth !"
You said, while flash'd your ee;
My puir young heart lap to my mouth,
I was sair fleyd, waes me !
♦ I ken't na then 'twas losses there,
That changed to me your face —
I thocht ye wish'd I was elsewhere.
An' sae gae up my place !
Neist day when ye was like yersel'.
An' kin'ly spak to me,
I rued far mair than tongue can tell
What I had done, waes me !
'For five lang years I've faithfu' sair'd,
Sae happy in this house.
While a' the bairnies sweet hae shar'd
My joy wi' daflBn' crouse.
An' maun I lea' them a' e'en now,
An' them sae fond o' me ?
'Twill surely be my death, I trow,'
And aye she sabb'd, • waes me I'
147
The colly kin'ly lick'd her han*.
Grey baudrons rubb'd her feet,
Au e'en the weanies cudna' stan'.
They a' began to greet.
She hugg'd them to her beatin' breast.
She kiss'd ilk wat'ry ee—
"While sichin' deep, an' sair distress'd,
She cried out, ' O waes me 1'
The auld gudeman sweet Mary bless'd
Wi' a tear-blinded ee —
The gudewife op'd her muckle kist,
Whar lay her naperie.
Aflf claith, sax Flemish ells she tare,
An' laid on Mary's knee ;
Pair thing, she only grat the mair.
An' sabb'd out, ' O waes me I'
' I'll sair you freely a' my days.
Without ae penny-fee —
I'll no seek mony duds o' claes.
If you will just keep me.'
Wi' tears ilk cheek was weet a' roun',
'Twas unco sair to see —
An' hearts gae aye the tither stoun'
As she cried, 'O waes me !'
But manly up, wi' mickle grace,
Spak Rab, their auldest son —
' Let orphan Mary keep her place,
"What ill has she e'er done ?
Leal love our hearts has bound in ane.
To us your blessings gie —
'Twad melt the hardest heart o' stane
To bear her cry, waes nae V
148
Her little kist's taen aff the cart,
Ilk tear is wip'd awa',
Joy fills ilk bairn an' parent's heart,
An' smiles gae roun' the ha' :
An' in sax short weeks after this,
Bab's bride she is to be;
"Wi' Men's surrounded wi' sic bliss,
She'll nae mair cry, waes me !
R. P. M.
AS THE AULD COCK CRAWS.
As the auld cock craws, sae the young cock learns.
Aye tak ye care what ye do afore bairns ;
Their heads are muckle, though their limbs are wee,
An' O ! the wee totts are gleg in the ee :
Then dinna fricht your laddie wi' the ' black boo ' man,
But let him douk his lugs in his wee parritch pan ;
Lay ye his rosy cheek upon your mou' a wee.
How the rogue will laugh when his minny's in his ee.
As the auld cock craws, sae the young cock learns,
Aye tak ye care what ye do afore bairns ;
Though rice may be muckle, and virtue may be wee,
Yet a sma' speck o' light will woo the dullest ee :
Then dinna fright us a' wi' the muckle black deil.
Show us mercy's bonnie face, an' teach us to feel ;
Though we think like men, wo should feel like bairn?,-
As the auld cock craws, sae the young cock learns.
149
LAY OF THE BROKEN HEART.
The rude and the reckless wind,
ruthlessly strips
The leaf that last lingered on
old forest tree ;
Tlie widowed branch wails for
the love it has lost;
The parted leaf pines for
its glories foregone.
Now sereing, in sadness, and
quite broken-hearted,
It mutters mild music, and
swan-like on-fleeteth
A burden of melody,
musing of death.
To some desert spot where,
unknown and unnoted.
Its woes and its wanderings may
both find a tomb.
Far far from the land where
it grew in its gladness,
And hung from its brave branch,
freshly and green,
Bathed in blythe dews and
soft shimmering in sunshine.
From morn imtil even-tide,
a beautiful joyl
150
THE OTTER-HOUND.
When the grey morning mist in the glen lies at rest«
And the bright summer sun in full splendour is dress'd ;
While ea<;h far mountain top in his ray seems to be
An island of gold on a silvery sea.
Hai-k ! the hunters already are down from the hill.
With their otter-dogs tracking each streamlet and rill ;
And the voice of each echo replies to the sound
Of the musical bay of the bold Otter-hound.
'Tis the sport of the brave, it has spirit to cheer
"When the hound's in the stream and the hand on the spear;
To the light-balanced shaft well the hunter must look,
For a stroke at the game or a bound o'er the brook.
As swift down the stream sweeps the quarry they chase,
Yet sure are the hounds, tho' far slower in pace ;
While freshens the scent at each hillock or mound,
And loud rings the bay of the Water-train'd hound.
The vents * grow more frequent, the music more deep.
And scarce from the surface the otter can keep ;
While gallant and staunch the whole pack make a rush.
As his form from the pool stirs the wild willow-bush.
The battle now rages, the game brought to bay,
The wounded dogs yelling and limping away;
But the point of a spear pins him fast to the ground.
And his blood is the spoil of the Water-bred hound!
* When the otter comes to breathe at the surface, he does so by only
patting up his nose at first, but after a few runs his sweeps are
ehorter, till at last he is forced to take his stand upon the sax&c«.
151
The hound of the Border which hunted the Tweed,
Were a cross from the Yetholra and Rothbury * breed ;
Strongly cast in their limbs, muzzles drooping and full,
With a haunch like a race- horse, a breast like a bull-
Broad pendulous ears hanging over each jaw.
Feet webb'd like a duck to the root of each claw —
Deep, mellow, and strong, like a bugle in sound,
Is the call from the voice of the true Otter-hound.
Still like spells of romance o'er my spirit is cast,
The sports that I loved and the scenes that arc past—
When with hoimd at my heel, or my angle in hand,
I wandered the wilds of my own border land:
And shared my repast at the streamlet or spring.
With stalwart Will Faa,t the brave old Gipsy King ;
And heard him recite to the sportsmen around,
The feats of his youth with the brave Water-bound.
I loved the old man for his love of the chace.
Like a ruin he stands now the last of his race ;
For the tide of improvement, the strength of the law,
Have ruined the subjects and sway of Will Faa:
Still the fire from his eye as those stories he told,
Took the chill from a heart once so free and so bold ;
Tho' lonely he lived, still companion he found
In Beaumont, his faithful old Water-trained hound.
* My own dogs were from Rothbury, on the Coquet, bred by Mr
George Humble. Yetholm was famous for the breed of otter-hounds,
and Wai Faa's dogs were considered very pure.
t Since the above ballad was written, the Gipsy King has fallen—
before The King of Tekroes, in warfere with whom, there is neither
discharge nor escape.
152
ARNISTON.
A H£ABT S05G.
O Arniston 1 sweet Arniston I
Dear, dear art thou to me ;
For wandering 'mang thy leafy woods,
My wife and bairnies three
Hae gathered rose-bloom on their cheek p.
Now dimpled high wi' glee.
That lately sad and dowie dwined,
In death's dark hame wi' me.
O Arniston! fair Arniston!
By burn and flowery brae,
By upland lawn and craggy glens.
How sweet at eve to stray !
"While round us a' our blooming pets
Their joyous pranks resume,
An' romp like fays amang thy brae?,
Thick strewn wi' gowden broom.
O Arniston ! dear Arniston !
My first, my greatest grie^
Mid thy lone woods, in tears of joy.
Felt genial kind relief.
The cushet loes thy forest glades,
The lark thy verdant lea ;
Bat by dim memory's grateful ties
Thou'rt knit to mine and me.
153
THE HAPPY MOTHER.
AiB,— ' The HilU o' Glenorchy:
An' O ! may I never live single again—
I wish I may never live single again ;
I hae a gudeman, an' a hame o' my ain.
An' O ! may I never live single again.
I've twa bonnie bairns the fairest of a'.
They cheer up my heart when their daddie's awa' ;
I've ane at my foot, an' I've ane on my knee.
An' fondly they look, an' say, ' Mammy' to rae.
At gloamin' their daddie comes in frae the plough*
The blink in his ee, an' the smile on his brow,
Says, ' How are ye lassie, O ! how are ye a'.
An' how's the wee bodies sin' I gade awa' ?'
He sings i' the e'enin' fu' cheerie an' gay —
He tells o' the toil an' the news o' the day ;
The twa bonnie lammies he taks on his knee,
An' blinks o'er the ingle fa' couthie to me.
O ! happy's the father that's happy at hame,
An' blythe is the mither that's blythe o' the name;
The frown o' the warld they hae na to dree—
The warld is naething to Johnny an' me.
Tho' crosses will mingle wi' mitherly cares,
Awa', bonnie lasses — awa' wi' your fears ;
Gin ye get a laddie that's loving an' fain,
Ye'll wish ye may never live single again !
^
154
NO— COME NOT, MY LIFE.
No— come not, my life ! till the gay sun is waking
The slumbering flowers of a distant Isuid ;
Till the pensive moon on the still heaven breaking,
Greets, like a mother, her starry band.
As the planet of love leaves, silent and lonely,
The coral caves of a waveless sea ;
So come to the bower, where thou art the only
One that will ever be met by me.
Thy voice is the music of Memory, swelling.
Through clefts, a grief-stricken heart hath known,
Like the autumn winds through some tenantless dwelling,
Making, by fits, a desolate moan.
And pleasant it is, in the moments of sorrow,
To have thy spirit to meet with mine.
That its dream may be blessed, and its dark mood borrow
A beam from the holier light of thine.
Then come all alone, when the happy lie sleeping,
When night-dews sparkle on flower and tree ;
One tear from thine eye, while our sad watch we're keeping,
More than dew to the flower will be to me.
Let the icy of soul, or the hopeful-hearted.
Sport in the blaze of the regal sun ;
'Tis meet, love, that we, from whom joy hath departed,
Should wait and weep when his course is run.
.^k
155
HE COURTED ME IN PARLOUR.
He courted me in parlour, and he courted me in ha'.
He courted me by Bothwell banks, amang the flowers sae
sma'.
He courted me wi' pearlins, wi' ribbons, and wi' rings,
He courted me wi' laces, and wi' mony mair braw things ;
But O ! he courted best o' a' wi' his black blythesome ee,
Whilk wi' a gleam o' witcherie cuist glaumour over me.
We hied thegither to the Fair— I rade ahint my joe,
I fand his heart leap up and doun, while mine beat faint
and low ;
He turn'd his rosy cheek about, and then, ere I could trow,
The widdifu' o' wickedness took arles o' my mou !
Syne, when I feigned to be sair fleyed, sae pawkily as he
Bann'd the auld mare for missing fit, and thrawin him ajee.
And aye he waled the leanings lang, till we drew near the
town.
When I could hear the kimmers say — ' There rides a
comelie loun !'
I turned wi' pride and keeked at him, but no as to be seen,
And thought how dowie I wad feel, gin he made love to
Jean!
But soon the manly chiel, afiF-hand, thus frankly said to me,
• Meg I either tak me to yoursel, or set me fairly free !'
To Glasgow Green I link'd wi' him, to see the ferlies
there.
He birled his peaoy wi' the best— what noble conld do
mair?
156
But ere ae fit he'd tak me hame, he cries—* Meg, tell me
noo:
Gin ye will hae me, there's my loof, I'll aye be leal an' true.'
On sic an honest, loving heart how could I draw a bar ?
What could I do but tak Rab'a hand, for better or for waur ?
%dl<MM^ Midj^n^
AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.
Ye maunna be proud, although ye be great.
The poorest bodie is still your brither ;
The king he may come in the cadger's gate,
An' ae gude turn aye deserves anither.
The hale o' us spring frae the same cauld clay.
An hour we bloom, in an hour we wither ;
Then let us help ither to climb the brae.
As ae gude tmn aye deserves anither.
The highest amang us are unco wee,
Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;
Then let us divide what we get so free.
As jie gude turn aye deserves anither.
O ! life is a weary journey alane.
But blythe's the road when we wend wi' ither ;
And mutual gie'ing is mutual gain,
When ae gude turn aye deserves anither.
157
THE SEASON OF LOVE.
Thb spirit of Beauty's abroad o'er the land,
Mother Earth dons her robes at the touch of his wand.
And the daisy comes forth, and the blossoms expand.
And the fair face o' Nature looks gaily.
There's music, sweet music, in woodland and hill.
There's a song in the breeze, there's a tune in the rill.
And the merle and the mavis are singing their fill,
Till echo rings down in the valley.
And Summer, his beautiful Queen, with her train,
Comes strewing her roses wide over the plain ;
And the lark in the cloud sings her welcome again.
As she trips it along so airy.
The carpet they tread is the brightest of green,
Enamel'd with flowers of the loveliest sheen.
And the traces are left of their gambols yestreen.
In the haunts of the fay and the fairy.
'Tis the season of gladness, of joy, and of love.
Within us, around us — below, and above ;
On the earth, in the air, and the stream and the grove,
All Nature is striving to please us.
Then how happy to rove in a season like this,
Wi' a sweet bonnie lassie wha'll no tak' amiss,
Wi' an arm roun' her waist, tho' we steal a bit kiss,
In the gloamin' when naebody sees us I
Oh ! love it will last while the world can go round.
In spite o' the icicle tribe, I'll be bound —
Wbase cauld frozen blood still at zero is found.
Or but thaws in the height of a fever.
158
Love— love's been supreme ain' the warld it began.
It's the tocher o' woman ! the birthright of man 1
An* nane worth the name, but hae join'd in the plan,
An' will be its votaries for ever.
O SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS CHANGE I
O SAY not pure affections change
When fixed they once have been.
Or that between two noble hearts
Hate e'er can intervene !
Though coldness for a while may freeze
The love- springs of the soul.
Though angry pride its sympathies
May for a time control.
Yet such estrangement cannot last—
A tone, a touch, a look.
Dissolves at once the icyness
That crisp'd affection's brook :
Again they feel the genial glow
Within the bosom burn.
And all their pent-up tenderness
With tenfold force return \
159
THE NAMELESS LASSIE.
Mtutc by Alexander Maciunzix, Esq.
Thers'8 nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's
name;
There's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her
hame;
Yet tbo' my lassie's nameless, an* her kin o' low degree.
Her heart is warm, her thoughts are pure, an' O ! she's dear
to me;
Her heart is warm, her thoughts are pure, an' O ! she's dear
tome.
She's gentle as she's bonnie, an' she's modest as she's fair ;
Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they're rare ;
While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea.
For happiness an* innocence thegither aye maun be !
When she unveils her blooming face the flowers may cease
to blaw ;
An' when she ope's her hinnied lips, the air is music a' ;
But when wi' ither's sorrows touched, the tear starts to
her ee.
Oh 1 that's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl
tome.
Within my soul her form's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain;
An' richer prize, or purer bliss, nae mortal e'er can gain ;
The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee.
Cheered onward by the love that lights my nameless
lassie's eel
160
THE RAVEN.
Am—* Row weel, my boatie, rote weel.^
• Sing low, pretty linnet, sing low,
The raven comes down from his nest ;
The castle-wood rings
"With the flap of his wings,
Sing low till the spoUer is past.'
The dear little linnet sung low,
Till past flew the fierce bird of prey ;
And then, O ! how clear
On echo's glad ear.
The linnet renew'd her sweet lay.
Had I, like the linnet, sung low.
As wam'd like her I had been ;
Or thought of the blight
That follow'd his flight—
The spoiler had pass'd me unseen.
But vain of my voice and my song,
And proud of his praise and his vow,
I fell— hapless hour —
And ah ! never more
Will sing as the linnet sings now I
iA^juJcu^
161
THE PEARLY BROW.
Am—' The Shepherd's Wife:
Arranged as a Duet, and sung by Miss Issacs and Mr Haigh
in the Operetta of ' The Provost's Daughter.'
• Oh ! ■whaur gat ye that pearly brow,
An' whaur gat ye that rosy mou.
All' whaur gat ye thae een sae blue,
That play sic prants on mine, joe ?'
' The ne'er a pearl there's on my brow.
The ne'er a rose blaws on my mou.
My een ye canna ken they're blue,
They ne'er were raised to thine, joe.'
• Ae glance, ae sparkling glance was mine.
An' Hope has dwalt wi' me sinsyne ;
Then let these stars in mercy shine
On him wha worships thee, joe.'
' Seek stars in heaven, for there they shine,
Gae worship at some holy shrine.
Pay homage to some saint divine.
Ye maunna worship me, joe."
• But I maun love, and loving seek
Like love frae thee, sae pure and meek ;
Then dinna that fair bosom steek
'Gainst ane wha loves but thee, joe.'
The lassie blushed, she couldna speak.
Deep crimson roses flushed her cheek,
While wi' a silent sidelang keek.
She shower'd love's light on me, joe.
162
BAITH SIDES O' THE PICTURE.
Air,—' Willie wat a Wanton Wag*
Gin ye bae pence, ye will hae sense.
Gin ye hae nought, ye will hae nane,
When I had cash, I was thought gash,
And my advice by a* was taen ;
The rich and poor then thrang'd my door,
The very dog cam* for his bane.
My purse, my ha', were free to a'.
And I was roosed by ilka ane.
Gnid freens, and true, I had enow,
Wha to oblige me aye were fain.
Gin I but said, * 1 want your lud,'
I didna need to say't again.
Whene'er I spak, and tald my crack.
Loud plaudits I was sure to gain;
For ilka word, howe'er absurd.
Was for undoubted wisdom taen.
At catch or glee, I bore the gree,
For music's powers were a' my ain ;
And when I sang, the hale house rang,
Wi' rapturous encores again.
At pun or jest I shone the best.
For nane had sic a fertile brain ;
My jibes and jokes, my satire strokes,
Were — like my wine— a' kindly taen.
But when I brak*, and gaed to wrack,
nk gowden prospect fairly gane,
My judgment wi' my wealth did flee.
And a' my sense was Arae me taen ;
163
Nor rich, nor poor, cam' near my door
My freens a' vanished ane by ane ;
Nor word, nor crack, was worth a plack.
For I was listened to by nane.
My jests and wit, they wadna hit.
My singing; met wi* cauld disdain.
The distant look, or dry rebuke.
Was a' that e'er I could obtain.
But, thanks to Gude, I've fortitude.
Adversity's sour cup to drain.
And ae true freen, as e'er was seen.
And that's the Dog that shares my bane.
BONNIE BONALY.
^uiic by Alex. Mackenzie, Esq.
BoimiE Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream.
Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream ;
Falling where silver light gleams on its breast*
Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest.
Flooding with music its own tiny valley.
Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.
Proudly Bonaly's grey*browed Castle towers,
Boimded by mountains, and bedded in flowers-
Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;
Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom.
Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,
Playing amid the green knolls o* Bonaly.
164
Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crowned crest i
Peerless Edina expands her white breast.
Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,
Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between.
Nature and art, like fair twins, wander gaily ;
Friendship and Lore dwell in Bonnie Bonaly.
THE HUNTER'S WELL.
Life of this wilderness,
Pure gushing stream,
Dear to the Summer
Is thy murmuring !
Note of the song-bird,
Warbling on high.
Ne'er v.-ith my spirit made
Such harmony
As do thy deep waters.
O'er rock, leaf, and flower
Bubbling and babbling
Tlie long sunny hour !
Tongue of this desert spot.
Spelling sweet tones.
To the mute listeners —
Old mossy stones;
Who ranged these stones near
Thy silver rim.
165
Guarding the temple
Where rises thy hymn ?
Some thirst- stricken Hunter—
Swarth priest of the wood.
Around thee hath strewn them,
In fond gratitude.
Orb of the green waste*
Open and clear,
Friend of the Himter*
Loved of the deer ;
Brilliantly breaking
Beneath the blue sky.
Gladdening the leaSets
That tremulous sigh ;
Star of my wandering.
Symbol of love.
Lead me to dream of
The Foimtain above !
%dLeo^ MAl^^^
A BONNIE BRIDE IS EASY BU8KIT.
To a Melody by Mr Alex. Mackenzie.
• Come Mary, dinna say me nay.
But fix at ance our bridal day ;
Let love dispel your doubts for aye.
And dinna let your brow be duskit.
Although I canna deed ye braw.
And tho* my house and mailen's sma*,
Your angel form will hallow a' —
A bonnie bride is easy buskit.*
166
-t; ' O dinna press our bridal now.
But rest content ye hae my vow,
My father's frozen breast will thowe,
So let the spring-fed burnie gather.
He says my weal is a' his care.
He bends, I streak his siller hair.
He weeps, I breathe a silent prayer —
I daurna leave my dear auld father.'
* Alack ! your father's fond o' gear,
At my poor suit again he'll sneer,
And I maun lose thee, Mary dear.
Unless his angry ban ye risk it.
But gin our humble cot he'll share,
He'll welcome be, ye'll nurse him there ;
I seek yoursel, I ask nae mair —
A bonnie bride is easy buskit.*
Unseen the carle stands listening by,
Wi' smiling mou and glistening eye ;
He hears his Mary heave a sigh.
And out he bawls in tones sae huskit:
• Here tak her, Rab, my blessing hae.
Your kindly heart has won the day ;
And be your bridal when it may.
Your bride shall be fu' brawly buskit.'
IF TO THY HEART I WERE AS NEAR.
If to thy heart I were as near
As thou art near to mine,
I'd hardly care though a' the year
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear,
Nae sun on earth suld shme !
167
Twin stamies are thy glancin' een—
A warld they'd lic.ht and raair—
And gin that ye be my Christine,
Ae blink to me ye'Il spare, my dear,
Ae blinl£ to me ye'll spare !
My leesome May I've wooed too lang—
Aneath the trystin' tree,
I've sung till a' the plantins rang,
Wi' lays o' love for thee, ray dear,
Wi' lays o' love for thee.
The dew-draps glisten on the green.
The laverocks lilt on high,
We'll forth and doun the loan, Christine,
And kiss when nane is nigh, ray dear.
And kiss when nane is nigh !
WEE ANNIE O' AUCHINEDEN.
A GOWDEN dream thou art to me,
From shades of earth and evil free ;
An angel form of love and glee,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Thy mither's cheek was wet and pale.
While aft in sighs her words wad fall,
As in mine ear she breathed thy tale,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
168
That low sweet voice through many a year,
If life is mine, shall haunt my ear.
Which pictured thee with smile and tear ,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Lone was thy hame upon the moor,
'Mang dark brown heaths and mountains hoar ;
Thou wert a sunbeam at the door,
Wee Annie o* Auchineden.
A winsome beild was thine, I ween.
Far peeping o'er its belt o' green,
Wi' curls o' reek in summer's sheen,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Sweet-scented nurslings o' stin and dew,
In bosky faulds o' the burn that grew.
Were the only mates thy bairnhood knew,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
But the swallow biggit aneath the eaves.
And the bonnie cock-shilfa 'mang the leaves
Aft lilted to thee in the silent eves,
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Dk fairy blossom ye kent by name.
And birds to thy side all fearless came,
Thy winning tongue could the wildest tame.
Wee Annie o* Auchineden.
There's a deep, deep lore in hearts o' love.
And kindness has charms a' charms above ;
'Twas thine the cauldest breast to move.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
But the auld folk shook their heads to see
Sic wisdom lent to a bairn like thee ;
\
169
And they sighed, 'Lang here ye wadna be,'
Wee Annie o' Auchineden,
And thou wert ta'en frae this world o' tears,
Unstained by the sorrow or sin of years ;
Thy voice is now in the angels' ears.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Thy mither's ee has been dimmed with wae—
The licht o' her smile has past away ;
But a better hame is thine for aye.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
There's an eerie blank ; t yon fireside,
And sorrow has crush'd the hearts of pride;
For sair in thy loss their faith was tried.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
The primrose glints on the Spring's return,
The merle sings bly the to the dancin' burn;
But there's ae sweet flower we aye shall mourn.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
Life's waning day wears fast awa' —
The mirk, mirk gloamin' soon shall fa' ;
To death's dark porch we journey a'.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
When the weary wark o' the world is dune,
And the streams o' the heart hae ceased to rin,
May we meet wi' thee in thy hame abune.
Wee Annie o' Auchineden.
l2
170
THE MERMAroEN.
• The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill,
And the white faem weets my bree,
And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden.
That the land we sail never see !'
Then up and spak' the mermaiden,
And she spak' blythe and free,
' I never said to my bonnie bridegroom.
That on land we sud weddit be.
• Oh ! I never said that ane erthlie priest
Our bridal blessing should gi'e.
And I never said that a landwart bouir
Should hauld my love and me.*
• And whare is that priest, my bonnie maiden,
If ane erthlie wicht is na he ?'
• Oh ! the wind will sough, jyid the sea will rair.
When weddit we twa sail be.'
' And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden,
If on land it sud na be ?*
' Oh ! my blythe bouir is low,' said the mermaiden,
' In the bonnie green howes of the sea :
My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels,
And the banes o' the drowned at sea ;
The fish are the deer that fill my parks,
And the water waste my dourie.
' And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves,
And paved wi' the yellow sand.
And in my chaumers grow bonnie white flowers
That never grew on land.
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom,
A leman on earth that wud gi'e
171
Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land,
As I'll gi'e to thee o' the sea?
• The mune will rise in half ane hour,
And the wee bright starns will shine ;
Then we'll sink to my bouir, 'neath the wan water
Full fifty fathom and nine !'
A wild, wild skreich gi'ed the fey bridegroom,
And a loud, loud lauch, the bride ;
For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down
Under the silver'd tide.
THE CHILDLESS WIDOW.
Publithed to a Melody ly Peteb M'Leod.
O WHAUE gat ye that manly bairn ?
I ance had ane his marrow,
Who shone out like a heavenly starn,
Amid my nicht o' sorrow.
Nae ferlie that I lo'e your wean.
An' o' his sweets envy ye.
For my poor heart, sae sad and lane,
Grows glad when I am nigh ye.
My boy was fair, itiy boy was brave,
Wi' yellow ringlets flowing ;
But now he sleeps in yon cauld grave,
Sweet flowerets o'er him growing.
172
When his dear father joined the blest,
I fain wad hae gane wi' him ;
But that sweet child clung to my breast,
I couldna gang an' lea' him.
My boy he grew, he better grew,
Nae marrow had he growin'.
Till ae snell blast that on us blew,
Set my sweet bud a dowin'.
But aye as dowed the outward rind,
The core it grew the dearer.
And aye as his frail body dwined,
His mind it shone the clearer.
O bright, bright shone his sparklin ee—
His cheek the pillow pressing ;
He cast his last sad glance on me —
' Sweet mother, hae my blessing.'
Then oh ! the childless heart forgie,
That canna but envy ye ;
For still that ee seems fixed on me,
While thus I linger by ye.
SONG OP THE SHIP.
When surly winds and gruesome clouds
Are tilting in the sky,
And every little star 's abed,
That glimmered cheerily—
O then 'tis meet for mariners
To steer right careftilly !
173
For mermaids sing the shipman's dirge,
Where ocean weds the sky—
A blessing on our gude ship as lustily she sails,
O what can match our gude ship when blest with favour-
ing gales I
Blythely to the tall top-mast.
Up springs the sailor boy —
Could he but hail a distant port,
How he would leap with joy !
By bending yard and rope he swings—
A fair-haired child of glee —
But oh ! a cruel saucy wave
Hath swept him in the sea!
There's sadness in the gude ship that breasts the waters
wild.
Though safe ourselves we'll think with tears of our poor
ocean-child I
Our main-mast now is clean cut down,
The tackle torn away—
And thundering o'er the stout ship's side.
The seas make fearful play !
Yet cheerily, cheerily on we go.
Though fierce the tempest raves,
We know the Hand unseen that guides
The ship o'er stormy waves !
We'll all still stand by the old ship as should a trusty crew.
For He who rules the wasting waves may some port bring
to view I
Our good ship is a shapely ship—
A shapely and a strong—
Our hearts sang to our noble ship.
As she careered along !
174
And fear ye not, my sturdy mates,
Though sails and masts be riven—
"We know, while drifting o'er the deep,
Above there's still a haven !
Though sorely we're benighted upon the weltering foam,
The sun may rise upon the morn and guide ua to a home !
4t MriU^^
THE BARD OF ARMAGH.
Ais,— • The Exile of Erin:
Oh ! list to the lay of a poor Irish Harper,
Though wayward and fitful his old withered hand;
Remember his touch once was bolder and sharper,
When raising the strains of his dear native land.
Long before the shamrock, our isle's lovely emblem,
Was crush'd in its bloom 'neath the Saxon lion's paw,
I was called by the coleens around me assembling,
Their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh !
Oh ! how I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Tho' fourscore and three years have flitted since then 1
Still it gives sweet reflection, as ev'ry first joy should.
For free-hearted boys make the best of ould men.
At the fair or the wake I could twirl my shillelah.
Or trip through the jig in my brogues bound wi' straw ;
Faith, all the pretty girls in the village and the valley.
Loved bould Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh !
Now tho' I have wander'd this wide world over.
Still Ireland's my home and a parent to me ;
Then O ! let the turf that my bosom shall cover,
Be cut from the ground that is trod by the firee !
175
And when in his cold arms Death shall embrace me,
Och ! lull me asleep wid sweet Erin go Bragh I
By the side of my Kathlin, my first love, O ! place me ;
She loved Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh I
I PLUCK'D THE BERRY.
I pluck'd the berry from the bush, the brown nut from
the tree,
But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me :
I saw them in their curious nests close couched, and islyly
peer.
With their wild eyes like glittering beads, to note if harm
were near :
I passed them by, and blessed them all ; I felt that it was
good
To leave unharmed God's creatures small, whose bcmie ia
in the wood.
And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing;
He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little
wing:
He will not fly ; he knows full well, while chirping on that
spray,
I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay.
Sing on, sing on, blythe bird ! and fill my heart with sum-
mer gladness :
It has been aching many a day with measures full of
sadness.
%dLcu^ MMvMli
176
MY WILLIE AN' ME.
Mt mlnny is pawky, my minny is 8lee»
She keeps me aye close 'neath the kep o' her ee ;
She bids me gae nurse my young billie awee.
But wots nae bow sleely my Willie woo6 me.
What ails my auld minny at Willie an' me ?
How e'er can my minny wyte Willie an' me,
When nought but the wean an' the wee butterflee
Can see the stoun kiss o' my Willie an' me ?
My grandfather suns himsel' on the door-stane.
And dreams o' my grandmother lang dead and gane ;
He gazes on heaven wi' his lustreless ee,—
They surely ance loved like my Willie an' me ?
I ken Willie's true, and I ken he's my ain,
He courts nae for gear, an' he comes nae for gain ;
He leaves a' his flocks far outoure on yon lea,
What true heart wad sinder my Willie an' me ?
Then what ails my minny at Willie an' me ?
She shouldna be sair on my Willie an' me ;
Her black ribboned snood brings the tear to my ee,
But veel my dear father lo'ed Willie an' me.
177
HEIGH ! HO !
Tell me, Maiden, tell me truly,
Hast thou lost thy heart or no ?
In the charming month of July
Hearts will go a- wandering so ;
Is it so,
Ay or no ?
Hearts will go— with a — heigh I ho !
Dew bespangles mead and mountain.
Sunbeams kiss, and flowerets blow ;
By the shady fell and fountain
Lovers will a wooing go ;
Is it so,
Ay or no?
Hearts will go— with a— heigh ! ho !
Ope thine eyes, and spare thy roses.
Thus outblushing Nature so ;
Love is still, and ne'er discloses
What the July gloamings know ;
Is it so,
Ay or no ?
Hearts will go— with a— heigh 1 ho !
^yhh
^^^4'^tA^ C^<>'^uoo^^^s^^C^i
178
'DINNA FORGET.'
AiB— ' WTien Adam at first was created*
Come, put on thy finger this ring, love ;
And, when thou art far o'er the sea.
Perhaps to thy mind it will bring, love,
Some thought— some remembrance— of me
Our moments of rapture and bliss, love,
The haunts where so oft we have met,
These tears, and this last parting kiss, love,
It tells thee — O ' dinna forget !'
We might look on yonder fair moon, love.
Oft gazed on by us with delight,
And think of each other alone, love.
At one sacred hour every night :
But, ah ! ere she'd rise to thy view, love,
To me, she long, long would be set ;
Then look to this token more true, love.
On thy finger— and ' dinna forget !'
Thou mayest meet faces more fair, love.
And charms more attractive than mine ;
Be moved by a more winning air, love,
Or struck by a figure more fine:
But, shouldst thou a brighter eye see, love,
Or ringlets of more glossy jet,
Let this still thy talisman be, love.
Look on it, and ' dinna forget !'
And, oh : when thou wi*itest to me, love,
The sealing impress with this ring ;
And that a sweet earnest will be, love,
To which, with fond hope, I will cling ;
179
That tbou to thy vows wilt be true, love;
That happiness waiteth us yet;
One parting embrace — now adieu, love —
This moment I'll never forget !
AWAY, WHILE YET THY DAYS ARE FEW.
AwAT, while yet thy days are few, forsake thy quiet home.
And in a bark of buoyant hope on Life's wide waters roam;
With Passion at the rudder, boy! steer bold for every shore
Which to thy ardent fancy seems with sunshine glistening
o'er.
And gladden thee and madden thee with all the earth can
give.
Nor let thy bosom feel repose till thou hast learned to live.
O'er many a glancing summer wave thou'lt find an island
fair,
A paradise of living flowers most beautiful and rare ;
Its beacon-fires are numberless, all lighted up by Love,
And brighter than the brightest stars that grace the
heavens above ;
And free to thee its flowers shall be,— the choicest thou
may'st wear,
If thou wilt stay thy morning course, and take thy haven
there.
180
If onward still thy bark must go— then onward lies a strand
V> hose towers and domes, of burning gold, proclaim a royal
land. —
Ambition holds a gallant sway o'er that imperial soil.
And, loftily, will he repay thy danger and thy toil :
His power can frame, from out thy name, a spell of joy, or
pain,
To make or mar, a nation's lot, if thou wilt bear his chain.
But if, in Beauty's fairy isle, from blossoms fondly pressed—
Though of all hues the sky hath known— thy soul should
rise unblessed—
.And if, in the gigantic halls that zone Ambition's state.
Thy heart beneath a diamond's blaze, feel cold and desolate;
And if thy will incline thee still for other shores to steer.
Yet no spot like the fancied one, to welcome thee appear ;
Then— I implore thee, by the name thy father gave to thee,
And by the dust of her who bore thy weakness on her knee,
That thou wilt not, however late, persuade thyself to stay.
In recklessness, where joy, or peace aiford no lasting ray ;
But, though estranged, and something changed, haste to
thy quiet home.
And spend thy days, as they were spent, ere thou hadst
learned to roam.
1
181
WHO'LL GO WITH ME ?
Music by Petek M'Leod, Esq.
Wuo'LL go with me over the fea,
Breasting the billows merrily ?
With a tight little ship, and a bright can of fiip,
What heart but braves it cheerily ?
Winds may blow,
High or low,
Steady, ready, merry, cheery. Jack's the go.
The star of love that beams above,
Shines down all pure and holily ;
We'll brave the bi-eeze, we'll sweep the seas.
With bosoms beating jollily :
Winds may blow.
High or low.
Steady, ready, merry, cheery, Jack's the go.
Then, while we're afloat in our island boat.
Let's reef and steer her warily ;
And if our foes dare come to blows.
We'll meet them taut and yarily :
Winds may blow.
High or low.
Steady, ready, merry, cheery, Jack's the go.
'H4^
182
TIME'S CHANGES.
To a Melody by Kieser.
O DAYS long forgotten, why ri<e ye again,
When all your remembrance bnngs sorrow and pain ?
■\Mien she wha's fair picture was 'graved in your heart,
Appears shrunk an' faded, nae ferlie ye start.
■When he wha has taught ye, a bairn at the school,
Wha's wise pow aye made ye a poor donner't fool.
Comes seekin' your aid, wi' his head hingin' low.
Oh ! sair is the shock, aye, an' hard is the blow.
The whiteheaded elder, whom lang syne ye mind.
Was aye to your puir widowed mother sae kind ;
When stricken wi' poortith, an' laden wi' years.
Ye help him, ye bless him, ye gie him your tears.
The wee cockin' bailie ye liket sae weel,
M'ha aye was sae mensefu' wi' maut an' wi' meal.
When fastin' has come, and when feastia's awa.
Ye mourn for his fate, an' ye feel for his fa'.
Yon mansion sae hoary, ye mind a laird's ha',
Now lane an' deserted, is crumbling awa' ;
Ye think on the days the auld biggin' has seen,
An' thoughts of the past bring the tears to your een.
Thus Time shows us a' what maun soon come to pass.
We're backward to keek in his truth-telling glass ;
New buds may sprout out frae the auld hoary tree,
But e'en these young buds soon maun wither an' dee.
Yet, though your frail body maun mingle wi' clay.
Sweet Virtue bears flowers that can never decay ;
An' Oh ! gin ye've grafted ae bud on her tree.
You'll see your aui flower blooming brightly on hie.
NURSERY SONGS.
WILLIE WINKIE.
Air by Rev. W. li.
Wee Willie Winkih rins through the towu,
tip stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-gown.
Tilling at the window, crying at the look,
" Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock /"
" Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben ?
The cat's singing grey thi-uma to the sleeping hen.
The dog's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gi'e a cheep.
But here's a vvaukrife laddie ! that winna fa' asleep."
Oiiything but sleep, you rogue! glow'ring like the moon,
Rattling in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon.
Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,
Skirling like a kenna-what, wauk'ning sleeping fook.
'* Hey, AVillie Winkie — the wean's in a creel I
Wambling aff a bodie's knee like a very eel.
Rugging at the cat's lug, and raveling a' her thrums—
Hey, Willie Winkie— see, there he comes !"
A
Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,
A wee stnmpie stoussie, that canDa rin his lane.
That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee—
But a kits frae aff his rosy lips gi'es strength anew to mc.
fhAjOa/ytr^
NURSERY SCARECROWS.
Air—" Chevy Chase"
Gae wa' ye silly, senseless quean !
Nor frighten sae my wean
Wi' tale^ o' bogles, ghaists, and elves.
That he '11 no sleep his lane.
Come ! say your prayers, my bonnie bairn.
And saftly slip to bed—
Your guardian angel's waiting there.
To shield your lovely head.
O never mind the foolish things
Thgt clavering Jenny says—
They're just the idle silly tales.
The dreams o' darker days ;
Our grannies, and our gran'dads too.
They might believe them a'.
And keep themsel's in constant dread
O' things they never saw.
8
Lie still, lie still, my ain wee man ♦
Sic stories are na true,
Til era's naethiug in the dark can harm
My bonnie harmless doo ;
The watchfu' ee that never sleeps.
That never knows decay,
Will tent frae skaith my bonaie bairn,
By night as weel's by day.
THE SELFISH LADDIE.
AiB — " Wlien the kye come hame.''
Fy ! on the selfish laddie
Who tak's but never gi'es,
Wha canna part wi' aught he gets.
But covets a* he sees.
He's just a little miser brat,
A greedy glow'ring elf,
Wha grabs at a* within his grasp.
And thinks on nought but self.
Though his bit pouch is cramm'd sae fu'
That it can baud nae mair ;
And little Mary pleads for some.
Yet no ae crumb hell spare.
Nae bairn can e'er deserve to ge*.
NVha winna freely gl'e ;
But weel I lo'e the open heart—
The heart that's warm and free.
When Mary gets an apple.
It mann he cut in twa,
And aye, I'm sure, the biggest half
The wee thing gi'es awa*.
She shares her goodies round about
Sae kindly and sae free.
That nane can be mair blythe to get
Than jMary'g glad to gi'e.
WZ^
THE NEW COMER.
*♦ Wha's aught this wee wean
That my minnie has now.
To clasp to her bosom,
And press to her mou*.
While I, ance her dawtie.
Am laid bv the wa'.
Or set out a' couring
To .try the stirk's sta* ?*
" That wean is your Billie,
My ain son and heir !
You'll see j'our ain picture
A wee wee-er there :
You'll sleep wi' your father,
Your Billie is sma'.
And now that ye're strong,
Ye maun try the stirk's sta'.
" Ye're kind to me, father,
Nane kinder may be,
Cut your bosom can ne'er
Be a mither's to me ;
O ! dinna me tak'
Frae that bosy awa',
Dinna ask your wee laddie
To try the stirk's sta' !"
" Dear bairn ! 'tis a foretaste
O* a' ye'U find here —
We step o'er our elders,
As year follows year,
• "When the pet child is transferred from his mother's to his father's
bosom, in consequence of a younger aspirant coming on the field, he is
said to be sent to the itirk't sta'.
6
We're a* marching onward.
Our hame's far awa' —
Sae kiss your young Billie.
And try the stirk's sta*."
^^Cyf^OL^
THE FAMILY CONTRAST.
AiK — '• John 0' Badenyon"
O Sirs ! was e'er sic diflFerence seen
As 'twixt wee AY ill and Tarn?
The ane's a perfect ettercap.
The ither's just a lamb ;
Will greets and girns the leelang day.
And carps at a* he gets—
Wi" ither bairns he winna play.
But sits alane and frets.
He flings his piece into the fire,
He yaumers at his brose,
And wae betide the luckless flee
That lights upon his nose !
He kicks the collie, cufis the cat.
The hen and birds he stanes —
Is'a, little brat ! he tak's a preen
And jags the very weans.
Wi' spite he tumbles afiF his stool.
And there he sprawling lies.
And at his mother thraws his gab.
Gin she but bid him rise.
Is there in a' the world beside
Sae wild a wight as he ?
Weel ! gin the creature grow a man,
I wonder what he'll be !
But Tammy's just as sweet a bairn
As ane could wish to see.
The smile aye plays around his lips,
While blythely blinks his ee;
He never whimpers, greets, nor girns,
Even for a broken tae,
But rins and gets it buckled up,
Syne out again to play.
He claps the collie, dauts the cat,
Flings moolins to the doos,
To Bess and Bruckie rins for grass.
To cool their honest mou's ;
He's kind to ilka living thing.
He winna hurt a flee.
And, gin he meet a beggar bairn.
His piece he'll freely gi'e.
He tries to please wee crabbit Will,
"When in his cankriest mood,
lie gie's him a' his taps and bools.
And tells him to be good.
Sae good a wean as our wee Tarn
It cheers the heart to see, —
O .' gin his brither were like him.
How happy might we be !
GREE, BAIRNIES, GREE!
Air — " Oh. ! no, we never mention her."
The Moon has rowed her in a cloud,
Stravaging win's begin
To shuggle and daud the window-brods,
Like loons that would be in !
" Gae whistle a tune in the lum-head.
Or craik in saughen tree !
We're thankf u' for a cozie hame " —
Sae gree, my bairnies, gree !
Tho' gurling blasts may dourly blaw,
A rousing fire will thow
A straggler's taes, and keep fu' cosh
]My tousie taps-o'-tow.
O who would cool your kail, my bairns.
Or bake your bread like me, —
Ye'd get the bit frae out my mouth,
Sae gree, my bairnies, gree !
Oh, never fling the warmsome boon
O' bairnhood's love awa' ;
Mind how ye sleepit, cheek to cheek !
Between me and the wa' ;
How ae kind arm was ovver ye baith —
But, if ye disagree,
Think on the saft and kindly soun'
O* *' Gree, my bairnies, Gree."
THE BONNIE MILK COW.
Am—" The auld toi/e ayont the fire.''
Moo, moo, proochy lady !
Proo, Hawkie, proo, Hawkie !
Lowing i' the gloaming hour,
Comes my bonnie cow.
10
Buttercups an' clover green,
A* day lang, her feast ha'e been,
Then laden hame she comes at e'en —
Proo, Hawkie, proo !
Bairnies for their porridge greet,
Proo, Hawkie, proo, Hawkie !
And milk maun ha'e their mou's to weet.
Sweet and warm frae you.
Though ither kye gae dry an' yel',
Hawkie ne'er was kent to fail,
But aye she fills the reaming pail—
Proo, Hawkie, proo !
Best o' butter, best o'cheese,
Proo, Hawkie, proo, Hawkie !
That weel the nicest gab may please,
Yields my dainty cow.
When the gudewife stirs the tea.
Sweeter cream there canna be, —
Sic curds an' whey ye'll seldom see—
Proo, Hawkie, proo I
II
ROSY CnEEKIT APPLES.
Air — *' What's a' the steer, kimmer."
Come awa', my bairnie, for your bawbee
Rosy eheekit apples ye shall hae three.
A' sae fou' o* hinny, they drappit frae the tree ;
Like your bonny sel', a* the sweeter they are wee.
Come awa', my bairnie, dinna shake your head,
Ye mind me o' my ain bairn, lang, lang, dead.
Ah ! for lack o' nourishment he drappit frae the tree ;
Like your bonny sel', a' the sweeter he was wee.
Oh ! auld frail folk are like auld fruit trees ;
They canna stand the gnarl o' the cauld winter breeze.
But heaven tak's the fruit tho' earth forsake the tree ;
And we mourn our fairy blossoms, a* the sweeter they wer<
wee.
Come awa', my bairnie, for your bawbee
Rosy eheekit apples ye shall ha'e three.
A' sae fou' o' hinny, they drappit frae the tree ;
Like your bonny sol', a' the sweeter they are wee.
12
THE SLEEPY LADDIE.
Are ye no gaun to wauken th' day, ye rogue ?
Your parritch is ready and cool in the cog,
Auld baudrons sae gaucy, and Tarn o' that ilk
Would fain ha'e a drap o' the wee laddie's milk.
There's a wee birdie singing— get up, get up !
And listen, it says tak* a whup, tak' a whup !
But I'll kittle bis bosie — a far better plan —
And pouther his pow wi' a watei'ing can.
There's a house redd up like a palace, I'm sure,
That a pony might dance a jig on the floor ;
And father is coming, so wauken and meet.
And welcome him hame wi* your kisses sae sweet.
It's far i' the day now, and brawly ye ken.
Your father has scarcely a minute to spen';
But ae blink o' his wifie and bairn on her knee,
He says lightens his toil, tho' sair it may be.
So up to your parritch, and on wi' your claes;
There's a fire that might warm the cauld Norlan bracs
Tor a coggie weel fiU'd and a clean fire-en'
Should mak' ye jump up, and gae skelping ben.
t
O/^i
13
MOTHER'S PET.
Air—" Tlie maid that tends the goats."
Mother's bairnie, mother's dawtie.
Wee wee steering stumping tottie,
Bonnie dreamer,— guileless glee
Lights thy black and laughing e'e.
Frae thy rosy dimpled cheek—
Frae thy lips sae saft and sleek,
Aulder heads than mine might learn
Truths worth kenning, bonnie bairn.
Gabbing fairie ! fondly smiling !
A' a -mother's cares beguiling ;
Peacefu' may thy fortune be,
BIythesome braird o' purity.
Ne'er may poortith cauld and eerie
Mak' tby heart o* kindness wearie ;
Nor misfortune, sharp and stern,
Blight thy bloom, my bonnie bairn.
Stourie, stoussie, gaudie brier ie !
Dinging a' things tapsalteerie ;
Jimjping at the sunny sheen.
Flickering on thy pawky een.
14
Frisking, lisping, fleeching fey,
Dinna towt poor baudrona sae I
Frae her purring kindness learn
What ye awe me, bonnie bairn.
LEARN YOUR LESSON.
Air—" The Laird o' Cockpen."
Ye'll no learn your lesson by greeting, my man.
Yell never come at it by greeting, my man.
No ae word can ye see, for the tear in your ee.
But just set your heart till't, for brawly ye can.
If ye'll like your lesson, it's sure to like you.
The words then so glibly would jump to your mou\
Ilk ane to its place a* the ithers would chase.
Till the laddie would wonder how clever he grew.
O who would be counted a dunse or a snool.
To gape like a gomeral, and greet like a fool,
Sae fcar'd, like a coof, for the taws ower his loof.
And laugh 'd at by a' the wee Iwirns in the school I
15
Yell greet till ye greet yoursel' stupid and Wind,
And then no a word in the morning yell mind ;
But cheer up your heart, and ye'll soon ha'e your iw
For a* things come easy when haims are inclin'd.
THE TRUANT.
Air—" When the kye come hame."
Wee Sandy in the comer
Sits greeting on a stool.
And sair the laddie rues
Playmg truant frae the school ;
Then ye'll learn frae silly Sandy,
Wha's gotten sic a fright.
To do naething through the day
That may gar ye greet at night.
He durstna venture hame now.
Nor play, though e'er so fain,
And ilka ane he met wi'
He thought them suie to ken
16
And started at ilk whin bush.
Though it was braid daylight —
Sae do naetbing through the day
That may gar ye greet at night.
"V\Tia winna be advised
Are sure to rue ere lang ;
And muckle pains it costs them
To do the thing that's wrang,
When they wi' half the fash o't
Might aye be in the right,
And do naetbing through the day
That would gar them greet at night.
What fools are wilfu' bairns
Who misbehave frae hame !
There's something in the breast aye
That tells them they're to blame ;
And then when comes the gloamin'.
They're in a waefu' plight !—
Sae do naetbing through the day
That may gar ye greet at night.
/.
17
MY AIN KINDLY MINNIE.
Air — " Over the water to Charlie."
" My ain kindly minnie, when ance I'm a man,
I'll big a wee housie, sae cosie,
And, O ! I'll be kind, and be gude to you than,
For cuddling me now in your bosie.
Dry up your saut tears that sae thickly now fa',
What for are ye greetin' sae sairly ?
Tho' my daddie lie deep in the sea, far awa' !
Has he no left ye me his ain Charlie ?"
" Oh, bless ye, my darling, ance mair I'm mysel',
Your sweet rosy lips they reprove me :
How sinfu' it is on my sorrows to dwell ,
When thy dad lives in thee still to love me.
I will live on to love ye, my bonnie wee man !
Oh ! yet well be happy and cosie.
And when heaven sees fitting to close my short span,
Then I'll lay my auld head on your bosie."
^X Jd^,
Ql^
18
THE FATHER'S KNEE.
Air—" Buy broom besoms.'*
O ! HAPPY is the mother o* ilk little pet.
Who has a happy father by the ingle set.
Wi' ae wee tottum sleeping 'neath its mother's ee,
Anither tottum creeping up its father's knee.
Aye rocking, rocking, aye rocking ree,
Puing at his stocking, climbing up his 1
Although our wee bit bigging there be few who ken
Beneath our theekit rigging, bien's the but and ben.
Although about the creepy baimies canna gree.
They cuddle, when they're sleepy, on their father's
They're aye wink, winking, wi' the sleepy ee.
Or aye jink, jinking, roimd their father's knee.
Although the sun o' summer scarce glints through the boal»
! kindly is the glimmer o' our candle coal.
And bright the rays o' glory stream frae heaven hie,
A\'lien gude grandsire hoary bends his aged knee ;
Baith the parents kneeling by their totts sae wee —
Holy is the feeling offered on the knee.
1 wonder gin in palace, or in lordly ha'.
Their hearts are a' as happy as in our cot sae sma'—
19
Gin the Royal Mother can her lassies see.
Cuddling their wee brother on their father's knee,
What to her kind bosie are her kingdoms three.
Unless her totts are cosie on their father's knee !
^pL^tU^ ^^So^^lct^Ziti^
CREEP AFORE YE GANG.
Creep awa', my baimie, creep afore ye gang.
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Granny's sang ;
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang—
Creep awa', my baimie, creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my baimie, ye're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn ;
Better creeping cannie, than fa'ing wi' a bang,
Duntin' a' your wee brow,— creep afore ye gang.
Ye'll creep, and ye'll laugh, and yell nod to your mother.
Watching ilka step o' your wee dousy brother ;
Best ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow Strang,
And ye'll be a braw chield yet,— creep afore ye gang.
20
The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee ;
Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie ;
They wha dinna walk ai-ight, are sure to come to wraug,-
Creep a<va', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.
DIXXA FEAR THE DOCTOR.
Air — " Gin a body meet a body."
O DINNA fear the doctor,
He comes to mak' ye weel.
To nurse ye like a tender flower.
And your wee head to heal ;
He'll bring the bloom back to your cheek.
The blythe blink to your ee,
An't werena for the doctor.
My bonnie bairn might dee.
O who would fear the doctor .'
His pouthers, pills, and a' ;
Ye just a wee bit swither gi'e.
And then the taste » awa" !
He'll mak' ye sleep as soimd's a tap.
And rise as light's a flee,—
An't werena for the doctor.
My bom; if baiin might dee.
A kind man is the doctor,
As mony poor folk ken ;
He spares nae toil by day or night
To ease them o' their pain ;
And O he lo'es the bairnies weel !
And tak's them on his knee, —
An't werena for the doctor.
My bounie bairn might dee.
THE WONDERFU' WEAN
" Air—" The Campbells are coming.'*
Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw.
It would tak' me a lang summer day to tell a
His pranks, frae the morning till night shuts his ee.
When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me.
For in his quiet turns, siccan questions he'll speir : —
How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear ?
What gars the wind blaw ? and whar frae comes the rain ,
He's a perfect divert— he's a wonderfu' wean.
52
Or who was the first hodie's father ? and wha
]Made the very first snaw-shower that ever did fa' ?
And who made the first bird that sang on a tree ?
And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea? —
But after IVe told him as weel as I ken.
Again he begins wi' his who? and his when ?
And he looks aye sae watchfu' the while I explain,—
He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld-farrant wean.
And folk who ha'e skill o' the lumps on the head,
Hint there's mae ways than toiling o' winning ane'a bread ;
How he'll be a rich man, and ha'e men to work for him,
Wi' a kyte like a bailie's, shug shugging afore him ;
"Wi' a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and douce,
And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house.
'Tweel I'm unco ta'en up wi't, they mak' a' sae plain ;—
He's just a town's talk — he's a by^-ord'nar wean !
I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat.
To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat :
Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far ower his knees.
The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease.
Then he march'd thro' the house, he march'd but, ho F
march 'd ben.
Like ower mony mae o' our great-little men,
That I leugh clean outright, for I couldna contain.
He was sic a conceit— sic an ancient-like wean.
23
But mid a' his daffin' sic kindness he shows,
That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ;
And the unclouded hinnie-beam aye in his ee,
Mak'a him every day dearer and dearer to me.
Though fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour.
And gloom through her fingers, like hills through a shower,
When bodies ha'e got ae bit bairn o' their ain.
How he cheers up their hearts,— he's the wonderfu' wean.
a^i<ir^
BAIRNIES, COME HAME.
r A.i-R—"Logieo'Buchan."
The sun's awa' down to his bed in the sea,
And the stars will be out on their watch in a wee :
The beasts ha'e gane hame in their coverts to rest.
And ilka wee bird's cuddled down in its nest ;
The kye are a' sta'd, and there's no a wee lamb
But has cower'd itsel' down by the side o' its dam ;
The rose and the gowan are closing their leaves.
And the swallow's last twitter is hush'd in the eaves ^
And it's time that gude weans were a' doing the same,—
Come hame to your downy dreams .' bairnies, come hame !
24
Come hame ! frae your howfs, 6ovm amang the green corn,
Where the lee rigg is lown, and be up in the morn ;
Be up in the morn ! when the sun's glinting thro'
Wi' his beams 'mang the blossoms to lick up the dew :
Frae j'our bonnie green dens on the sides o' the wood,
Where the blaeberry blooms, and the wild roses bud.
And warms for your play-ground the gowany braes.
By the bum where your mammies are tending their claes :
Aj'e ! be up in the mom to your sportive wee game —
But now that thegloamin' fa's, bairnies, come haii:e.
Come hame ! for the bat is abroad in his hour.
And the howlet is heard frae the auld hoary tower —
Come hame ! and your fathers moII daut ilka brow,
A mother's warm welcome is waiting for you.
Ah ! aft. when lang years ha'e pass'd over your prime.
Your changed hearts will turn to this innocent time.
And the sunshiny past, wi' its love-lighted gleams.
Will rise on your waking thoughts — smile in your dreams ;
Then your hearts will fill f u', as ye breathe the loved name
Of her whose soit smile nae mair welcomes ye hame.
'^^f<^^
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
Tifjs bonnie, bonnie baim, who sits poking in the ase,
Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face ;
Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there ?
Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air.
His wee chubby face, and his touzie curly pow.
Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe ;
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair.
Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air.
He sees muckle castles towering to the moon I
He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun !
Worlds whomling up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare, —
See how he loups ! as they glimmer in the air.
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken ?
He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men ;
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,
There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air.
Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld:
His chin upon his huffy hand will soon mak' him auld ;
His brow is brent sae braid, O pi-ay that daddy Care
Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air !
26
Hell glower at the fire ! and he'll keek at the light I
But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night ;
lulder een than his are glamoured by a glare.
Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air.
THE WATCH DOG.
Air—" The British Crrenadiers."
Bow-wow-wow ! it's the muckle watch dog,
I ken by his honest bark ;
Bow-wow-wow ! says the muckle watch dog.
When he hears a foot in the dark.
No a breath can stir but he's up wi* a wirr !
And a big bow-wow gie's he.
And wi' tail on end, he'll the house defend,
Mair siccar than lock or key.
When we sleep sound, he takes his round,
A sentry ower us a'.
Through the lang dark night till braid daylight,
He fleys the thieves awa'.
27
But through the hale day wi' the bairns he'll play,
And daff about in the sun ;
On his back astride they may safely ride,
For weel does he lo'e their fun.
Wi' a cogie fu' to his gratef u' mou',
How he wags his trusty tail !
And weel does he like a bane to pike,
Or a lick o' the lithey kail.
By a' he's kenn'd as a faithfu' friend,
Nae flattering tongue has he.
And we a' may learn frae the muckle watch dog
Baith faithfu' and fond to be.
THE BASHFU' BAIRN.
Air—" Saw ye my father? "
The bashfu' wee laddie ! what makes him sae shy ?
And what is't that gars him think shame ?
Or how does it come that the blatest outby©
Are often the bauldest at hame ?
28
A stranger might think he was enlky or doure ;
For scarcely a word will he speak,
But hangs down his head, like a wee modest flower,
To hide the warm blush on his cheek.
'Mang rin-ther'-out laddies he's counted a snool :
He cares na for bools nor for ha's ;
But yet he's a match for the best at the school-
He ne'er gets a tip o' the taws.
And aye when he plays wi' the bairns in the house,
The cock o' the roost he maun be ;
He's bauld as a bantam, and craws there sae crouse,
Nae bairn can be brisker than he.
There's mair in his head, or I'm sairly mista'en.
Than ye'U find in some auld-farrant men ;
Sae lang are his lugs, and sae gleg are his een.
He notices mair than ye ken.
Sometimes he'll sit still like a howlet sae grave,—
His thoughts then can naebody tell ;
And sometimes he wanders awa' frae the lave,
And speaks, like a gowk, to himsel' !
Be kind to the laddie that's bashfu' and shy .'
He'll be a braw fellow bely ve ;
Yell drive him demeutit if harshness ye try—
Ye'U lead him, but never can drive.
19
Some think hiui half-witted, and some think him wisi>.
And some think him naething ava ;
liut tent him wi' love, if ye'll take my advice,
And he'll yet he the flower o' them a'.
A MOTHER'S CARES AND TOILS.
Air—" Willie was a wanton loag."
Waukrife wee thing, O ! I'm wearie
Warsling wi' you late and ear',
Turning a' things tapsalteerie.
Tearing mutches, towzling hair.
Stumping wi' your restless feetie,
Ettling, like the lave, to gang ;
Frae the laughter to the greetie.
Changing still the hale day lang.
Now wi' whisker'd haudrons playing.
By the ingle heeking snug.
Now its wee bit leggie laying
O'er the sleeping collie dog ;
30
Thumping now its patient minnie,
Scaulding syne its bonnie sel'.
Then wi' kisses, sweet as hinnie,
Saying mair than tongue can telL
O ! its wearie, wearie winkers.
Close they'll no for a' my skill,
Wide they'll glower, thae blue bit blinkers.
Though the sun's ayont the hill.
Little they for seasons caring,
Morning, gloamin', night, or noon,
Lang's they dow, they'll aye keep staring.
Heeding neither sun nor moon.
E'en when sound we think him sleeping
In his cozie cradle-bed.
If we be na silence keeping,
Swith ! he's gleg as ony gled.
If the hens but gi'e a cackle.
If the cock but gi'e a craw,
If the wind the window shake, hell
Skirl like wild aboon them a'.
Who a mother's toils may number ?
Who a mother's cares may feel ?
Let her bairnie wake or slumber.
Be it sick or be it weel !
31
O .' her heart had need be tender.
And her love had need be Strang,
Else the lade she bears would bend her
Soon the drearie mools amang.
ERRAND RINNING MARY.
Air — " O'er the muir amang the heather."
I NEVER saw a baimie yet
An errand rin mair fleet than Mary,
And O she's proud the praise to get
When hame she trips as light's a fairy.
In ae wee hand the change she grips.
And what she's sent for in the other ;
Then like a lintie in she skips,
Sae happy aye to please her mother.
She never stops wi* bairns to play.
But a' the road as she gaes trotting,
Croons tohersel' what she's to say.
For fear a word should be forgotten ;
And then, as clear as A B C,
The message tells without a blunder.
And like the little eident bee.
She's hame again— a perfect wonder.
32
It's no for hire that Mary rins,
For what ye gi'e she'll never tease j'e ;
The best reward the lassie wins
Is just the pleasure aj'e to please ye.
If bairns would a' example tak'.
And never on their errands tarry,
What happy hames they aye would mal
Like our wee errand-rinning Jlary.
THE SILENT CHILD.
Air — " Handel's Bead March."
" What ails brother Johnny, he'll no look at me.
But lies looking up wi' a half steekit ee ?
Oh ! cauld is his hand, and his face pale and wee-
What ails brother Johnny, he'll no speak to me ?"
'• Alack, my wee lammie ! your brother's asleep,
He looksna, he speaksna — yet, dear, dinna weep ;
Ye'll break mother's heart gin ye gaze on him sao ;
He's dreaming— he's gazing — on friends far away ''
33
' Oh, who can he see like the friends that are here /
And where can he find hearts that lo'e him sae dear ?
Just wauken him, mother ! his brother iio see,
I'll gi'e him the black frock my father ga'e me."
' Your black frock, my bairn, ah ! your brother is dea^^ !
That symbol o' death sends a ctound through my he:i<l.
I made mysel' trow he wad wauken ance malt •.
But now he's in Heaven — he's waiting us there."
THE BIRD'S NEST.
Air— «« John Anderson, my jo."
O WHO would harry the wee bird's nest,
That sings so sweet and clear,
And bigs for its young a cozy biel*.
In the spring-time o' the year ;
That feeds its gapin' gorlins a'.
And haps them frae the rain ?
O who would harry the wee bird's nest,
And gi'e its bosom pain ?
C
34
I wouldna hai-ry the liu tie's nest*
That whistles on the spray ;
I wouldna rob the lav'rock.
That sings at break of day;
I wouldna rob the shilfa,
That chants so sweet at e'en ;
Nor plunder wee wee Jenny Wren
Within her bower o' green.
For birdies are like bairnies,
That dance upon the lea ;
They winna sing in cages
So sweet's in bush or tree.
They're just like bonnie bairnies.
That mithers lo'e sae weel—
And cruel, cruel is the heart
That would their treasures steal.
i
35
THE WIDOW TO IIEIi BAIR^'t.
Air—" The MilUr of Bar
Now, bairnies, mind your mother's words.
For kind to you she's been,
And mony a waukrife night she's had
To keep ye tosh an' clean —
And mony a shift she's ta'en to mak'
Her sonsie stouries braw ;
For through her lanely widowhood
Her back's been at the wa'.
But ye'li yet cheer the widow's heartli.
And dry her watery een,
■!_nd when ye've bairnies o' your ain,
Ye'll mind what ye ha'e been.
The bitter sneer o' witless pride,
In sorrow ye maun thole,
Sae lang as poortith on our hearth
Cours ower a oauldrife coal ;
But when ye've brought your heads aboiui
Your dour, your early lot.
And rowing grit wi' happiness.
Your cares ye've a' forgot ;
Then cozie mak' the widow's heartli,
And dry her tearfu* een.
And when ye've plenty o' your ain,
Oh, think what ye ha'e been.
36
What's fortune but a passing gleam
Of pleasure, toil, and care ;
The stanie heart, o* worldly gear,
Gets aft the better share ;
But gi'e ye aye wi' willing heart
What mercy sends to cure
The troubles o' the lowly cot.
The sorrows o' the poor.
Then warm the widow's lanely hearth.
And dry her tearfu' een.
And when your cup o' pleasure's fu".
Oh, think what ye ha'e been.
;^ -2^*..^^^^-^^
OUR AIN FIRE-END.
Air—" Kelvin Grove."
"Whsx the frost is on the grun'.
Keep your ain fire-end.
For the warmth o' summer's sun
lias our ain fire-en(] ;
When there's dubs ye might be lair'd in,
Or snaw ye could be smoor'd in.
The best flower in the garden
Is our ain fire-end.
You and father are sic twa !
Round our ain fire-end,
He mak's rabbits on the wa'.
At our ain fire-end.
Then the fun as they are mumping.
When, to touch them ye gae stumping.
They're set on your tap a' jumping.
At our ain fire-end.
Sic a bustle as ye keep
At our ain fire-end.
When ye on your whistle wheep.
Round our ain fire-end ;
Now, the dog maun get a saddle.
Then a cart's made o' the ladle.
To please ye as ye daidle
Hound our ain fire-end-
When your head's lain on my lap.
At our ain fire-end.
Taking childhood's dreamless nan,
At our ain fire-end ;
Then frae lug to lug I kiss ye.
An* \vi* heart o'crflowing bless ye,
38
And a' that's gude I wish ye,
At our ain fire-end.
When ye're far, far frae the blink
O' our ain fire-end,
Fu' monie a time ye'U think
On our ain fire-end ;
On a' your gamesome ploys,
On your whistle and your toys.
And ye'll think ye hear the noise
O' our ain fire-end.
Olr^
GI'E AS VE AVAD TAK'
Air— " .^wM Langsyne."
My bairnies dear, when ye gang out,
Wi' ither bairns to play,
Tak' tent o' every thing ye do,
O* every word ye say ;
Frae tricky wee mischievous loons
Keep back, my dears, keep back ;
And aye to a' such usage gi'e
As ye would like to tak'.
39
To thraw the mouth, or ca' ill :
la surely very bad ;
Then, a' such doings still avoid,
They'd mak' your mother sad.
To shield the feckless frae the strong
Be neither slow nor slack;
And aye to a' such usage gi'e
As ye would like to tak'.
Ne'er beat the poor dumb harmless tribe,
Wi' either whip or stick ;
The mildest beast, if harshly used.
May gi'e a bite or kick.
On Silly Sam, or crooked Tarn,
The heartless joke ne'er crack ;
But aye to a' such usage gi'e
As ye would like to tak'.
A kindly look, a soothing word.
To ilka creature gi'e ;
We're a' One IMaker's handy work.
Whatever our degree.
We're a* the children o' His care,
Nae matter white or black ;
Then still to a' such usage gi'e
As ye would like to tak'.
40
THE IDLER.
Air—" The Miller o' Dee."
Gab awa' to your task, and be eident, my man,
And dinna sit dozing there ;
But learn to be busy, and do what ye can.
For ye neithfer are sickly nor sair.
It's laziness ails ye, the sluggard's disease.
Who never has will for his wark,
Though it cures a' the tantrums that idle folk tease,
And makes them as blythe as the lark.
O shame on the sloven, the lubberly loon !
He kensna the ills he maun dree.
Like a dog in the kennel he flings himself down,
And the poor beggar's brother is he.
So up to your ta.sk now, and then to your play.
And fright the auld tyrant awa' ;
For sloth's the worst master that laddie's can ha'o,
If ance in his clutches they fa' :
He deeds them in rags, and he hungers them too,
For nane o' his subjects can thrive ;
They're aye 'mang the foremost when mischief's to di
But they're naething but drones in the hive.
O dear, what a pictirre ! Would I be his slave ?
It weel may make industry sweet.
And teach idle laddies to strive like the lave.
Who win baith their claes and their meat.
41
Your father and moUicr lia'e toiled for ye sair,
And keepit ye cozie and clean ;
But tbink how ye'U do, when ye ha'e them nae mair,
And maun fight through the world your lane !
Then rouse like a hero, wi' might and wi' main.
For time never stops on his way ;
The present hour's a' we can weel ca' our ain.,
And nane can he sure o' a day.
THE HERD LADDIE.
Air—" When the kye come hame."
It's a lung time yet tillthe kye gae hame.
It's a weary time yet till the kye gae hame ;
Till the lang shadows fa* in the sun's yellow flame,
And the birds sing gude night, as the kye gae hame.
Sair langs the herd laddie for gloamin's sweet fa'.
But slow moves the sun to the hills fa^* awa';
In the shade o' the broom-bush how fain would ho lie.
But there's nae rest for him when he's herding the kye.
42
They'll no be content wi' the grass on the lea,
For do what he will to the corn aye they'll be ;—
The weary wee herd laddie to pity there is nane,
Sae tired and sae hungry wi' herding his lane.
A\Tien the bee's in its byke, and the bird in its nest.
And the kye in the byre, that's the hour he lo'es best ;
AVi' a fu' cog o' brose he sleeps like a stane, —
But it scarce seems a blink till he's wauken'd again.
O LfiESE ME OX THEE, BONNIE BAIEN.
Air—" Kind Robin lo'es me."
O LEESK me on thee, bonnie bairn !
Sae sweet, sae wise, sae apt to learn,
And true as loadstone to the aim.
Thou dearly, dearly, lo'es me.
Thou'rt just thy daddy's wee-er sel*.
Fresh— blooming as the heather bell ;
While blythe as lammie on the fell.
Thy frisking shows thou lo'es me.
4o
Thy comely brow, thy ee's deep blue,
Thy cheek of health's clear rosy hue ;
And O ! thy little laughing mou',
A' tell me how thou lo'es me.
Reclining softly on this breast,
O how thou mak'st my bosom blest.
To see thee smiling, mid thy rest,
And ken how much thou lo'es me.
Wi' mother's ee I fondly trace
In thee thy daddy's form and face,
Possess'd of every manly grace.
And mair— a heart that lo'es me.
Lang be thou spared, sweet bud, to be
A blessing to thy dad and me ;
While some fond mate shall sing to thee,
" Dear laddie, how thou lo'es me."
COCKIE-LEERIE-LA.
Am— " John Anderson, my jo."
There is a country gentleman, who leads a thrifty life.
Ilk morning scraping orra things thegither for his wife —
His coat 0* glowing ruddy brown, and wavelet wi* gold—
A crimson crown upon his head, well-fitting one so bold.
44
If ithers pick where he did scrape, he brings them to dis-
grace.
For, like a man o' mettle, he— siclike meets face to face ;
He gi'es the loons a lethering, a crackit croon to claw-
There is nae gaun about the bush wi' Cockie-leerie-la !
His step is firm and evenly, his look both sage and grave—
His bearing bold, as if he said, •• I'll never be a slave ;"
And, tho'hebaudshisheadfu'highjhe glinteth tothegrun.
Nor fyles his silver spurs in dubs wi' glow'ring at the sun :
And whiles I've thocht had he a hand wharwi' to grip a
stickle,
A pair o' specks across his neb, and round his neck a dickie,
That weans wad laughing baud their sides, and cry — " Pre-
serve us a' !
Ye're some frien' to Doctor Drawblood, douce Cockie-
leerie-la!"
So learn frae him to think nae shame to work for what ye
need.
For he that gapes till he be fed, may gape till he be dead ;
And if ye live in idleness, ye '11 find unto your cost.
That they who winna work in heat, maun hunger in ti r
frost.
And^hain wi' care ilk sair-won plack, and honest pride will
fill
Your purse wi' gear— e'en far-aff frien's will bring grist to
your mill ;
4.5
And if, when grown to be a man, your name's without a
flaw.
Then rax your neck, and tune your pipes to— Cockie-
leerie-la !
%^a..
HOGMANAY.
Air—" The Young Map Moon."
Come, bairns a', to your Hogmanay,
The morn, ye ken, is New-year's day ;
The cauld wind blaws, and the snaw down fa's.
But merrily, merrily dance away.
There's Johnny Frost wi' his auld white pow,
Would fain be in to the chimla lowe ;
1 :ut if he should come, he'll flee up the lum
In a hleeze that his frozen beard will thow I
He's stoppit the burnie's todling din.
Hung frosty tangles outowre the linn ;
The flowers are a' dead, and the wee birds fled.
But they'll a' be back when the spring comes
46
There's mony a ane gane sin' the last New-year,
But let us be happy as lang's vre're here ;
We'?e aye been fed, and cozily clad.
And kindness will sweeten our canty cheer.
We'll no sleep a wink till the year coiue in.
Till the clock chap twal, and the fun begin ;
And then wi' a cheer to the new-born year.
How the streets will ring wi' the roaring din I
A blythe new year we wish ye a',
And mony returns to bless ye a';
And may ilk ane ye see aye cantier be-^
While round the ingle we kiss yo a'.
So bairns come a' to your Hogmanay,
The morn, ye ken, is New-year's day;
Though the cauld wind blaws, and the snaw down :
Yet merrily, merrily dance away.
/i
47
^^^LLIE•s awa*.
AtR— ♦' Nannie's awa'."
Like wee birdies couring when frosty winds blaw.
The bairns a* look dowie, for Willie's awa' !
The brae o' the burnie looks wither'd and bare.
Though it bloom'd aye eae bonnie when Willie was there.
His fond heart at parting was ower fu' to speak.
He tried aye to smile, though the tear wet his cheek ;
And when wee Mary waukened — her Willie awa' —
She grat as her young heart would bursted in twa.
Now Jamie maun gae to the school a' his lane.
And lang sair for Willie to come back again ;
The bum that sang sweetly to them at their play.
Looks sullen and drumly, and Jamie looks wae.
The auld thorny tree, where he carv'd his ain name.
Was a' clad wi' blossoms when Willie left hame ;
Now Jamie gaes haunting the dowie haw-tree, '
And thinking on Willie brings tears to his ee. 'i
Its leaves a' will wither when autumn winds blaw, \
But wi' spring it will blossom as white as the snaw ; jj
Then Unties will sing in its branches o' green, j
And a* join to welcome our Willie again.
48
And O we'll be happy when \Villje comes back.
And round our ain ingle sae kindly we'll crack ;
He'll tell o' the ferliei; and folks that he saw,
And hear a' that happen 'd since he gaed awa'.
J^^-
THE BUDS NOW OPEN TO THE BREEZE
The buds now open to the breeze.
The birds begin to sing.
The gowan's keeking thro' the sward.
To hear the voice o' spring.
Fu' blythe the maukin mumps the sward,
Wi' pleasure in its ee.
Or pu's the budding heather bell,
A type, my wean, o' thee.
IJnnumber'd webs o' fairy weft,
Wi' pearlie dew-drops weet,
Are spread ower sprouting furze nnc f" i;.
To bathe my bairnie's feet.
49
Then dinna dicht, mj' drousie tot,
The silken fringe awa'.
That shades the bonniest ee o' blue
That ere fond mother saw !
Twa hours an' naair the gouldie's lilt
I've heard sae shrill an' sweet ;
And mony a thistle tap has fa'n
Beneath the sangster's feet.
Then, rise, ye roguie !— dinna think
That minnie means ye harm,
Saf t kisses for your smiles she'll gi'e,
My sweet ! wee, sleepy bairn.
Down by the bumie's brierie banks,
Where water-lilies blaw,
Nae mair is seen the dazzling sheen
Of sheets o' frost and snaw ;
Cut flowers and bowers, wi' balmy showers,
Are budding in the breeze;
Nae moumfu' wail o' dowie bird
Is heard amang the trees.
Then rise, my wee, wee winsome wean !
This lesson ye maun learn.
That spring-time winna bide for thee.
Nor me, my bonnie bairn.
D
50
SPRING.
The Spring comes linking and jinking through the woods.
Opening wi' gentle hand the bonnie green and yellow buds-
There 's flowers and showers, and sweet sang o' little bird,
And the gowaa wi* his red croon peeping thro' the yird.
The hail comes rattling and brattling snell an' keen,
Dauding and blauding, though red set the sun at een ;
In bonnet and wee loof the weans kep and look for mair,
Dancing thro'ther wi' the white pearls shining in their hair.
We meet wi' blythesome an' kythesome cheerie weans,
Daffing and laughing far a-doon the leafy lanes,
Wi' gowans and buttercups busking the thorny wands.
Sweetly singingwi'the flower branch waving in their hands.
'Boon a* that's in thee, to win me, sunny Spring !
Bricht cluds and green buds, and sangs that the birdies sing j
Flower-dappled hill-side, and dewy beech sae fresh at e'en ;
Or the tappie-toorie fir-tree shining a' in green—
Bairnies, bring treasure and pleasure mair to me.
Stealing and spelling up to fondle on my knee ! —
In spring-time the young things are blooming sae fresh and
fair,
That I canna, Spring, but love and bless thee e verm air.
t
^2^^t^ f/cMyCZ^,^
^l
BE A COMFORT TO YOUR MOTIJEH.
Am—" O'er the mitir amang the heather."
Come here, my Lsddie, come awa' !
And try yo'u- first uew breekies on ye ;
Weel, weel i like to see you braw.
My ain wee soncy smiling Johnnie !
Strip aff, strip aflF! your bairnish claes.
And be a laddie like your brother,
And gin you're blest wi' health and days,
Ye'll be a pleasure to your mother.
Now rin and look ye in tbe glass !
And see how braw you're now, and bonni
^Vha e'er wad think a change o' claea
Could mak' sic change on my wee Johnni
You're just your daddy's picture now !
As like as ae bean's like anither !
And gin ye do like him, I trow,
Ye'll be an honour to your mither.
But upward as ye grow apace,
By truth and right keep ever steady ;
And gin life's storms ye whiles maun face,
A ye meet them firmly like your daddj-.
52
If steep and rugged be your way,
Ne'er look behind nor stand and swither !
But set a stout heart to the brae.
And be a comfort to your mither.
PACE EGGS.
The mom brings Pace, bairns!
And happy will ye be,
Wi' a' your bonnie dyed eggs.
And ilka ane has three,
Wi' colours like the rainbow,
And ne'er a crack nor flaw.
Ye may row them up and row them down.
Or toss them like a ba'.
There's some o' them are rosy red.
And some o' them are green.
And some are o' the bonnie blue
That blinks in Marj-'s een ;
And some o' them like purple bells,
And others like the bloom
O' the bonnie gowden tassels
That blo.'-som on the broom.
53
Ye'll toss them up the foggy hanks,
And row them down the brae,
Where burniea sing to sweet wee flower
And milk-white lammies play ;
And when they burst their tinted shells
And a' in fragments flee,
The crumbs will feed the bonnie bird
That sings upon the tree.
MAY MORNING.
Air — " Bonnie Dundee.'*
Hurrah ! for the morning, the merry May morning !
Come, rouse up my laddie I the summer's begun.
The cock has been crawing an hour sin' the dawning.
And gowans and buttercups glint in the sun.
I'rae clover fields springing the skylark is singing.
And straining his throat wi' a sweet hymn o' joy ;
The burnie rins glancing, and sings as it 's dancing,
" Come, try me a race, now, my bonnie wee boy."
While Johnnie lies winking, the sun will be drinkin.
The dew frae the primrose and bonnie blue bell,
Like fresh roses blowing his cheeks will be glowing,
This morning, when washed in the dews o' the deil.
Awa' wi' your gaunting ! the Unties are chaunting,
The bees are abroad in the sweet scented air ;
They tell by their humming the roses are coming,
To busk a gay garland for Johnnie to wear.
Ill wide circles wheeling the swallow comes spelling,
Sweet bird o' the summer frae far ower the sea ;
The lammies are jumping, and frisking, and rompiii ;,
And dancing as biythe as the bairns on the lea.
Then up, my wee laddie, and come wi' j'our daddy,
He'll lead ye to banks where the sweetest flowers bl.i .
By the burnie down rowin', we'll pu* the May gowan,
A neciclace for Mary as white as the snaw
55
THE SUNNY SUMMER MONTHS.
" Air— " Jock o' Hazeldean."
The sultry, sunny summer months
Are come wi' joy and glee,
And furzy fell, and rashy dell.
Are fiU'd wi* melody ;
The roving rae, frae hreak o' day.
Now roams frae hreak to burn,
Then who would think, my bairnies dear,
That we were made to mourn ?
The butterflee has flung awa'
The shell that bound it fast.
And screen'd it frae the chilling breeze—
The winter's bitter blast ;
How like some moths o' mortal mould.
It flutters round its urn I —
But dinna think, my bairnies dear,
That we were made to mourn.
The lav'rock high in middle air.
Is chirling loud and clear.
He early leaves his lowly lair.
The cottar's toil to cheer ;
Unvex'd by care he sings the joya
That in his breastie burn, —
Then who would say, my bairnies dear,
That we were made to mourn ? ,
56
The song of nature's happiness
Is heard o'er meadows green,
And opening to the fresh 'ning breeze
The blawart's bell is seen ;
The fragrance o' some Eastern clime
Is frae our plantin's borne, —
Then who can think, my bairnies, dear,
That we were made to mourn ?
The kye in languid listlessness
Now seek the caller brook,
The streamlet's speckled finny tribe
Now shun the barbed hook ;
O who would grasp a gilded lure,
And nature's riches spurn ?
We camna here, my bairnies dear,
For goud and gear to mourn.
The lambkins o'er the daisied dell.
In gambols wild and free,
Enjoy the sweets, the halesome sweets,
O' blissfu' liberty ;
The fetters o' the prison-fauld
The fleecy wanderers spurn, —
Oh ! never think, my bairnies dear.
That we were made to mourn.
57
LADY SUMMER.
Air — " Blythc, hlytlie, and merry are we.
Birdie, birdie, weet your whistle!
Sing a sang to please the wean ;
Let it be o' Lady Summer
Walking wi' her gallant train !
Sing him how her gaucy mantle !
Forest green trails ower the lea,
Broider'd frae the dewy hem o't
Wi' the field flowers to the knee !
How her foot 's wi' daisies buskit,
Kirtle o' the primrose hue.
And her ee sae like my laddie's.
Glancing, laughing, loving blue !
How we meet on hill and valley.
Children sweet as fairest flowers.
Buds and blossoms o' affection.
Rosy wi' the sunny hours.
Sing him sic a sang, sweet birdie !
Sing it ower and ower again ;
Gar the notes fa' pitter patter.
Like a shower o' summer rain.
58
•' Hoot, toot, toot !" the birdie's sajicir,
" Who can shear the rigg that's shorn
Ye've sung Jjrawlie simmer's ferlies,
I'll toot on anither horn."
^ a^n^ ^yU-^ttd^^
PETTING AT FOOD.
Am—" Tlie Laird o' Cockpen.
If ye'Il no tak' your breakfast, just let it alane!
The porridge can wait till ye're hungry again ;
Though saucy e'en now, ye'll be glad o' them soon —
Sae tak' ye the pet now and lay down your spoon !
Ye'll weary for them ere they weary for you,
And when they grow coul they'll no blister your mou'
A twa three hours' fast might be gude for ye a'.
And help aye to drive the ill humours awa'.
Yon fat little doggie that waddles alang !
Sae pamper'd and peching he scarcely can gang !
At daintiest dishes he turns up his nose.
But scrimp him a wee, he'll be blythe o' his brose.
69
There's nane kens the gude o' a thing till it 's gane—
Yon barefitted laddie, ye met wi' yestreen.
Had he such a cogie he'd no let it cool—
Na ! just let them stand till ye come frae the school.
The best cure for bairnies when nice wi' their meat.
Is the fresh air o' morning and naething to eat ;
Rae tak' your ain time, like the cattle out-bye —
Just eat when you're hungry and drink when you're dv.
7my^
TliE ABSENT FATHER.
! MOTHER, what tak's my dear father awa'.
When moor and when mountain are heapit wi' snaw —
When thick swirling drift dauds the dead sapless earth
And a' thing is drear, save our ain cozie hearth ?"
' The young hill-side lammies wou'd die wi' the cauld,
Wer't no for your father, who leads them a fauld ;
His voice is well kenn'd by ilk poor mother ewe-
He's saving their lives while he's toiling for you."
60
" Gia e'er I'm man mucklc, and poor father spared,
I'll mak' ye a leddy, and father a laird ;
I'll brave the dour winter on mountain and lea,
And toil for ye baith, who hae toil'd sae for me."
" Come, lay your wee head on your ain minnie's knee !
And gaze in Jier face, wi' your ain father's ee !
The night settles down — O ! I wish he were here —
Hush ! is na that Collie's wouflF? — maybe they're near
The door gets a dirl, and flees back to the wa',—
'Tis he ! frae his bonnet he dauds afF the snaw —
«' I'm here ! my sweet son, and my bonnie wee dame !
Down Collie ! Be thankfu* we're a' now at hame."
YOUR DADDY'S FAR AT SEA.
Air— " Jf^ love's in Germanie."
Your daddy's far at sea, bonnie bairn ! bonnie bairn !
Your daddy's far at sea, bonny bairn !
Your daddy's far at sea ! winning gold for you and me,
And how happy yet we'll be ! bonny bairn, bonnie bairn
And how happy yet we'll be, bonnie bairn I
61
Your daddy's leal and true, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn.
Your daddy's leal and true, bonnie bairn ;
Your daddy's leal and true, to your minnie and to you.
And beloved by all the crew, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn.
And beloved by all tlie crew, bonnie bairn !
Then we'll pray for daddy's weal, bonnie bairn, bonnie
bairn,
Then we'll pray fur daddy's weal, bonnie bairn ;
We'll pray for daddy's weal, that distress he ne'er may
feel.
While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn, boruiic
bairn,
While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn !
Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn.
Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn.
Should hurricanes arise, lashing seas up to the skies,
May his guide be the All-Wise, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,
May his guide be the All-Wise, bonnie bairn!
'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,
'Mid the tempest's gloomy path , bonnie baim ;
'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, may he brave itswildest
wrath.
While it strews the deep with death, bonnie bairn, bonnie
bairn.
While it btrews the deep with death, bonnie bairn J
62
And on wings of nnercy borne, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,
And ou wings of mercy borne, bonnie bairn ;
On wings of mercy borne, may he soon and safe return.
To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie bairn, bomii;
bairn.
To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie balm !
THE WASHING.
A iR— " Willie was a wanton Wag"
r.AULn wee birkie, what's the matter,
That ye're raising sic a din ?
Weel ye ken it 's caller water
Gi'es y6 sic a bonnie skin ;
Cease your spurring, tak' yoiur washim
Syne ye'll get your milk and brcal ;
Gin ye dinna quit your splashing,
I may douk ye ower the head.
Now it's ower, my bonnie dearie,
There's a skin lilie driven snaw.
Lively, louping, plump wee peerie.
See how soon I'll busk you braw ;
63
i-et me Kame your pretty pow now.
Let me shed your shining hair —
To your gambles ! romp and row now,
Whisk and whid round daddy's chair
Now, ye funny frisking fairy !
See how snod ye're now and sleek !
Water mak's you brisk and airy.
Lights your ee and dyes your cheek ;
O there's nought like being cleanly !
Cleanliness is mair than wealth.
Let us deed however meanly—
Cleanliness gi'es joy and health.
HAPPY HARVEST.
Air—' • Of a' the airts the win" can hlaw."
Again has happy harvest come
To cheer ilk cottage hearth.
To sweeten lowly labour's toila
Wi' happiness and mirth ;
64
For lightsome hearts are ower the lawn.
And' plenty ower the lea,
Sae ye shall welcome harvest in.
My bonnie bairns, wi' me.
The garden's tint its gaudy garb.
The glebe its robe o' green.
For summer's sun the glade and glen
Another shade has gi'en ; ,
But love nae season kens but ane,
Then come, my bairns, wi' me.
And welcome merry harvest in
Wi' a' its mirth and glee.
The lily's lost its loveliness,
The thistle sheds its down,
The tulip's tint its summer braws,
The buttercup its crown ;
But fairer flowers are in the bowers
O* love and charity,
Sae welcome merry harvest in,
My bonnie bairns, wi' me.
The nut and slae, ower bank and brae,
In rip'ning clusters hing.
And happy hearts, wi' harmless glee.
Now gar the welkin ring ;
65
The reapers reap, the gleaners glean,
A cantie sight to see,
Then welcome merry harvest in.
My bonnle bairns, wi' me.
The wren has left her cosie cot,
Aboon yon siller spring.
And haps in eerie laneliness,
A waesome wearied thing ;
But Nature feeds wi' open liand
Ilk birdie on the tree,
Sae ye shall welcome harvest in.
My bonnie bairns, wi* me.
The squirrel springs frae tree to tree ;
The eident ant has gaen
To sip the balmy sweets o' thrift.
And share the joys o' harae ;
And ye shall share a mother's care.
And a' she has to gi'e —
Sae welcome merry harvest in.
My bonnie bairns, wi' me.
■'^^^yU.y^^^ —
66
HAIRST.
Am—" Coming through the rye."
Tho' weel I lo'e the budding spring,
I'll no misca' John Frost,
Nor will I roose the summer days
At gowtien autumn's cost ;
For a' the seasons in their turn
Some wished-for pleasures bring.
And hand in hand they jink about,
Like weans at jingo-ring.
Fu' weel I mind how aft ye said.
When winter nights were lang,
" I weary for the summer woods.
The lintie's tittering sang;
But when the woods grew gay and green,
And birds sang sweet and clear.
It then was, " When will hairst-time come.
The gloaming o' the year ?
Oh ! hairst time's like a lipping cup
That's gi'en M'i' furthy glee I
The fields are fu' o' yellow corn.
Red apples bend the tree;
The genty air, sae ladylike !
Has on a scented gown.
And wi' an airy string she leads
The thistle-seed balloon.
67
The yellow com will porridge mak*.
The apples taste your mou'.
And ower the stibble riggs I'll chase
The thistle-down wi' you ;
I'll pu' the haw frae aff the thorn.
The red hip frae the brier—
For wealth hangs in each tangled nooic
In the gloaming o' the year.
Sweet Hope ! ye biggit ha'e a nest
Within my bairnie's breast —
Oh ! may his trusting heart ne'er traw
That whiles ye sing in jest ;
Some coming joys are dancing aye
Before his langing een, —
He sees the flower that isna blawn,
And birds that ne'er were seen;—
The stibble rigg is aye ahin' I
The gowden grain afore,
And apples drap into his lap.
Or row in at the door .'
Come hairst-time then unto my tairu 4
Drest in your gayest gear,
VVi' saft and winnowing win's t? cool
The gloaming o' the year !
a^^
68
GANG TO YOUR BEDS.
Am— " Miner o' Dee."
Ha'e done Mi' your dafiBng, and gae to your beds.
It's time ye were a' sleeping sound —
Nae thought o' the mom, or the school in your heads.
Till morning and school-time come round !
I'll wager a plack ye'll be clianging your sang,
Nae laughing or merriment then !
It 's owev bright a blink this, and canna last lang.
And it 's sure to be followed by rain !
Ye merry wee madcaps"! when ance ye begin,
Ilk ane might be tied wi' a strae.
Whibht ! whisht ! or ye'll wauken my bairn wi' your din,
For aye ower the score ye maun gae.
Ye waukrife wee totums ! ye've laughed now your fill,
Sae try wha will first be asleep.
And think on poor bairns who would gladly lie still.
If to your cozie bed they could creep .'
When father comes hame now, ye'll get a surprise !
Ye'll soon hear his fit on the stair —
Ye 're sweer to lie doAvn, and ^c're sweerer to rise.
And ye'll no fa' aileep wUtu ye're there.
69
But bairns aye at night should slip canny to bed,
And think as they're closing their een,
That nane can be sure, when they lay down their head,
If they'll rise i' the morning again.
KINDNESS TO SERVANTS.
Now what was yon ye said to May,
Sae pettishly yestreen ?
Ay ! weel may ye think shame to tell
How saucy ye ha'e been.
There's naething spoils a bonnie face
Like sulks, in auld or young, —
And what can set a lassie waur
Than an ill-bred, saucy tongue ?
It's ill your part to jeer at May,
To you she's aye been kind
And aft she's sung ye OM'er asleep,
Lang, lang, ere yc can mind.
70
She mak'3 the meat, she works the wark.
She cleans when ye but soil.
And what would helpless bairnies be
Without the hands that toil ?
The kindly look, the gentle word,
Mak' friends o' a' ye see.
And gi'e a charm to ilka face,
That nothing else can gi'e.
It's weel for bairns, wha ha'e a friend
That watches them wi' care.
For when in fault they'll learn frae him
To do the like nae mair.
THE WINTER'S COME AT LAST.
Am — "John Anderson, my jo."
A BURNING sun nae langer flames aboon the greenwood
shaw.
For cauldrife winter's keeking down through clouds o' sleet
and snaw ;
And the chirping o' the robin gars thy mother's heart be wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
71
Tlie cuckoo lang has ta'en his flight for warmer climes th..; n
ours,
^'he nipping blasts ba'e reft us o' our sweetly scented flowers;
I'm glad to see my totties weel, but O my heart is was
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
The swallow's sought a shelter in some sunny southern nook.
For weel it likes to skim aboon the sparkling siller brook ;
Aye when it leaves our hills behind, my heart is ever wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the urae.
The corncraik now is never heard amang the rip'ning corn !
The lintie limps sae listlessly beneath the leafless thorn.
That its chii-ping and its chirming gar thy mother's heart
be wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
The bat has made a cosio bield in yon auld castle wa'.
To dream through lang and eerie nights, if dream it can ava;
And the snell and crisping cranreuch gars thy mother's
heart be wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
The bee, the bumming .bee, nae mair is heard wi' cheery
din.
Like summer breezes murmuring outowre the foaming linn ;
The window's spraing'd wi' icy stars, sae weel may we be
wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
72
the butterflee nae mair is seen amang the woodland bowers ;
A.uld baudrons, purring pawkily, ayont the ingle cowers.
I like to see ilk creature weel, and, oh ! my heart is wae
For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
We fret at what we ne'er can win, and yaumer at our lot,
And fractious fock would fractious be, tho' half the world
they got ;
But let us aye contented be, as weel, my bairns, we may.
When we think upon the sailor, and the shepherd on the
brae.
^OcA..,.^^^^^^^
JOHN FROST.
Air—" Tilt Campbells are coming."
You've come early to see us this year, John Frost !
Wi' your crisping and pouthering gear, John Frost,
For hedge, tower, and tree.
As far as I see,
Are as white as the bloom o' the pear, John Frost
You're very preceese wi' your wark, John Frost !
Altho' ye ha'e wrought in the dark, John Frost,
For ilka fit-stap,
Frae the door to the slap,
Is braw as a new linen sark, John Frost.
73
There are some things about je I like, John Frost,
And ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost ;
For the weans, \vi' cauld taes.
Crying *• shoon, stockings, claes,"
Keep 113 busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.
And gae wa' wi' your lang slides, I beg, John Frost !
Bairns' banes are as bruckle's an egg, John Frost ;
For a cloit o' a fa*
Gars them hirple awa*.
Like a hen wi' a happity leg, John Frost.
Ye ha'e fine goings on in the north, John Frost !
Wi' your houses o' ice, and so forth, John Frost I
Tho' their kirn's on the fire,
They may kirn till they tire.
Yet their butter— pray what is it worth, John Frost?
Now, your breath would be greatly improven, John Frost,
By a scone pipin'-het frae the oven, John Frost ;
And your blae frosty nose
Nae beauty wad lose,
Kent ye mair baith o' boiling and stovin', John Frost.
{Z^^r^
74
THE BLIND BEGGAR-MAN.
Air—" Johnnie Macgill."
Theke's auld Johnnie Gowdie, the blind beggar-man
Haste, rin ! like gude bairns, bring him in by the ban' ;
Tak' care o' the burn, bid him set his staff steeve!
Swith ! grip his coat-tails, or tak' hand o' his sleeve.
Poor John ! was ance glegger than ony ane here,
But has wander'd in darkness for mony a lang year ;
Yet his mind lives in sunshine, although he is blin' —
Though it 's darkness without, a' is brightness within.
" Come awa', my auld friend ! tak' the pock aff your back.
Draw 3'our breath, tak' yonr mouthfu', then gi's us your
crack ;
I ha'e just been discoursing the bairnies e'en now.
How they ought to befriend helpless bodies like you."
To the feckless and friendless, my bairns, aye be kind,
Be feet to the lame, and be eyes to the blind ;
•Twas to share wi' the needfu' our blessings were gi'en,
And the friend o' the poor never wanted a frien' '
He who tempers the wind to the lamb that is shorn ,
Will bless those who take from life's pathway a thorn.
And the ' ' cup of cold water " that kindness bestows.
On the heart back in rivers of gladness o'erflows.
75
Oh, tent you the lear' frae your mother ye learn
For the seed springs in manhood that's sawn in the bairn,
And, mind, it will cheer you through life's little span !
The blessing that fa's frae the blind beggar-man !
m"%D
CHUCKIE.
Saw ye chuokie wi' her chickies.
Scraping for them dainty pickies,
Keeking here and keeking there,
Wi' a mother's anxious care.
For a pick to fill their gebbies.
Or a drap to weet their nebbies ?
Heard ye weans cry " teuckie, teuckie!
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie?"
When her chickens a' are feather'd,
And the school weans round her gather'd,
Gi'en each the prettiest name.
That their guileless tongues can frame ;
Chuckie then will bend her neck !
Scrape wi' pride, and boo and beck !
Cluckin' as they'er crying " teuckie!
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie !"
76
Chuckie wi* her wheetle-wheeties
Never grudged a pick o' meat is ;
High and low alike will stand
Throwing crumbs wi' Idndly hand.
While about she'll jink and jouk.
Pride and pleasure in her look.
As they're crying " teuckie, teuckie
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie 1"
But sic fortime disna favour
Aye the honest man's endeavour ;
Mony a ane, wi* thrawart lot.
Pines and dees, and is forgot ;
But, my bairn, if ye've the power.
Aye to lessen want be sure-
Fin' your pouch, cry "teuckie, teuckie.
Here's some moolins, chuckie, chuckie !'
d/yir^
THE ORPHAN -WANDERER.
" O HELP the poor orphan ! who, friendless, alone.
In the darkness of night o'er the plain wanders on,
%Vhile the drift rushes fleet, and the tempest howls drear.
And the pelting snow melts as it meets the warm tear."
77
♦• Press onward ! a light breaks from yon cottage door-
There lives a lone widow, as kind as she's poor ;
Go ! let your sad plaint meet her merciful ear,
She'll kiss from your cold cheek that heart-bursting tear
" I'm fatherless ! motherless! weary, and worn
Dejected, forsaken, sad, sad, and forlorn !
A voice mid the storm bade me bend my steps here—
O help the poor orphan ! O lend him a tear !"
•' That voice was from Heaven — God hath answcr'd my
prayer !—
My dead boy's blue eyes and his bright sunny hair !
Thou com'st, my sweet orphan, my lone iieart to cheer !
Thou hast met with a home and a foud mother here I'
^€^<yCcit,SU^_^
THE A, B, C.
Am—" Clean pease strae."
If ye'd be daddie's bonnie bairn, and mammie's only pet,
Your A B brod and lesson time ye maunna ance forget ;
Gin ye would be a clever man, and usefu' i' your-day.
It's now your time to learn at e'en the A, B, C.
To win our laddie meat and cl;ies has aye been a' our care ;
To get you made a scholar neist, we'll toil baith late and ear' ;
And gin we need, and ha'e our health, we'U join the night
to day,
Sae tak' your brod and learn at e'en the A, B, C.
Wha kens but ye may get a school, and sjTie ye '11 win our
bread ?
"WTia kens but in a pu'pit yet, we'll see you wag your head ?
<^!ur minister and dominie were laddies i' their day,
And had like you to learn at e'en the A, B, C.
I^ow come and read yom- lesson ower, till ance your supper
cool—
O what would raonie a laddie gi'e to ha'e a father's school ? —
To be a mother's only care, as ye are ilka day.
Should mak' ye like to learn at e'en the A, B, C !
(J^^jU2dcU^
YE MAUN GANG TO THE SCHOOL.
Air—" As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel hy the fire."
Ye maun gang to the school again' summer, my bairn.
It's no near sae ill as ye're thinking to learn ;
For learning's a' worldly riches aboon —
It's easy to carry, and never gaes done.
79
i'e'U read o* the land, and ye'Il read o' the sea !
O' the high and the low, o' the bound iind the free !
And maybe a tear will the wee bookie stain.
When ye read o' the widow and fatherless wean !
And when 'tis a story of storms on the sea,
Where sailors are lost, who have bairnies like thee.
And your heart, growing grit for the fatherless wean,
Gars the tearies hap, hap o'er your cheekies like rain ;
I'll then think on the dew that comes frae aboon.
Like draps frae the stars or the silvery moon.
To freshen the flowers : — but the tears frae your ee
For the woes of another, are dearer to me.
So ye'll gae to the school again' summer, my bairn—
Ye're sae gleg o' the uptak' ye soon will leain ; —
And I'm sure ere the dark nights o' Avinter keok ben,
Ye'll can read William Wallace frae en' to eu' i
d^yir^
80
A MOTHER'S JOYS.
Am — " The hoatie rows."
I'VB gear enough ! I've gear enough !
I've bonnie bairnies three ;
Their welfare is a mine o* wealth.
Their love a crown to me.
The joys, the dear delights they bring,
I'm sure I wadna tyne
Though a' the good in Christendie
Were made the morrow mine !
Let others flaunt in fashion's ring !
Seek rank and high degree ;
I wish them joy, wi' a' my heart —
They're no envied by me.
I wadna gi'e thae lo'esome looks •
The heaven o' thae smiles !
To bear the proudest nar:ie — to be
Tlie Queen o' Britain's isles !
I\Iy s >ns are like their father dear.
And a' the neighbours tell
That my wee blue-ee'd dochter's just
The picture o' mysel'.'
O ! blessing's on my darlings a',
'Bout lae they're aye sie fain.
My heart rins ower wi' happiness
To think they're a' my ain !
81
At e'ening, morning, ilka hour,
I ve ae unchanging prayer,
That heaven would my hairnies bless,
Jly hope, my joy, my care.
I've gear enough ! I've gear enough !
I've bonnie hairnies three ;
A mine o' wealth their welfare is,
Their love a crown to me.
//C/W^/^^;^^^
WEE NANNY.
Air — ** Oivei' the muir amang the heather."
Wee Nanny weel deserves a sang,
So weel she tends her little brither;
For aye when mother's working thrang,
Awa' they tot wi' ane anither ;
His face she washes, kaims his hair.
Syne, wi' a piece weel spread wi' butter,
She links him lightly down the stair,
And lifts him cannie ower the gutter.
Where bees bum ower the flowery green,
Wi' buttercups and gowans glancing,
There may tne happy totts be seen.
Like lammies in the meadow dancing ;
F
82
Then wi' their laps weel filled wi* flowers,
And glowing cheeks as red as roses.
They toddle hame, and play for hours
At busking necklaces and posies.
You never need tell Nanny twice.
To do your bidding aj-e she's ready ;
And hearkens sae to gude advice,
Nae doubt, if spared she'll be a leddy !
When ither bairns fa* out and fight.
She reds the quarrel aye sae cannie.
Wee Nanny soon mak's a' things right.
And a' the bairns are friends wi' Nanny.
W/l^
MY DRAGON.
Am—" Logie o' Buchan."
The hip's on the brier, and the haw's on the thorn.
The primrose is wither'd, and yellow the corn ;
The shearers will be soon on Capilrig brae,
Sae I'll aflf to the hills wi' my dragon the day.
83
The wind it comes snelly, and scatters the leaves,
John Frost on the windows a fairy web weaves ;
The robin is singing, and black is the slae,
Sae I'll aff to the hills wi' my dragon the day !
I've bought me a string that will reach to the moon,
I wish I could rise wi't the white clouds aboon.
And see the wee stars as they glitter and play ! —
Let me aff to the hills wi' my dragon the day !
UNCLE JAMIE.
_A.iR_" jj^wie wi' the croohit horn."
Weel the bairns may mak' their mane.
Uncle Jamie's dead and gane !
Though his hairs were thin and grey,
Few like him could frisk and play.
Fresh and warm his kindly heart
Wi' the younkers aye took part ;
And the merry sangs he sung
Charm'd the hearts o' auld and young.
Uncle Jamie bad a mill,
And a mousie it intil,
Wi' a little bell to ring.
And a jumping jack to fling ;
84
And a drummer, rud-de-dud.
On a little drum to thud.
And a mounted bold dragoon,
Riding a* the lave ahoon.
When the mousie drave the mill,
Wi' the bairns the house would fill ;
Such a clatter then began!
Faster aye the mousie ran !
Clinkum, clankum ! rad-de-dad !
Flang the jumping jack like mad !
Gallop went the bold dragoon,
As he'd gallop ower the moon !
Some, wha ma3be think they're wise,
Uncle's frolics maj' despise ;
Let them look as grave's they may.
Ho was wiser far than they.
Thousands a' the warld would gi'e
Could they be as blythe as he.
Weel the bairns may mak' their mane,
Uncle Jamie's dead an' gane !
'<a^
85
CUR-ROOK- I-TT-DOO.
Air— " Laird o' Cockpen."
CuB-ROOK-i-TV-Doo I cur-rooli-i-ty-do !
\Vi' your neck o' the goud and your wings o' the blue ;
Pretty poll, like a body, can speak, it is true.
But you're just my ain pet ! my cur-rook-i-ty-doo !
My father's awa' wi* his dog and his gun.
The moorfowl to shoot on the hills o' Kilmun,
My brothers to fish in the burns o' the Rue,
But I'm blither at hame wi' cur-rook-i-ty-doo.
I'll feed ye wi' barley ! I'll feed ye wi' pease i
I'll big ye a nest wi' the leaves o' the trees ;
I'll mak' ye a dooket, sae white to the view.
If ye'll no flee awa', my cur-rook-i-ty-doo !
There's the hen wi' her teuckies thrang scraping their meat,
Wi' her cluckety-cluck, and their wee wheetle-wheet !
And bauld leerielaw would leave naething to you,
Sae pick frae my hand, my cur-rook-i-ty-doo !
They bought me a pyet— they gi'ed me a craw,
I keepit them weel, yet they baith flew awa' ;
Was that no unkindly ?— the thought gars me grue—
But ye'll no be sae fause, my cur-rook-i-tv-doo !
86
Ye blink wi' your ee like a star in the sky,—
Here's water to wash ye, or drink if you're dry ;
For I see by your breastie your crappie is fu' —
Now, croodle a sang, my cur-rook-i-ty-doo!
When I grow up a man, wi' a house o' my ain,
Ye needna be fear'd that I'll leave ye alane ;
But maybe ye'll die, or tak' on wi* the new.
Yet I'll never forget my cur-rook-i-ty doo !
O THIS IS NO 3IY AIN BAIRN.
Air—" This is no my ain house."
O THIS is no my ain bairn,
I ken by the greetie o't !
They've changed it for some fairy elf
Aye kicking wi' the feetie o't !
A randy, roaring, cankert thing.
That nought w^U do but fret and fling.
And gar the very rigging ring
Wi' raging at the meatie o't !
This canna be my ain bairn.
That was so gude and bonnie O !
Wi' dimpled cheek and merry een.
And pawky tricks sae mony O !
87
That danced upon her daddy's knee.
Just like a birdie bound to flee.
And aye had kisses sweet to gi'e
A' round about to ony O !
yes, it i3 my ain bairn !
She's coming to hersel' again !
Now blessings on my ain bairn.
She's just my bonnie Bell again !
Her merry een, her rosj' mou',
Ance mair wi' balmy kisses fu' —
1 kent the bonnie bairn would rue,
And soon would be hersel* again.
CHEETIE PUSSIE.
Air—*' Saw ye my Peggy 9"
Cheetie ! cheetie pussie ! slipping thro* the housie.
Watching frighted mousie— making little din ;
Or by fireside curring, sang contented purring.
Come awa* to Mirren, wi' your velvet skin !
88
Bonny baudrons ! grip it ! straik it -weel and clap it !
See the milk, it's lappit, ilka drap yestreen !
Hear to hungry cheetie ! mewling for her meatie,
Pussie, what a pity ye should want a friend!
Throw the cat a piecie, like a kindly lassie
Ne'er be proud and saucy, hard and thrawn like Jean ;
Doggie wants a share o't, if ye've ony mair o't.
Just a wee bit spare o't, and you're mother's queen !
Cheetie ! cheetie pussie ! watching frighted mousie, —
Slipping thro' the housie wi' your glancing een
Or by fireside curring, sang contented purring.
Come awa' to Mirren, tell her Avhere you've been 1
THE DREAMING CHILD.
• Be still, my dear darling, why start ye in sleep ?
Ye dream and ye murmur ! ye sob and ye weep ;
What dread ye, what fear ye ? oh, hush ye your fear8^
Still starting, still moaning — stiU, still shedding tears!
' Be still, my dear darling, oh stay your alarm !
Your brave-hearted father will guard you from harm ;
With bare arm he toils by that red furnace glare,
His child, and his wife, and his home all his care.
89
' But hark ! what a crabh— hush, my darling, be still
Those screams mid dark night bode some terrible ill —
Your father is there— death and danger are there !"
She bears forth her child, and she flies fleet as air.
A slow measured tread beats the smoke-blackened way.
On which a pale torch sheds a dim sickly ray ;
The dreaming child's father stalks sad and forlorn—
His dead neighbour home to a widow is borne.
The mother her baby clasps close to her breast,
' Thank heaven He is safe — my dear child safely rest,
While I fly to the aid of this daughter of sorrow,
God help me ! I may be a widow to-morrow !"
^U^C^UyCc^LS,^
A MOTHER'S SONG.
Air—*' rtst thee, my darling."
O COMB now, my darling, and lie on my breast.
For that's the soft pillow my baby loves best ;
Peace rests on thine eyelids, as sweetly they close,
And thoughts of to-morrow ne'er break thy repose.
90
What dreams in thy slumber, dear infant, are thine ?
Thy sweet lips are smiling when prest thus to mine !
All lovely and guileless thou sleepest in joy,
And Heaven watches over my beautiful boy.
O would thus that ever my darling might smile.
And still be a baby, my gi-iefs to beguile !
But hope whispers sweetly, ne'er broken shall be
The tie that unites my sweet baby and me.
YE MAUNXA SCAITH THE FECKLESS.
" Come, callans, quit sic cruel sport ; for shame, for shame,
gi'e ower !
That poor half-witted creature ye've been fighting wi' this
hour ;
What pleasure ha'e ye seeing him thus lay his bosom bare ?
Ye maunna scaith the feckless ! they're God's peculiar care.
* ' The wild flower seeks the sliady dell, and shuns the moun-
tain's brow,
Dark mists may gather ower the hills, while simshine
glints below ;
91
And, oh ! the canker-worm oft feeds on cheek o' beauty
fair, —
Ye maunna skaith the feckless ! they're God's peculiar
care.
The sma'est things in nature are feckless as they're sma'.
They tak' up unco little space — there's room enough for a';
And this poor witless wanderer, I'm sure ye'd miss him sair —
Yemaimnascaith the feckless! they're God's peculiar care.
' There's some o' ye may likely ha'e, at hame, a brother
dear.
Whose wee bit helpless, mournfu' greet ye canna thole to
hear ;
And is there ane amang ye but your best wi' him would
share ?—
Ye maunna scaith the feckless I they're God's peculiar
care."
The callans' een were glist wi' tears, they gazed on ane
anither.
They felt what they ne'er felt before, " the feckless was
their brither!"
They set him on a sunny seat, and strok'd his gowden hair—
The bairnies felt the feckless was God's peculiar care.
92
THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.
Air—" There grows a bonnie brier bush."
CoMK see my scaxlet rose-bush
3Iy father gied to me.
That's growing in our window-sill
Sae fresh an' bonnilie ;
I w^adna gi'e my rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see.
Nor for a pouchfu' o' red goud,
Sae dear it is to me.
1 set it in the best o* mould
Ta'en frae the moudie's hill.
And cover'd a' the yird wi' moss
I gather'd on the hill ;
I saw the blue bell blooming.
And the gowan wat wi' dew.
But my heart was on my rose-bush set,
I left them where they grew.
I water't ilka morning,
Wi' meikle pride and care.
And no a wither'd leaf I leave
Upon its branches fair ;
Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,
And four are on the stem.
Three rosebuds and six roses blawn ;
'Tis just a perfect gem !
93
Come, see my bonnie blooming bush
My father gied to me,
AVi' roses to the very top.
And branches like a tree ;
It grows upon our window-sill,
I watch it tentilie ;
O ! I wadna gi'e my dear rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see.
^^tj^^-Vfu^iJ:^^
TOE WAY-SIDE FLOWER.
There's a moral, my child.
In the way-side flower ;
There's an emblem of life
In its short-liv'd hour ;
It smiles in the sunshine,
And weeps in the shower ;
And the footstep falls
On the way-side flower i
Now see, my dear child,
In the way-side flower.
The joys and the sorrows
Of life's passing hour ;
94
The footstep of time
Hastens on in its power ;
And soon we must fall
Like the way-side flower !
Yet know, my dear child.
That the way-side flower
Will revive in its season.
And bloom its brief hour ;
That again we shall blossom,
In beauty and power.
Where the foot never falls
Oa the way-side flower !
(J^^jd^U-^
THE WILD BEE.
Cannie wee body wha rises sae early.
And fa's to thy work in the morning sae merrily.
Brushing thy boots on the fog at thy door,
And washing thy face in the cup o* a flower ;
Welcoming blithely the sun in the east,
Then skimming awa' to the green mountain's breast
Or crooning sae cantie thy sweet summer sang.
While roaming the meadows the sunny day lang.
95
Th"U mightest teacli wit to the wisest o' men,
Nature has gi'en thee sic gifts o' her ain ;
Thou needest nae Almanac, bonnie wild bee,
For few hae sic skill o' the weather as thee.
Aye carefu' and cunning, right weel thou canst tell
If the sun's gaun to blink on the red heather bell.
And thou canst look out frae thy ain cozie door,
And laugh at the butterfly drown'd in the shower.
Hast thou ony bairnies wha claim a* thy care.
That thou must e'en toil tho' thy banes may be sair ?
Do they hing round thy wee legs sae weary and lame,
A' seeking for guid things when father comes hame ?
Nae doubt thou'lt be happyto see them sae fain.
For a kind father aye maim be proud o' his ain ;
And their mother will tell how they've wearied a' day.
And a' that has happened since thou gaed'st away.
When night darkens down o'er the hill and the glen,
How snugly thou sleep'st in thy warm foggy den ;
Nae master to please, and nae lesson to learn.
And no driv'n about like a poor body's bairn.
O ! happy would I be could I but like thee
Keep dancing a' day on the flowers o' the lea ;
Sae lightsome and lively o'iieart and o* wing,
And naething to do but sip honey and sing.
^^^.*-t. ' y ^O ^^^iyir,£.^r^
96
JOHNNY ON HIS SHELTY.
Am — " The ewie wV the crooked horn.'
Saw ye Johnny on his shelty.
Riding, brattling, helty skelty.
In his tartan trews and kilty —
Was there ever sic a wean ?
Only eight years auld come Lammas,
Yet he's bigger than our Tammas,
If he's spared he winna shame us.
Else I'm unco sair mista'en.
Brattling thro' the blooming heather.
By the side o' tenty father.
Ne'er a bridle nor a tether —
Hauding steevely by the main :
Did ye only see our Johnny
Sitting on his Hieland pony !
Him ! he wadna beck to ony,— ^
E'en the Duke is no sae vain.
Sic a beast frae SIoss o' Balloch
Ne'er was seen in a* Glen-Falloch,
No like Duncan's shilly shalloch .'
Naething left but skin and bane.
97
Scarce the size o* faitnfu' Keener—
Ower the dykes as gude a leaper —
Toozie skin, and tail a sweeper ;
Sic a pair I'm sure there's nane !
'■^^^^.^jtyLX- ^J^>-v^^(^^ '
MY DOGGIE.
Air — " A^ body's like to get married but me."
Yk may crack o' your rabbits and sing o' your doos,
O' gooldies and linties gae brag, if ye choose,
O' your bonnie pet lambs, if j'e like, ye may blaw ,
But my wee toozie doggie's worth mair than them a'.
Twa hard-hearted laddies last Martinmas cam'
To drown the poor thing in the auld miller's dam,
I gied them a penny, and ran wi't awa'.
For I thought it was sinfu' sic harshness to shaw.
When I gang to the school, or am sent on an errand,
tt's afif like a hare, it has grown sae auld-farrand —
riien waits till I come, sae I'm laithfu* to thraw
^ly wee toozie doggie, or send it awa*.
B
Fu' brawly it kens ilka word that I speak.
And winna forget what I say for a week ;
My bonnet it cairies, or gi'es me a paw-
Sic VI doggie as Rover 1 never yet saw !
Sae wise and sae gaucy, the sight o't 's a feast !
For it's liker a body in sense, than a beast ;
Wi' a breast like the drift, and a back like the craw—
A doggie like Rover there's nane ever saw !
THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.
Air—" wat ye icTia I met yestreen ?"
Thk summer comes wi' rosy ^v^eaths,
And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers.
While f urthy autumn plenty breathes,
And blessings in abundance showers.
E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,
Brings meikle still the heart to cheer.
But there's a season worth them a'.
And that's the spring-time o' the year.
<Jft
In spring the farmer ploughs the field
That yet will wave wi' yellow com.
In spring the birdie bigs i.s bield
In foggy bank or budding thorn ;
The burn and brae, the hill aud dell,
A song o' hope are heard to sing,
And summer, autumn, winter, tell,
Wi' joy or grief, the work o' sprir'i^.
Now, youth's the spring-time o' your lifi..
When seed is sown wi' care and toil.
And hopes are high, and fears are rife.
Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.
I've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,
By precept and example baith.
And may the Hand that guides us here
Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith !
But soon the time may come when you
Shall miss a mother's tender care,
A sinfu* world to wander through,
Wi' a' its stormy strife to share ;
Then mind my words whare'er ye gang.
Let fortune smile or thrawart be.
Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang—
If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.
100
A MOTHER'S WELCOME.
Air—' ' Maid of Isla. "
<VBLCOiME, welcome, little stranger !
Stranger never more to be,
To our ■world of sin and danger —
'Tis thj- mother welcomes thee.
Oh, wi' bliss my breast is swelling 1
Tears of joy are on my cheek.
In their own heart-language telliug
What my tongue can never speaks
All my fondest hopes are crowned :
Thus I clasp them all in thee !
And a world of fears are drowned
In this moment's ecstasy.
Oh, that voice ! did sound fall ever
Half so sweet on woman's ear ?
Music charms — but music never
Thrill'd me like the notes I hear.
Not so welcome is the summer
To the winter-housed bee,
As thy presence, sweet new-comer.
Is this blessed hour to me.
Not so welcome is the morning
To the ship-wrecked mariner.
Though his native hills adorning,
Peril past, and succour near.
101
Welcome, welcome, bonnie wee-thing.
After all my fond alarm ;
Oh, the bless ! to feel thee breathing
In my bosom, free from harm.
Not for all the world's treasure.
Doubled, would I thee resign —
Give one half the nameless pleasure.
Thus to know thee, feel thee mine !
A MOTHER'S FAREWELJ
Air — " Caledonia."
I'm wearing aff this weary warl.
Of trouble, toil, and tears.
But thro' the dusk of death the dawn
Of happiness appears ;
And, oh ! wi' a' I lo'ed sae weel
It's sair for me to part.
The bairnie at my breast who clung.
The treasure o' my heart ;
102
Who fondly toddled round my knee.
When cauld misfortune's blast
In eerie sough gaed thro* my breast.
And laid my bosom waste.
I'm wae to leave the friends I lo'e.
In tearfu' grief forfairn,—
Oh who can tell a mother's thoughts
When parting wi' her bairn!
The tender twig, by nursing care.
Will grow a stately tree.
But who will turn the withering blast
O' warldly scorn frae thee ?
The stranger's hand may crush my flower.
May scaith its earthly peace;
But we shall meet to love for aye.
Where toil and troubles cease.
Ae kiss, a last fond kiss, my bairn.
And then, oh then we part !
Ae kiss, my ain, my only bairn !
Ere breaks my widowed heart.
I'm laith to leave ilk lovesome thing
Thro' life I've ca'd mine ain ;
Oh who can read a mother's heart
When parting wi' her wean !
^^
103
MY LAVEROCK.
Air—" Scotland's Hills for me.**
Come sing a sang, my bonnie bird.
Come sing a canty sang •
It clieers my heart to hear thy notes,
Ere to the school I gang ;
Where gowans white and butter cupa
Besprinkle a' the lea,
Frae there I've cut a dewy turf,
To make a bed for thee.
'Tis true I like my Untie weel,
Wi' wing o' green and grey.
And weel I like my sparrow pet,
That " filip " seems to say ;
But better far I lo'e my lark
Wi* glad an' glancing ee,
Wliose early morning melody
Frae slumber wakens me.
I found thee when a nestling young,
And tended thee wi' care ;
And weel thou hast repaid my toil
Wi' music rich and rare ;
I see thee cock thy tappit pow !
Thy fluttering wings I see ;
And now thou hast begun to sing
A marbling sang to me !
104
But yet 1 better like to hear
Thy kindred birdies sing.
At mom or noon in cloudless lift.
Their sang on soaring wing.
Yet thou'rt contented wi' thy lot,
And kensna to be free.
Though whiles I wish I hadna ta'en
Thy liberty frae thee.
Sing on, my lav'rock, sing awa' !
Thy loud and lively layj
Remind me o' the verdant fields.
And flowery sunny braes.
When spring and summer threw their charms
On bank and bower and tree.
Then smg awa', my bonny bird !
A canty sang to me !
MY BAIRNIES, YOU'RE A' THE WIDE WORLD
TO ME!
The flower's on the thorn, and the saft tassell'd bloom
Is hanging like gowd on the bonnie green broom,
While fluttering awa' o'er the heath and the lea,
And kissmg their sweets, is the young butterflee !
105
The lark's in the lift, and the lintie its sang
Is lilting sae lightsome the wild woods araang ;
While, dancing wi' gladness frae blossom to flower.
Is seen the blythe bumbee by bank, brae, and bower.
Then gi'e me my rod I and my line, and my creel !
And gi'e me my hooks father buskit sae weel ;
For skailed is the school, sae I'll aff to the burn,
And winna be lang till wi' trouts I return !
Your brither's awa' wi' his rod and his creel —
Your brither's awa' wi' his line and his reel —
And a red spreckled trout to his sister he'll bring,
Wi' a bab o' white gowans to mind ye o' spring.
And ye shall be bonnie, and ye shall be braw !
For you're just my ain bairn when your brither's awa*;
You're just my ain pet wi' your bright glancin' ee,
My baimies, you're a' the wide warld to me !
,;'''
^^
SCENES AXD PIECES
SUITED TO THE XURSEEY.
A NOISY NURSERY.
PARXEES REPRESENTED.
A group of rcmping children— Servant Mysie using sevc
tneasurcs to repress the boisierous m rnment— Children ap-
peal from the tyranny to old Granny.— Mysie might chai.l
her notes to the strain of '■'Low down in the broom"— Granny
to " Gin a body meet a body " — The children to " Highland
Laddie "—and Granny take up the same strain.
" Whisht ! whis'it ! ye restless, noisy things !
Ye deave me wi* your din ;
I canna hear your granny's voice.
As round the house ye rin.
Gae wa' and learn your lessons a',
Or ye may soon ha'e cause
To sing yoursel's anither san;r.
If ance I streek the taws!
SCENES AND PIECES. 10"
The house like ony bedlam rings,
"When ye come frae the school ;
The auldeet too 's the warst of a'.
Rampaging like a fool.
The neebours — tliey'll be chapping through—
They canna thole your noise !
For whar's the house in a* the land
Like ours for daft-like ploys ?
' It's better wearing shoon tl;an sheets,"
Ye'll hear your granny say.
For weel ken ye she tak's your part,
Be as mislear'd's ye may.
And syne ye rant about the house.
Or roar upon the stair!
It's aye the way ilk rainy day.
Till my poor head grows pair."
O, let the bairnies play themsel's!
I like to bear their din ;
I like to see ilk merry face,
As they tot out and in.
When young hearts dance in happy breasts,
They canna lang be still; —
Sae let the wee things rant awa' —
It mak's me young mysel'.
108 SCENES AND PIECES.
" Ye wouldna ha'e them dull and douce.
To sit like you and me.
Like howlets in a comer a
Wijilk bairnies cauija )?e.
An aiild head set on shouthers young !
The like was never seen;
For bairnies will ba bairnies aj'O,
As they ha'e ever been.
■ Their morning sun shines warm and sweet.
The flowers are blooming fair,
A wee bird sings in ilka breast.
That kens nae dool nor care.
So let the birdies sing their fill,
And let the blossoms blaw.
For bairnies round their granny's hearth
Are the sweetest flowers of a*.
• They mind me. like a happy dream,
O' days that ance were mine ;
They mind me aye 0* voices sweet
That I ha'e heard langsyne :
I see blythe faces I lia'e seen.
My mother's hame I see ; —
Auld folk, ye ken, grow bairns again.
And sae it fares wl' me»"
SCEKE8 AND PIECES. 109
children's appeal.
' Grannie ! Mysie's ta'en my ba',
Flyting Mysie, flyting Mysie,
And flung my Hollan's bools awa'—
Cankert, flyting JMysie ;
The bonnie ba' ye made to me,
The bools I bought wi' yon bawbee.
She's gart them o'er the window flee —
Cankert, flyting Mysie.
?>Iy6ie winna let me play,
Flyting Mysie, flyting aiysie,
Girning a' the lee lang day—
Cankert, flyting Mysie ;
Mary sits upon the stair,
Sabbing wi' a heart fu' sair,—
And ither bairns sae happy there—
And a' tor flyting Mysie."
O THAT Mysie's tongue would tire !
Flyting Mysie, flyting Mysie,
Never done wi' spitting fire —
Cankert, flyting Mysie ;
Raging aye the bairns amang.
Be they right or be they wrang.
Endless la the weary clang
O' cankert, flyting Mysie.
110 SCENES AND PIECES.
" Up th^ stair and down the stair,
Flyting Mysie, flyting Jlysie,
Rings her tongue for ever mair—
Cankert, flyting Mysie ;
Aye the latest sound at night.
Aye the first wi' morning light,
Waukening bairnies in a fright —
Cankert, flyting ilysie.
" Peace and love a' frightit flee,
Flyting Mysie, flyting Mysie;
Hame can never happy be
For cankert, flyting 3Iysie ;
Seldom blinks a sunny hour,
Mysie's tongue, so sharp and dour,
Turns a' the bairnies' tempers sour—
Fy on flyting Mysie I
*' Mnckle ye've to answer for,
Fivting Mysie, flyting Mysie,
Driving kindness to the door,
Cankert, flyting Mysie ;
Maids and mothers aye should mind,
*As bends the twig the tree's inclined,*
Rear them kindly, they'll grow kind—
But dinna flyte like Mysie !"
^^^
SCENES AND PIECES. 1 1 1
THE AULD BEGGAR-MAN.
A PARABLE.
**"Wha totters sae wearily up to the style,
Wi' back sairly bent, and forfoughten wi' toil,
Wi' age-\vrinkled face, and the tear in his ee —
I wonder wha this weary body can be."
*• I'll hound out our Towser," quo* wes Johnnie Graem,
'•Whose barking and biting will chase frae our hame
The sair ragged gangrel ;" sae aff like the win*
Ran Johnnie to loose the big dog frae the chain.
** Stop, stop," quoth his father, and mildly replied.
While Johnnie sair frighted crap close to his side ;
" Gae down bye and meet him, and gi'e him your hand-
Speak kindly, and welcome the auld beggar-man."
Wee Johnnie stood swithering, baith angry and fear'd —
What a pity that bairns should be cross and mislear'd —
Till up cam' the wanderer, wha craved this small boon—
A cup of cold water, and leave to sit down.
«• Come in to the ingle and rest you a while,"
Quoth Johnnie Graem "s lather ; and then wi' a smile,
Wi' a heart fu' o* kindness he reached out his hau'.
And heartily welcom'd the auld beggar-man.
112
SCENES AND PIECES.
Nae frown on his father's face wee Johnnie sees,
"S\Tiile he cracks wi' the auld beggar- man at his ease ;
And he wonders what charm conjured up the sweet smile.
Which played round the mouth of his mother the while.
He wondered to hear the tired stranger narrate.
How the sun of his life had been dimmed by the hate
And the fell disobedience of his only son,
^Vho8e ill deeds had brought his grey hairs to the grun'.
How his auld wife had wept when her ne'er-do-weel bairn,
Wi' feelings like snaw, cauld, and heart hard as aim.
Had driven them out on a pitiless warl*.
Where rich folk ha'e nae ruth, and poorer folk snarl.
How she wept, broken-hearted, in hunger she pined.
How her last breath had pass'd 'mid the cauld winter's wind.
Johnnie glower'd when he saw how the bet, het tears ran
O'er the cheeks and the chin o' the auld beggar-man.
He look'd at the auld man, and syne at his father.
And he saw pity's tear dew the cheeks o' his mother ;
And the wee heart o' Johnnie was sair rack'd wi' pain ;
Ar.d he grat till the auld beggar-man was lang gane.
O Pity ! thy form, like an angel's, is bright.
Thou Cherub commissioned from realms of pure light.
May Pity and Charity, linked with Love,
DagII on earth as they dwell with our Fathsr above.
'::^-SL4AAU^ f^/f aAA>d-^-l/i^J^
SCENES AND PIECES. 113
JOHN HOWARD.
A BIUGRAPH\.
Comb hither, while I tell a talo about a man of famo.
Known for iiis great philanthropy— John Howard waa his
"With wealtii to meet his wishes, he through many lands did
roam,
Till chance made him a captive when returning towards
home.
When pining in captivity, he thought upon the pains
Of those unhappy sufFerervS who are hound in prison chains ;
To lessen all the horrors of the captive's direful lot,
He feared nor pain nor danger, while a remedy he sought.
He travelled south, he travelled north, he entered many a
cell,
Where gaunt disease and agony in prison darkness dwell.
He toil'd with ceaseless energy — his meek heart op'd the
gates
Of jails and lazarettos, as full many a book narrates.
He had little of the culture which is bought in classic schoola.
His teacher was fair Mercy, and he practised all her rules
His eloquence sprung from the he;irt, inspired by virtue's
flame.
And his manners thence acquired a grace which consecrate
his name.
I
114 SCENES AND PIECES.
War's bloody banner flaunting, by a despot's hand un-
furled,
May gain the conqueror laurels from a subjugated world.
But the blazon of his high emprise — the trumpet-blast of
fame —
Which proclaims the victor's glory, are but trophies of his
shame.
For despair, and want, and suflFering, follow howling in his
train,
And so loud the victor's pecan, just so loud the shriek of
pain ;
But the glory of John Howard— the benevolent, the mild —
Was, that misery fled before him, and where'er he went
hope smiled.
And did his labours end in vain?— what followed? you in-
quire,
I'll tell you all his history. Sit closer round the fire.
He sent a full and true report to Britain's Parliament,
Of all the woes he witnessed in jails, where'er he went.
And patiently they listen'd to the horrible array
Of scenes in noisome dungeons, hid from the eye of day ;
And speedily they seconded the good man's virtuous
scheme.
Till they whom law had tortured wept with joy at How-
ard's name.
SCENES AND PIECES. ]|5
And from land to land he travelled, for his mission knew
no bound,
For he sought to lessen suffering, wherever it was found ;
Till, when ministering to the fever-struck in Tartary afar,
Ee died, and found a resting-place in the empire of the
Czar.
And many a costly cenotaph was raised to honour him, —
But his high fame needs no monument, and never can
grow dim
For as long as men revere the good, his virtues shall endure.
And his name is deeply graven in the memories of the pure.
tiAAU^ L^rf ^ZAA^-^-i<^
THE CANDLEMAS KING.
•' I'm sure this is Candlemas, mother, ye ken.
Then haste ye and bring me my sabbath-day class,
Kab Russel, and Tam o' the Hazel-tree glen.
Are baith out o' sight o' the Patterton braes .'
My task I ha'e learn 'd, and my face I ha'e wash'd.
And I counted yestreen ilka hour that did ring,—
Wi' supping my parritch I carina be fash'd, —
O, I wish I were sure I'd he Candlemas kins:!
116 SCENES AND PIECES.
' Xae less than a shilling I've gather'd myser.
My father has promis'd another to gi'e,
AVhile Johnny Macfarlane, wha never can spell.
Has only a groat, if he tell8 na a lie."
Poor robin is happing alang the roadside.
And he crumbles his piece to the chittering wee thing,
While aft to himsel' he is saying wi' pride,
* ' How happy I'll be when I'm Candlemas king ! "
The school he comes near wi' a heart blithe and bauld.
And as supple's an eel in the Rookin linn burn ;
There's ice on the dubs, but he minds na the cauld,
Tho' blae as a blawort his rosy cheeks turn.
O ! what are the best o' enjoyments that come
To gild and to gladden our autumn or spring ?
Experience still whispers this truth as the sum —
" 'Tis the fanciful bliss of a Candlemas king.'"
THE JIITHERLESS BAIRN.
Whex a* itber bairnies are hush'd to their hame.
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, and sairly forfairn ?
'Tis the poor dowie laddie — the mitherless bairn !
SCENES AND PIECES. 1 1 7
The mitLerless bairnie creeps to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, nor haps his bare head ;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim,
And lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn !
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hOver there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair !
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless and stern.
That lo'e na the looks o' the mitherless bairn!
The sister who sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed,
Now rests in the mools where their mammie is laid ;
While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earii.
And kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in the hour of his birth.
Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth.
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
AVha coutbiely deal wi' the mitherless bairn !
Oh ! speak him na harshly — he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding and blesses your smile : —
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn.
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
118 SCENES AND PIECES.
PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE.
Let precept and example aye hand in hand be sten.
For gude advice is plenty, and unco easy gi'en ;
And bairnies in the uptak* ye ken are seldom slow.
So aye, whate'er advice ye gi'e, a gude example show.
They're gleg at imitation, as ilka ane may ken :
The lassies a* would women be — the laddies would be mca ;
So lead them kindly by the hand the road that they should go,
And aye, whate'er advice ye gi'e, a gude example show.
And should you promise aught to them, aye keep your
promise true.
For truth a precious lesson is that they maun learn frae you ;
And ne'er reprove a naughty word wi' hasty word or blow,
i3ut aye, whate'er advice ye gi'e, a gude example show.
And so to home-born truth and love ye'll win ilk bonnie
bairn,
For as they hear the auld cock craw, the young are sure to
learn :
They'll spurn at mean hypocrisy, wi' honest pride they'll
glow.
And bless the parents' watchfu' care wha gude example
show.
SCENES AND PIECES. 119
BROTHERS QUARRELLING.
Davie and Sandy blaming each other as beina the aggressor —
Both appeal to their Father, who gives them advice, and re-
cites his feelings on the occasion of a Brother's Death.^
Davie and Sandy may try to sing their complaints to ''John
Anderson" if they cannot find better — The Father, in his
Advice, to " Logij o' Buchan" — And in I^rolher's Death ^
" On a bank ofjloivers.^'
" Father, settle Sandy!
He's making mou's at me,
He's aye plague, plaguing.
And winna let me be ;
And syne he looks so simple-like.
Whene'er he thinks he's seen.
But just as soon's you're out o' sight
He's making mou's again.
" Father, settle Sandy!
He's crying names to me.
He's aye tig, tigging,
And winna let me be ;
120 SCENES AND PIECES.
But O sae sly, he bauds his tongue
Whene'er he kens ye're near.
And says't again below his breath.
That nane but me can hear."
SANDY.
" Father, settle Uavie!
It's him that winna gree.
He's aye jeer, jeering.
And lays the blame on me;
I daurna speak, I daurna look,
I daurna move a limb.
For if I gi'e a wee bit laugh
He says I laugh at him."
FATHER.
" O LEARN to be loving, and kindly agree,
At home all as happy as brothers should be,
Ere distance may part you, or death may divide.
And leave you to sigh o'er a lonely fireside.
" The sweet look of kindness, the peace-speaking tongue,
So pleasant and lovely in old or in young,
AVill win the affections of all that you see,
And make you still dearer to mother and me.
•• But O ! if divided by distance or death.
How sore would it grieve you till life's latest breath.
That anger or discord should ever have been.
Or aught but affection two brothers between."
SCENES AND PIECES. 121
A brother's death.
' • I HAD a brother dear who died
In childhood's opening bloora.
And many a sad and tender thought
Springs from his early tomb ;
And still the sad remembrance comes.
With all its former woe.
Although my little brother died
Full thirty years ago !
•' It comes with all the tenderness
Of childhood's gentle hours.
When hand in hand we roved along
To cull gay summer flowers ;
Or wandered through the old church-yard.
Beneath the smiling sky,
And played among the lowly graves
Where he was soon to lie !
I see him yet with locks of gold.
And eyes of heavenly biue.
With pale, pale brow, though ruddy cheeks-
Twin roses bathed in dew.
And when ho pined in sore disease,
I thought my heart would break,
I could have laid me down and died
Most gladly for his sake.
SCENES AND PIECES.
" And well do I remember still.
Beneath the starry sky,
In childish fancy I have traced
His bright abode on high ;
I knew his spirit was in heaven,
And from some lovely star
I thought his gentle eye looked down
And saw me from afar !
*' In solitude, at evening hour,
I've found it sad and sweet.
To muse among the dear old scenes
Trod by his little feet ;
And many an old frequented spot,
"Where we were wont to play,
Was hallowed by remembrance still
In manhood's riper day.
" A bank there was with wild flowers gay.
And whins all blooming round,
Where once upon a summer day
A small bird's nest we found,
I haunted so that sacred spot.
And paced it o'er and o'er.
My well worn footprints on the grass
For many a day it bore.
SCENES AND PIECES, 123
" And I have gazed upon his grave.
While tears have dimm'd my eye.
To think that one so young and fair
In that low bed should lie ;
Should lie unconscious of our woe.
Of all our love and care,
Unconscious of the summer sun
That shone so sweetly there.
" And I have lingered on the spot.
When years had rolled away,
And seen his little grave upturned
To mix with kindred clay.
Cold dust alone remained of all
Our former joy and pride.
And they who loved and mourned for him,
JJow slumber by his side."
124 SCENES AND PIECES.
THE SELF-WILL'D BOY.
Leaves home and becomes a cabin boy— his parents die of grief
— he is shipwrecked — his Lament atid Prayer — is rescued —
reaches home, and, finding his father and mother dead, sitiks
into despondency. Better recite than attempt to sing the
Narrative— The Lament will suit either the air of " whit
left I my hame ?" or " Auld Robin Gray."
Narrative by Alex, Smart.
Lament by Alex. Rodger.
NARRATIVE.
Come listen now, ye children dear!
Who live at home in gladness.
And from the lips of love, oh hear !
A simple tale of sadness ;
And when you're men and women grown.
You'll prize the truths I tell you ;
Jf or mourn o'er loving parents gone,
"When tears can nought avail you.
Poor "Willie ! was a thoughtless boy.
Though kind and honest-hearted.
His loving parents' hope and joy.
Ere from his home he parted ;
But restless thoughts on him laid hold,
A wild and wayward notion
That he would be a saUor bold,
And rove upon the ocean.
SCENES AND PIECES. | 2o
O Willie was a lightsome boy !
With cheeks like opening roses,
And eyes that sparkled bright with joy.
Like stars when evening closes ;
As fleet of foot as any roe
That bounds o'er heathy mountain.
And fresh as wilding flowers that grow
Beside the gushing fountain.
But he forsook his happy home,
All friendl3' counsel scorning,
Far on the dangerous sea to roam.
And left his parents mourning.
And when the nights grew long and dark.
With winds in wild commotion.
They lay and thought upon the bark.
With Willie on the ocean !
They thought on many a hidden snare,
The darkness and the dangers,
The hardships sailor boys must bear
'Mong rude unfeeling strangers ;
But still they hoped and prayed that H«,
Who stays the tempest's roaring.
Would shield him on the raging sea.
Their Willie home restoring.
1 26 SCENES AND PIECES.
O they liad hoped to see the day !
Would fill their hearts with gladness.
When he would prove their age's stay.
In sickness or in sadness ;
And then, within the narrow bed.
Released from mortal cumber.
That he would lay each weary head.
In yon churchyard to slumber.
But sickness bowed the father down —
No tidings came to cheer him —
And ere the winter wild had flown.
They to his grave did bear him :
And sad and sore his mother pined—
Oh ! how could Willie grieve her.
And break a heart so true and kind,—
But death did soon relieve her.
And you will weep the song to hear
That tells his sad disaster,
And how he mourned his parents dear.
With tears that followed faster
Tiian summer rain, which bathes the blooni
Of flowers all parched and fading ;
But, ah ! no tears revive the tomb.
Nor heal the heart's upbraiding !
SCENES AND PIECES. 127
THE LAMENT
'• O WHAT could urge me on to tempt the restless deep ?
And wring my parents' hearts, till I forced them both to
weep?
Wliy quit their peaceful bield for the wild tempestuous sea,
A castaway to pine in a strange countrie ?
A stubborn wilful boy— no warning would I take.
Although I saw their hearts a-bursting for my sake ;
Entreaties, prayers, and tears, were lost alike on me.
Ah ! how 1 feel them now m this strange countrie ?
♦' O Where's the wimpling burn?— the bonnie sunny brae,
"Where the minnows used to sport— the lammies frisk and
play?
Nae wimpling burn is here — nae sunny brae I see,
But a' is bleak and drear in this strange countrie.
The sea ran mountains high, our ship was dashed to wreck.
While every living thing was swept from off the deck.
And now a barren rock is all that's left for me.
To perish here unseen in this strange coimtrie.
" Our noble captain sank with all his crew so brave.
And every gallant heart now sleeps beneath the wave,
While I am left alone in hopeless misery,
A harder lot to mourn in this strange countrie.
128 SCENES AND PIECES.
O Thou ! whose word supreme can bid the winds be still !
Or make the billows heave, obedient to thy will.
Thine erring child forgive!— O succour send thou me!
-Their broken hearts to heal in mj' ain countrie."
A vessel hove in sight — the sea boy reached his home.
No more to plough the deep nor from his friends to roam !
He saw his mother's face !— no mother then was she.
Her ptirer part had fled to a Pure Countrie!
Her heart for him had broke, his sire's had broken too.
The sea boy now was left his erring ways to rue,
A gloom came o'er his soul— a blighted bud was he.
Ah ! never more to bloom in his ain countrie!
INDEX
TO
SERIES FOURTH, FIFTH, AND NURSERY SONGS,
CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME. *
Preface
BIOGEAPHT.
Smith, R. A
Thorn, William, of Inverury,
A Bonnie Wee Lassie I ken
A bonnie Bride is easy buskit,
A December Ditty . .
A Highland Mother's Lament,
A Highland Pilgrim's Progress
Ah no !— I cannot say
Alia Mia Sposa
A Mother's cares and toils . .
A Mother's Farewell
A Mother's Joys
A Mother's Song
A Mother's Welcome
Abercaimie, Lament for
Ae glide turn deserves anither
A Noisy Nursery
Arniston
An Auld Man's Love Song . .
As the auld Cock craws, the young
Cock learns
165
85
47
35
116
57
Author. Series. Page.
Sloane 5th 39
Ballantine 6th
Ainslie 4th
Stewart 4th
Vedder 5th
Rodger 4th
Kennedy 5th
Ferguson Nursery 29
Crawford Nursery 101
Ferguson Nursery 80
Smari Nursery 89
Ferguson Nursery 100
Latto 5th 89
Ballantine 5th 156
Smart Nurseiy 106
Ballantine 5th 152
Cross 5th 24
5th 148
184
Author. Series. Page.
Auld Eppie Laing 4th 72
Auld Johnny to young Maggy, and
Answer Mercer 4th 97
Auld Nannie Crummie . . . . Ballantine 4th 113
A voice from Holyrood . . . . Ballantine 5th 17
A' wear the Masks Gray 4th 62
Ava wi' your Wisdom . . . . Malone 5th 78
A-sray wliile yet thy days are few . . Kennedy 6th 179
Bad luck to this marching . . . . Lever 4th 18
BaiiTaes, come hame . . . . Malone Nursery 23
Baith sides o' the picture . . . . Rodger 5th 162
Bauldy Buchanan Rodger 4th 83
Be a comfort to your mither . . Rodger Nursery 51
Bonnie Mary Jamieson . . . . GilfiUan 4th 90
Bonnie Bess'ie Ballantine . . . . Blair 5th 64
Bonnie Bonnaly Ballantine 5th 163
Bonnie Coquet-Side White 5th 71
Bonnie Nelly Richardson . . . . Sloane 5th 140
Brothers quarrelling ; Scene . . Smart Nursery 119
Can't you he aisy? Lever 4th 86
Castles in the air Ballantine Nursery 25
Cauld winter is come . . . . Malone 5th 136
Cheetie Puasie Donald Nursery 57
Chuckle Miller Nursery 76
Cock Pen, Lady Imlah 5th 82
Cockie-leerie-la Miller Nursery 43
Come, billies, let's steer for our ham-
mocks Rodger 5th 121
Come listen now ye children dear . . Smart Nursery 124
Crabbed care M'Laggan 4th 110
Creep afore ye gang Ballantine 4th 100
Creep afore ye gang Ballantine Nursery 19
Cuddie Willie Ballantine oth 91
Cur-rook-ity-doo Donald Nursery 85
Daft days Ainslie 4th 42
Diuna greet for me Murray 5th 83
Dinna fear the Doctor . . . . Smart Nursery 20
Dinna forget Rodger 5th 178
Dreams of absence Grant 5th 41
Dreamings of the b.ereaved . . Thom 4th 6
Drucken Tam the baker . . . Latto 4th 102
Duncan Dhu'a tribulations . . . . Vedder 4th 15
1S5
Author* Series. Page.
Errand rinning Ma?y . . . . Smart Nursery 31
Ettrick Shepherd, Lament for . - Murray 5th 37
Father settle Davy; Scene . . Smart Nurserj- 120
Father settle Sandy ; Scene . . Smart Nursery 119
Fie Fair Maiden Hedderwick 5th 77
Flown awa are frosts and snaws . . Manson 5th 9
Gang to your beds Smart Nursery 68
Gi'e as ye would tat' . . . . Rodger Nursery 38
Gi'e my love gear, gear . . . . Latto 5th 99
Glenorchy Young 4th 63
Grannie, Mysie's ta'en my ba' . . Smart Nursery 109
Gree baimies gree Miller Nursery 8
Hairst Miller Nursery 66
Hame is aye hamely . . . . Malone 5th 30
Happy Harvest Crawford Nursery 63
Happy the hearts M'Laggan 4th 39
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come . . Ballantine 5th 144
Heaton Mill Foster 5th 109
He courted me in parlour ■.. .. Motherwell 5th 155
He that tholes owrecomes , . . . Crawford 5th 116
Heigh Ho! .. Ballantine 5th 177
Hogmanay Smart Nursery 45
Howard, John Manson Nursery 113
1 ance was in love Rodger 4th 44
If to thy heart I were as near . . Motherwell 5th 166
I hae lost my heart Ballantine 5th 80
I had a brother dear who died . . Smart Nursery 121
Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap
o' dew Ballantine 5th 125
I never will get fu' again . . . . Fisher 5th 52
I plucked the berry from the bush Motherwell 5th 175
I said I loved the Town . . , . ConoUy 4th 49
I'se red ye tak' tent Fisher 5th 98
It speaks to my spirit . . . . Kennedy 4th 43
Jeanie's Grave Thom 4th 36
Jeanie Kelly Oliver 4th 75
Jeanie's Welcome 1 lame .. ., Vedder 6th 88
Jean Munro Finlay 4th 70
Jock Ferguson 4th 23
1S«
Author. Series. Page.
John Buchan Laing 4th 9
John Frost Miller Nursery 72
Johnnie on his Shelty . . . . Donald Nursery 96
Johnnie's Grey Plaid . . . . Laing 5th 100
Kate M'Vean Clark 5th 63
Kindness to Servants . . . . Smart Nursery 69
Lady Summer Miller Nursery 57
Last week as I sat Ferguson 5th 118
Lay of the Broken heart . . . . Motherwell 5th 149
Learn your lesson Smart Nursery 14
Lord Spynie Laing 4th 101
Luflf her up, luff her up . . . . Denovan 5th 40
Madie's Schule Smart 5th 119
Maniac— Song Laing 5th 68
Mary's flitting Marshall 5th 145
May morning song Telfer 4th 38
May morning Smart Nursery 53
Mortal happiness Graeme 5th 126
Mother's Pet Ferguson Nursery 13
My ain hame at e'en . . . . Frame 4th 9
My ain kindly minnie . . . . Malone Nursery 17
My ain wife Laing 5th 94
My Auld Aunty Lizzie . . . . Watson 5th 44
My Auld Guidman M'Laggan 5th 85
My baimies ye' re a' the wide world
to me Donald Nursery 104
My Doggie Donald Nursery 97
My Dragon Donald Nursery 82
My Granny's Fireside . . - . Smart 5th 62
My guid coat o' blue Paterson 5th 10
My Hame Nicol 5th 49
My heart's 'mong the heather . . Ferguson 5th 101
My Heather Land Thom 4th 91
My La%''rock Donald Nursery 103
My Mary and me Paterson 5th 54
My Mother, can I e'er return . . Crawford 5th 81
My own Marion GilfiUan 4th 25
My Wifie an' me Latto 4th 7
My Willie an' me BaUantine 5th 183
187
Nae body kens ye
No. come not niy life
No season this for glooming
Now rosy Summer laughs in joy
Now Sandie maun awa
Nursery Scarecrows . .
NuRSEEY Scenes —
Noisy Nursery . .
Brothers Quarrelling
Self-will'd boy
Author. Series. Page.
Malone 5th 13
Kennedy 5th 154
Ferguson 4th 58
Latto 5th 34
Blamire 4th 88
Rodger Nursery 2
Smart Nursery 106
Smart Nursery 119
Smart & Rodger Nursery 124
O come awa', Jeanie . .
Old Father Time
O for the merry moonlight hour
Oh gin I were to wed again
O ! hope's like a minstrel . .
O Jeanie ! why that look sae cauld
O leese me on thee, bonny bairn
O leese me on thee, tidy wifie
O let the bairnies play themsel's
O list the mavis mellow note
O meet me by moonlight
Oh say not pure affections change
O that Mysie's tongue wad tire
Oh the dreigh days o' winter
Oh this is no my ain bairn
Oh thou Ocean
O, we'll keep our heads aboon
Oh ! why left I my hame ? . .
On a sweet lovely Isle
One of the heart's struggles
Ould Murphy the Piper
Our ain burn-side
Our ain fire-end
Our Auld Uncle John
Owre a' the sweet maidens . .
Pace Eggs
Peggy Penn . .
Petting at food
Pity me, what I dree
Polly Cushane
Precept and Example
Kemp
4th
51
Park
5th
53
Kennedy
4th
59
Ferguson
5th
43
Grant
5th
116
Rodger
4th
12
Rodger
Nursery 42
Oliver
4th
44
Smart
Nursery 107
Foster
4th
77
Rodger
4th
22
Mothervr
3ll5th
178
Smart
Nursery 109
Ritchie
5th
94
Smart
Nursery
86
Denovan
4th
119
Telfer
4th
74
GilfiUan
4th
33
Turnbull
4th
73
Thom
5th
29
Ritchie
5th
143
GilfiUan
4th
14
Miller
Nursery 36
Rodger
5th
102
White
5th
38
Smart Nursery 52
Anderson 4th 67
Smart Nursery 58
Rodger 5th 106
Ritchie 4th 71
Smart Nursery 118
18S
Antlior. aeries. Page.
Rantiu' Robin Vedder 4th 66
Requisites for a Love Lyric . . Roy 5th - 69
Rosy Cheekit Apples . , . . Ballantine 4th 3
Rosy Cheekit Apples .. .. Ballantine Nursery 11
Sandv Allan Hume 4th 73
Sandy ford Ha* . . . . . . Park 4th 65
Scotch Serenade Sloane 5th 79
Shean M'Xab • . . Fisher 4th 57
Sly Widow Skinner Latto 4th 64
Song of the Bee Cameron 5th 75
Song of the little foam-bell . . Cameron 4th 105
Song of the sea bound mariner . . Cameron 5th 60
Song of the Ship Motherwell 5th 172
Song of the spirit lyre .. .. Cameron 5th 21
Songof the wandering sea breeze , . Cameron 5th 111
Spirit of Love and Beauty . . . . Calder 4th 29
Spring Miller 4th 124
Spring Miller Nursery 50
Spunk Peter Smart 5th 12
Star of the Evening Young 4th 20
Sweet seraph of the peaceful brow Turnbull 4th 92
Tell me dear Latto 4th 96
Texan camp song Kennedy 5th 3
The A, B, C Laing Nursery 77
The Absent Father Ballantine Nursery 59
The Auld Beggar Man . . . . Manson Nursery 111
The Auld Emigrant's Farewell . . Finlay 5th 108
The Au!d Man's Lament . . . . Anon 4th 122
The Bard of Armagh . . . . Ritchie 5th 174
The Bashfu' Bairn Smart Nursery 27
The Battle of Preston . . . . Gray 4th 107
The Bird's Nest Smart Nupsery 33
The Blind Beggar-man . . . . Malone Nursery 74
The bonnie keel laddie . . . . Anon 4th 56
The bonnie milk cow . . . . Smart Nursery 9
The bonnie Tweed for me . . . . Foster 5th 55
The Breton Home Lever 4th 19
The Broken Heart Maxwell 5th 70
The bud's now open to the breeze Crawford Nursery 48
The canty, couthie chiel . . . . Ritchie 4th 28
The Candlemas King . . . . Donald Nursery 115
The Childless Widow . . . . Ballantine 5th 171
Author. Series. Page.
The City Guard Ballantine 5th 59
The Dawtie Anderson 4th 109
The Doctor Smart Nursery 20
The Dreaming Child .. .. Ballantine Nursery 88
The Drygate Brig Rodger 5th 132
The Falcon's flight Foster 5th 25
The Family Contrast • . . . Rodger Nursery 6
The Father's knee Ballantine Nursery 18
The Flower o' Banchory . . . . Ballantine 5th 141
The Flo;ver o' Donside . . . . Watson 4th 32
The Flower o' the Ayr . . . . Latto 4th 62
The Gathering Imlah 4th 89
The Gowden Ring Still 5th 72
The Happy Mother Laing 5th 153
The Herd Laddie Smart Nursery 41
The Highlander's Welcome to the
Queen Rodger 5th 16
The Hunter's Well Motherwell 5th 164
The Idler Smart Nursery 40
The Impatient Lassie . . . . Anderson 5th 27
The Knight's Return , . . . White 4th 10
The Lads and the Land far awa' . . Aiuslie 5th 32
The Land of my Birth . . . . Foster 4th 104
The Lark has sought his grassy
home Denovan 5th 33
The last look o' hame . . . . Ainslie 5th 123
The Lintie's Wooing . . . . Manson 5th 122
The little errand runner . . . . Smart Nursery 31
The little foam-hell Cameron 4th 105
The lovely lass of Inverkip . . Rodger 4th 46
The Lyart and Leal Crawford 5th 23
The Maid that I adore . . . . White 4th 94
The Marled mittens Watson 4th 93
The Mermaiden Motherwell 5th 170
The Miller of Deanhaugh . . . , Ballantine 5th 139
The Minister's Dochter . . . . Latto 5th 93
The Mitherless Bairn . . . . Thom 4th 121
The Mitherless Bairn . . . . Thom Nursery 116
The moon shone calmly bright . . Imlah 4th 49
The Nameless Lassie . . . . Ballantine 5th 159
The new comer Ballantine Nursery 4
The Ocean Chief Denovan 4th 117
The Otter Hound Foster 5th 150
The Orphan wanderer . . . . Ballantine Nursery 76
190
Author. Serief. Page.
The Pearly brow Ballantine 5t.li 161
The Queen o' Bonny Scotland . . Miller 5th 19
The Raven Lalng 5th 160
The rough kiss M'Laggan 4th 54
The salmon run Foster 5th 4
The scarlet rose bush .. .. Donald Nursery 92
The Sea Boy's lament . . . . Rodger Nursery 127
The season of love Malone 5th 157
The selfish Laddie Smart Nursery 3
The Self-wilVd Boy ; Sceuo Smart & Rodger Nursery 124
The silent Child Ballantine Nursery 32
The sleepy wee Laddie . . . . Miller ith 4
The sleepy wee Laddie . . . . Miller Nursery 12
The song of the Danish sea king . , Motherwell ith 35
The song of the Ship .. .. Motherwell 5th 172
The southland Breeze . . . . Ferguson 4th 123
The spring time o' Life . . . . Donald Nursery 98
The sunny Summer Months . . Crawford Nursery 55
The Trouting Day Foster 5th 128
The Truant Smart Nursery 15
The Trysting Tree BaUantine 4th 81
The Wanderd Bairn . . . . Crawford 5th 104
The Warrior's Home . . . . Park 4th 115
The washing Rodger Nursery 62
The watch dog Smart Nursery 26
The "Wayside Flower . . . . Lang Nursery 93
The Wells o' Wearie . . . . Ritchie 4th 6
The wee wee Flower . . . . Ballantine 4th 53
The wee wee Man . . . . Macdonald 5th 137
The Widow to her Bairns . . . . Crawford Nursery 36
The WifBe outwitted . . . . Smart 4th 27
The Wild Bee Gardiner Nursery 94
The Winter's come at last . . . . Crawford Nursery 70
The Winter has set in, Lads . . Finlay 5th 20
The Wonderfu' Wean . . . . Miller Nursery 21
Then mount the tackle and the reel Foster 4th 60
They speak o' wyles Thorn 4th 46
This night ye'U cross . . . . Thorn 4th 99
Thochtfu' Love Buchanan 5th 47
Time's changes Ballantine oth 184
'Tis nae to harp Thorn 5th 114
To speak to me White 5th 32
Uncle Jamie Smart Nursery 83
191
Author. Series, Page.
Wat o' the Howe Ballantiae 4th 16
Watty thp Poacher Marshall 5th 130
Wee Annie o' Auchineden . . . . Macdonald 5th 167
Wee Nanny Smart Nursery 81
We'll a' be brawly yet . . . . Crawford 5th 7
We twin'd our hearts in aue . . Fei'guson 4th 112
When I beneath the cold red earth
am sleeping . . . . . . Mothenvell 5th 134
When her minnie disna ken . . Blair 5th 15
When the Bee has left the blossom Smart 4th 41
When we were at the Schule . . Latto 5th 95
Whistling Tarn Watson 5th 48
Whisht, whisht! ye restless noisy
things Smart Nursery 106
Who'll go with me over the sea . . Ballautiue 5th 183
Wife o' Willowdenha' . . . . Laing 4th 30
Willie's awa Smart Nursery 47
Willie's away Murray 4th 12
Willie Winkie Miller Nursery 1
Winter Tennant 4th 76
Woman's wark will ne'er be done Allan 4th 79
Woman'.s witchfu' e'e . . . . Still 5th 45 ■
Ye dinjia ken yon bower
Ye may talk o' your learning
Ye maun gang to the Schule
Ye mauna scaith the feckless
Young Maggy to Auld Johnnie
Your Daddy's far at sea
Thom 5th 74
Mercer 5th 65
Miller Nursery 78
Ballantine Nursery 90
Mercer 4th 98
Rodger Nursery 60
BIOOEAPHICAL NOTES.
Allan, Robert 4th SO
Anderson, Robert 4th 69
Denovan 4th 118
Grant, Joseph 5th 41
Mercer, Andrew 5th 65
Nicol, Robert 5th 49
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