I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way,
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'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 leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre 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, laughin', said
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The schule then skailt 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 thoughts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled--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 music fills
Thine heart, as it does mine;
Oh, say gin e'er your 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 this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.
Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I 've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!
[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch,
still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable
brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her
seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months
occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which
she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was
totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the
editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she
made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good
capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to
fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her
temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison
became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who
died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now
(Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never
met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of
his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been
published for several years before she became aware that she was the
heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's
juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and
amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal
beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.