Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor oppressèd honest man
Had never sure been born
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
‘O Death, the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my agèd limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh; a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn.’
THE GLOOMY NIGHT
The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o’er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter’d coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter’s ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,
’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc’d with many a wound:
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those;
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
The bonniest lad that e’er I saw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Wore a plaid and was fu’ braw,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
On his head a bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
His royal heart was firm and true,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
Trumpets sound and cannons roar,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.
Glory, Honour, now invite,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
For Freedom and my King to fight,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.
The sun a backward course shall take,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Ere aught thy manly courage shake,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
Go, for yoursel procure renown,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
And for your lawful King his crown,
Bonnie Highland laddie!
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs.
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing lone the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labours plies;
There Architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
Above the narrow rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,
Or modest merit’s silent claim:
And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy.
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine!
There watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar:
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble stately dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes, had their royal home;
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust,
Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam;
Tho’ rigid law cries out ’twas just!
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore.
Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing lone the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
[Illustration:
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs.]
BONNIE LESLEY
O saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o’er the border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’
The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha’na steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie.
AH, CHLORIS
Ah, Chloris, since it may na be,
That thou of love wilt hear;
If from the lover thou maun flee,
Yet let the friend be dear.
Altho’ I love my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could tell;
My passion I will ne’er declare,
I’ll say I wish thee well:
Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art,
And a’ my nightly dream,
I’ll hide the struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.
AE FOND KISS
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.
I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever;
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
MY NANNIE’S AWA
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes,
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw;
But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn:
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa.
Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o’ the lawn
The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa’,
Gie over for pity—my Nannie’s awa.
Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa.
MACPHERSON’S FAREWELL
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie:
Macpherson’s time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree.
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.
Oh, what is death but parting breath?
On mony a bloody plain
I’ve dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword,
And there’s no a man in all Scotland,
But I’ll brave him at a word.
I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
And not avengèd be.
Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.
BRAW LADS
Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o’ Gala Water.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better;
And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,
The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water.
Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,
And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher,
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water.
It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!
IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE
(“FOR WILLIE CHALMERS.”)
Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I’m got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin’;
Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets
For sake o’ Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name
May cost a pair o’ blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame
Nor his warm urgèd wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit,
Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel might swear ye’re fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne’er a ane mistak’ her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie,
Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie:
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart’s the royal blue,
And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin’ glowrin’ country laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And host up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom
Inspires my muse to gie ’m his dues.
For de’il a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.
SCOTCH DRINK
_Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;
An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;
There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An’ minds his griefs no more._
SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).
Let other Poets raise a fracas
’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbèd names an’ stories wrack us,
An’ grate our lug;
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up their awnie horn,
An’ pease an’ beans at een or morn,
Perfume the plain;
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou King o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o’ food!
Or tumblin’ in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’;
Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’,
When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’;
But, oil’d by thee,
The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin’
Wi’ rattlin’ glee.
Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,
At’s weary toil:
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need,
The poor man’s wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,
By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we get the corn in!
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin’ on a New-Year mornin’
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,
O rare to see thee fizz an’ freath
I’ th’ luggèd caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev’ry chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel
Wi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirlin’ weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight—
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at a plea,
An’ just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason;
But mony daily weet their weasan’
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,
E’er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel’!
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch
Wi’ honest men!...
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an’ barkin’ hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill,
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
Tak’ a’ the rest,
An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
ANOTHER OF THE SAME
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines rich-clust’ring rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,
But, blythe an’ frisky,
She eyes her free-born martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.
What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms,
When wretches range in famish’d swarms
The scented groves,
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither
To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp! a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say ‘Such is royal George’s will,
An’ there’s the foe!’
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An’, when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek
In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s name in Greek,
I’ll tell the reason.
A BOUSING CATCH
My love she’s but a lassie yet;
My love she’s but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.
I rue the day I sought her, O,
I rue the day I sought her, O;
Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her, O!
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,
But here I never miss’d it yet.
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t;
The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife,
An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t.
THE MALTWORM’S RUNE
O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes,
Guid ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon;
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.
I had sax owsen in a pleugh,
And they drew a’ weel eneugh,
I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane;
Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.
Guid ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie,
Stand i’ the stool when I hae done;
Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.
POETS FOR EVER!
(SECOND EPISTLE TO THE OLD SCOTTISH BARD)
While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake,
An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’enin’s edge I take,
To own I’m debtor,
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik,
For his kind letter.
Forjeskit sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs
Their ten-hours’ bite,
My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs
I would na write.
The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie,
She’s saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo’ she ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy,
This month an’ mair,
That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie,
An’ something sair.’
Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad!
I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,
This very night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.
‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,
Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts,
An’ thank him kindly?’
Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I ‘Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I’ll close it;
An’ if ye winna mak it clink,
By Jove, I’ll prose it!’
Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp;
She’s but a bitch.
She’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg
Wi’ lyart pow,
I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg,
As lang’s I dow!
Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth simmer
I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer,
Frae year to year:
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.
Do ye envy the city gent,
Behind a kist to lie an’ sklent,
Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent
An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie’s name?
Or is’t the paughty feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?
‘O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro’ Scotland wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a’ their pride!’
Were this the charter of our state,
‘On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,’
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to Heaven! that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began,
‘The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate’er he be,
’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
And none but he!’
O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers of the ragged Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine,
In glorious light,
While sordid sons of Mammon’s line
Are dark as night.
Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,
The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys,
In some mild sphere,
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties
Each passing year!
THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWA
O how can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills and far awa?
It’s no the frosty winter wind,
It’s no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my e’e,
To think on him that’s far awa.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown’d me a’:
But I hae ane will tak my part,
The bonnie lad that’s far awa.
A pair o’ gloves he bought to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that’s far awa.
O weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw:
And my young babie will be born,
And he’ll be hame that’s far awa.
OF A’ THE AIRTS
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.
[Illustration:
There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.]
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire,
Although thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awake desire.
Something, in ilka part o’ thee,
To praise, to love, I find;
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.
Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than if I canna mak thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if Heaven shall give
But happiness to thee:
And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live,
For thee I’d bear to die.
I HAE A WIFE
I hae a wife o’ my ain,
I’ll partake wi’ naebody;
I’ll tak cuckold frae nane,
I’ll gie cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There—thanks to naebody;
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody’s lord,
I’ll be slave to naebody;
I hae a guid braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.
I’ll be merry and free,
I’ll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
UP IN THE MORNING
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to wast,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL
O were I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o’ Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee!
But Nith maun be my Muse’s well,
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel’,
On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day
I couldna sing, I couldna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o’er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e’en—
By Heaven and Earth I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o’ thee my breast inflame:
And aye I muse and sing thy name—
I only live to love thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run,
Till then—and then—I’d love thee!
MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.
The warld’s wrack, we share o’t,
The warstle and the care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE
As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An’ owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi’ glowrin’ een, an’ lifted han’s,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it!
He gapèd wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak:—