Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
AULD ROB MORRIS
There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.
But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me;
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
POORTITH CAULD
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune’s shining?
This warld’s wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,—
O fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
How blest the simple cotter’s fate!
He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make him eerie.
O why should fate, etc.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day
Ye would na been sae shy;
For laik o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o’ clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene’er ye like to try.
But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.
Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry.
But if he hae the name o’ gear,
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL
O thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damnèd bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeal!
Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far kenn’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’, tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles rangin’ like a roarin’ lion
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin’;
Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’,
Tirlin’ the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.
When twilight did my grannie summon
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin’,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary windy winter night
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light,
Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight
Wi’ waving sough.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake
On whistlin’ wings.
Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs, an’ dizzy crags
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.
Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ ’nighted travelers are allur’d
To their destruction.
An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.
When masons’ mystic word an’ grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
And all the soul of love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r;
Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog.
An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be you fa!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.
D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?
An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ blotches did him gall
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?
But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin’ fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’,
A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin’,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’,
An’ cheat you yet.
But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake:
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!
O MAY, THY MORN
O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o’ December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber;
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.
And here’s to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum!
And here’s to them that wish us weel,
May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them!
And here’s to them we dare na tell,
The dearest o’ the quorum!
PEG-A-RAMSEY
Cauld is the e’enin’ blast
O’ Boreas o’er the pool,
And dawin’ it is dreary
When birks are bare at Yule.
O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.
Ne’er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o’er the hill,
But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.
WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O’T
First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we’re married—spier nae mair—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature’s child—
Wiser men than me’s beguil’d;
Whistle owre the lave o’t.
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we ’gree,
I care na by how few may see—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.
Wha I wish were maggots’ meat,
Dish’d up in her winding sheet,
I could write—but Meg may see’t;
Whistle owre the lave o’t.
HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE
Husband, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho’ I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir.
‘One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse Nancy?’
If ’tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I’ll desert my sov’reign lord,
And so good-bye allegiance!
‘Sad shall I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy!
Yet I’ll try to make a shift,
My spouse Nancy.’
My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I’m near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think how you will bear it.
‘I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancy.’
Well, sir, from the silent dead
Still I’ll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.
‘I’ll wed another, like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse Nancy.’
HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER
Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi’
a tocher,
Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher—the nice yellow guineas
for me!
Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes!
Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes.
And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest;
But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest—
The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest.
SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster guid,
Could stown a clue wi’ ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
She has an e’e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller;
A whiskin beard about her mou’,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shinn’d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o’ that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion:
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET?
O lassie, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou wakin’, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.
Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s;
The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my grief and pain, jo.
HER ANSWER
O tell na me o’ wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain!
Gae back the gait ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a’ this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand’rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That’s trusted faithless man, jo.
The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed;
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
The bird that charm’d his summer-day
Is now the cruel fowler’s prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate’s the same, jo.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE
My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping glowrin’ trouts,
That thro’ my waters play,
If, in their random wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I’m scorching up so shallow,
They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,
As poet Burns came by,
That to a bard I should be seen
Wi’ half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was, he shor’d me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o’er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho’ I say’t mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You’ll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow’rs;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat
From prone-descending show’rs.
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care:
The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav’n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking dewy lawn,
And misty mountain gray;
Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o’erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows’ wat’ry bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster’s nest,
The close embow’ring thorn.
So may Old Scotia’s darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour’d native land!
So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses
The grace be—‘Athole’s honest men,
And Athole’s bonnie lasses!’
YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER
Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where’er he go, where’er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden,
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
The trees, now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging,
The birdies, dowie moaning,
Shall a’ be blythely singing,
And every flower be springing:
Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When, by his mighty warden,
My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains, high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!
[Illustration:
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
]
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS
The lovely lass o’ Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn she cries, ‘alas!’
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
‘Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu’ day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.
‘Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’
O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE
’Twas even—the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyrs wanton’d round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the Mavis sang,
All nature listening seem’d the while:
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray’d,
My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning’s eye,
Her hair like nature’s vernal smile;
Perfection whisper’d, passing by,
Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!
Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro’ the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild:
But Woman, Nature’s darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev’n there her other works are foil’d
By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.
O had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland’s plain!
Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.
ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON
A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM
ALMIGHTY GOD
He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil’d.
Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming strang wi’ hasty stens
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.
At dawn when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev’n when beans their fragrance shed
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin’ thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood—
He’s gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day,
’Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon wi’ silent glowr
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay green flow’ry tresses shear
For him that’s dead!
Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the naked world declare
The worth we’ve lost!
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.
O Henderson! the man! the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life’s dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?
Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,
In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow’s fate
Eer lay in earth.
MY AIN KIND DEARIE O
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow’d field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O,
If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.
Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er sae wearie O,
I’d meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.
The hunter lo’es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.
BESSY AND HER SPINNIN’ WHEEL
O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel,
O leeze me on my rock and reel;
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me fiel and warm at e’en!
I’ll set me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal—
O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel.
On ilka hand the burnies trot,
And meet below my theekit cot;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite,
Alike to screen the birdie’s nest,
And little fishes’ caller rest:
The sun blinks kindly in the biel’,
Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel.
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu’ tale;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither’s lays;
The craik amang the claver hay,
The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley,
The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel.
Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wha wad leave this humble state,
For a’ the pride of a’ the great?
Amid their flaring, idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel?
THE GALLANT WEAVER
Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea,
By mony a flower and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.
Oh I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear’d my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.
My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land;
But to my heart I’ll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees rejoice in opening flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I’ll love my gallant weaver.
EPPIE ADAIR