Corpus of Modern Scots Poetry - Public Domain works

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Poems and Songs
Tannahill, Robert
Published 1874


THE AMBITIOUS MITE.
A FABLE,

WHEN Hope persuades, and Fame inspires us, 
And Pride with warm ambition fires us, 
Let Reason instant seize the bridle,
And wrest us frae the Passions' guidal
Else, like the hero of our fable. 
We'll aft be plung'd into a habble. 

'Twas on a bonny simmer day.
When a' the insect tribes war' gay. 
Some journeying o'er the leaves o' roses. 
Some brushing thrang their wings an' noses, 
Some wallowing sweet in bramble blossom, 
In luxury's saft downy bosom ; 
While ithers of a lower order. 
Were perch'd on plantain leaf's smooth border,
Wha frae their twa-inch steeps look'd down,
An' view'd the kintra far aroun'. 

Ae pridefu' elf, amang the rest, 
Wha's pin-point heart bumpt 'gainst his breast,
To work some mighty deed offame,
That would immortalize his name ; 
Thro' future hours would hand him down,
The wonder of an afternoon ; 
(For ae short day wi' them appears, 
As lang's our lengthen'd hunder years.)

By chance, at hand, a bow'd horse-hair 
Stood up six inches high in air;
He plann'd to climb this lofty arch,
Wi' philosophic deep research,
To prove (which aft perplexed their heads)
What people peopl'd ither blades. 
Or from keen observation show,
Whether they peopl'd were or no. 

Our tiny hero onward hies, 
Quite big with daring enterprize.
Ascends the hair's curvatur'd side. 
Now pale with fear, now red with pride.
Now hangin' pend'lous by the claw. 
Now glad at having 'scap'd a fa';
What horrid dangers he came thro'. 
Would trifling seem for man to know;
Suffice, at length he reached the top.
The summit of his pride and hope.
And on his elevated station, 
Had plac'd himsel' for observation. 
When, puff! —the wind did end the matter,
And dash'd him in a horse-hoof gutter. 

Sae let the lesson gi'en us here. 
Keep each within his proper sphere.
And when our fancies tak' their flight. 
Think on the wee ambitious mite.


DIRGE

Let grief for ever cloud the day
That saw our Bard borne to the clay; 
Let joy be banish'd every eye. 
And nature, weeping, seem to cry, 
" He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn ! 
"The ae best fellow e'er was bom."

Let shepherds from the mountains steep,
Look down on widow'd Nith, and weep, 
Let rustic swains their labours leave. 
And sighing murmur o'er his grave, 
" He's gone, he's gone ! [and]c. 

Let bonny Doon and winding Ayr,
Their bushy banks in anguish tear, 
While many a tributary stream. 
Pours down its griefs to swell the theme 
" He's gone, he's gone ! [and]c.

All dismal let the night descend. 
Let whirling storms the forest rend. 
Let furious tempests sweep the sky,
And dreary, howling caverns cry, 
" He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn !
" The ae best fellow e'er was born ! "


BAUDRONS AND THE HEN-BIRD.
A FABLE. 

SOME folks there are of such behaviour.
They'll cringe themselves into your favour.
And when you think their friendship staunch is, 
They'll tear your character to inches. 
T' enforce this truth, as weel's I'm able,
Please, reader, to peruse d, fable.

Deborah, an auld wealthy maiden,
Wi' spleen, remorse, an' scandal laden,
Sought out a solitary spat, 
To live in quiet with her cat,
A meikle, sonsy, tabby she ane, 
(For Deborah abhor'd a he ane 
And in the house to be a third. 
She gat a wee hen chucky bird. 
Soon as our slee nocturnal ranger. 
Beheld the wee bit timid stranger.
She thus began, wi' frien'ly fraise,
" Come ben, poor thing, an' warm your taes ;, 
" This weather's cauld, an' wet, an' dreary, 
" I'm wae to see you look sae eerie, 
" Sirs ! how your tail an' wings are dreeping ! 
" Ye've surely been in piteous keeping;
" See, here's my dish, come tak' a pick o't, 
" But, deed, I fear there's scarce a lick o't. ""
Sic sympathizing words o' sense. 
Soon gain'd poor chuckfs confidence. 
An' while Deborah mools some crumbs,
Auld baudrons sits, an' croodlin', thrums;
In short, the twa soon grew sae pack.
Chuck roosted upon pussies back ! 

But ere sax wee short days war' gane, 
When baith left i' the house alane. 
Then thinks the hypocritic sinner. 
Now, now's my time to hae a dinner,

Sae, wi' a squat, a spring, an' squal,
She tore poor chucky spawl frae spawl.

Then mind this maxim, Rash acquaintance
Oft leads to ruin and repentance.


ON INVOCATION.

LET ither bards exhaust their stock 
Of heav'nly names, on heavenly folk, 
An' gods an' godesses invoke,
To guide the pen, 
While, just as well, a barber's block
Would ser' their en'. 

Nae muse hae I like guid Scotch drink,
It mak's the dormant saul to think, 
Gars wit and rhyme thegither clink, 
In canty measure, 
An' even the* half-fou' we wink,
Inspires wi' pleasure.

Whyles dulness stands for modest merit,
And impudence for manly spirit;

To ken what worth each does inherit, 
Just try the bottle, 
Sen' roun' the glass, an' dinna spare it, 
Ye'll see their mettle. 

O would the gods but grant my wish !
My constant pray'r would be for this, 
That love sincere, with health an' peace, 
My lot they'd clink in. 
With now-an'-then the social joys
O' friendly drinkin'. 

And when youth's rattlin' days are done,
An' age brings on life's afternoon. 
Then, like a summer's setting sun. 
Brightly serene. 
Smiling, look back, an' slidder down
To rise agam.


STANZAS.
Written on Alex. Wilson's Emigration to America,

O Death ! it's no' thy deed I mourn, 
Tho' oft my heart-strings thou hast torn, 
'Tis worth an' merit left forlorn,
Life's ills to dree. 
Gars now the pearly, brakish burn
Gush frae my e'e.

Is there wha feels the melting glow
O' sympathy for ithers' woe ? 
Come let our tears thegither flow ;
O join my mane ! 
For Wilson, worthiest of us a', 
For ay is gane. 

He bravely strave 'gainst fortune's stream,
While hope held forth ae distant gleam,
Till dash'd, and dash'd, time after time. 
On life's rough sea, 
He weep'd his thankless native clime. 
And sail'd away. 

The patriot bauld, the social brither. 
In him war' sweetly join'd thegither;
He knaves reprov'd without a swither,
: In keenest satire ; 
And taught what mankind owe each ither. 
As sons of nature.

If thou hast heard his wee bit wren, 
Wail forth its sorrow's through the glen, 
Tell how his warm, descriptive pen
Has thrill'd thy saul, 
His sensibiHty sae keen,
He felt for all.

Since now he's gane, an' Burns is dead,
Ah ! wha will tune the Scottish reed ? 
Her thistle, dowie, hings its head
Her harp's unstrung
While mountain, river, loch, an' mead,
Remain unsung.

Fareweel, thou much neglected bard ! 
These lines will speak my warm regard,
While strangers on a foreign sward
Thy worth hold dear,
Still some kind heart thy name Shall guard
Unsullied here. 


ALLAN'S ALE.

COME a' ye friendly, social pack,
Wha meet wi' glee to club your plack,
Attend while I rehearse a fact, 
That winna fail
Nae drink can raise a canty crack. 
Like Allan's Ale.

It waukens wit, an' mak's as merry, 
As England's far-fam'd Canterbury;
Rich wines frae Lisbon or Canary, 
Let gentles hail, 
But we can be as brisk an' airy,
Wi' Allan's Ale.

It bears the gree, I'se gie my aith, 
O' Widow Dean's an' Ralston's baith,
Wha may cast by their brewin' graith, 
Baith pat and pail, 
Since Paisley wisely puts mair faith 
In Allan's Ale.

Unlike the poor, sma' penny-wheep,
Whilk worthless, petty change-folk keep.
O'er whilk mirth never deign'd to peep, 
Sae sour an' stale, 
I've seen me joyous, frisk an' leap,
Wi' Allan's Ale. 

Whether a friendly, social meetin',
Or politicians thrang debatin'. 
Or benders blest your wizzens weetin',
Mark well my tale, 
Ye'll fin' nae drink ha'f worth your gettin', 
Like Allan's Ale. 

When bleak December's blasts do blaw,
And Nature's face is co'er'd wi' snaw, 
Poor bodies scarce do work at a', 
The cauld's sae snell, 
But meet an' drink their cares awa' 
Wi' Allan's Ale. 

Let auld Kilmarnock mak' a fraise, 
What she has done in better days,
Her thri-penny ance her fame could raise, 
O'er muir an' dale. 
But Paisley now may claim the praise
Wi' Allan's Ale. 

Let selfish wights impose their notions. 
And d—n the man wont tak' their lessons,
I scorn their threats, I scorn their cautions,
Say what they will
Let friendship crown our best devotions
Wi' Allan's Ale. 

While sun, an' moon, an' stars endure. 
An' aid wi' light " a random splore,"
Still let each future social core,
Its praises tell
Ador'd ay and for evermore 
Be Allan's Ale!


EPISTLE,
TO J SCADLOCK,

WHILE colleg'd Bards bestride Pegassus,
An' try to gallop up Parnassus,
By dint o' meikle lear, 
The lowe o' friendship fires my saul, 
To write you this poetic scrawl,
Prosaic dull, I fear!
But, weel I ken, your gen'rous heart 
Will overlook its failings. 
An' whare the Poet has come short. 
Let friendship cure his ailings 
Tis kin', man, divine, man. 
To hide the faut we see. 
Or try to men't, as far's we ken't, 
Wi' true sincerity.

This last observe, brings't i' my head. 
To tell you here my social creed
Let's use a' mankind weel.

An' ony sumph wha'd use us ill, 
Wi' dry contempt let's treat him still,
He'll feel it warst himsel' :
I never flatter—praise but rare, 
I scorn a double part ;
An' when I speak, I speak sincere,
The dictates o' my heart ;
I tmly hate the dirty gait
That mony a body tak's, 
Wha fraise ane, syne blaze ane 
As soon's they turn their backs.

In judging, let us be right hooly ;
I've heard some fouks descant sae freely. 
On ither people's matters,
As if themsel's war' real perfection.
When had they stood a fair inspection,
Th' abus'd war' far their betters ; 
But gossips ay maun hae their crack,
Though moraHsts should rail. 
Let's end the matter wi' this fact, 
That, Goodness pays itsel'. 
The joys, man, that rise, man. 
To ane frae doing weel. 
Are sican joys that harden'd vice 
Can seldom ever feel.

O Jamie, man ! I'm proud to see't, 
Our ain auld muse yet keeps her feet, 
'Maist healthy as before ;
For sad predicting fears foretauld,
When Robin's glowing heart tum'd cauld,
Then a' our joys war' o'er, 
(Ilk future Bard revere his name, 
Through thousand years to come, 
And though we cannot reach his fame. 
Busk laurels round his tomb :) 
Yet, though he's dead, the Scottish reed,
This mony a day may ring. 
In L—V—St—n, in A—d—s—n. 
In Sc—dl—ck, and in K—g. 

" The Tap-room "—what a glorious treat !
" Complaint and wish "—how plaintive sweet !
" The Weaver's " just " Lament."
" The Gloamin' fragment "—how divine !
There Nature speaks in every line. 
The Bard's immortal in't !
Yon " Epigram on Jeanie L—g," 
Is pointed as the steel. 
An' " Hoot ! ye ken' yoursel's,''—a sang 
Would pleas'd e'en Bums himsel' !
Let snarling, mean quarr'ling.
Be doubly d—d henceforth,
And let us raise the voice of praise.
To hearten modest worth.

And you, my dear respected frien', 
Your "Spring's " a precious evergreen, 
Fresh beauties budding still. 
Your " Levern Banks," an' " Killoch Burn,"
Ye sing them wi' sae sweet a turn. 
Ye gar the heart-strings thrill. 
" October winds "—e'en let them rave. 
With nature-blasting howl,
If in return kind heaven give
The sunshine of the soul :
The feeling heart that bears a part. 
In others' joys and woes. 
May still depend to find a friend 
Howe'er the tempest blows.

Yet, lang I've thought, and think it yet. 
True friends are rarely to be met,
Wha share in ithers' troubles,
Wha jointly joy, or drap the tear 
Reciprocal—and kindly bear
Wi' ane anithers' foibles ; 
Ev'n such a firiend I once could boast. 
Ah ! now in death he's low
But fond anticipation hopes
For such a friend in you. 
Dear Jamie, forgi'e me, 
That last presumptive line ; 
See— here's my hand at your command,-
Ye hae my heart langsyne.


PROLOGUE

To The Gentle Shepherd, spoken in a Provincial Theatre,

YE patronisers of our little party,
My heart's e'en light to see you a' sae hearty ;
I'm fain, indeed, an' trouth ! I've meikle cause, 
Since your blythe faces half insure applause.
We come this night wi' nae new-fangl'd story
O' knave's deceit, or fop's vain blust'ring glory.
Nor harlequin's wild pranks, wi' skin like leopard,
We're come to gie your ain auld " Gentle Shepherd;
Whilk ay will charm, an' will be read, an' acket,
Till Time himsel' turn auld, an' kick the bucket.
I mind, langsyne, when I was just a caUan,
That a' the kintra rang in praise o' Allan ;
Ilk rising generation toots his fame. 
And, hun'er years to come, 'twill be the same : 
For wha has read, tho' e'er sae lang sinsyne, 
But keeps the living picture on his min';
Approves bauld Patios clever, manly turn, 
An' maist thinks Roger cheap o' Jennys scorn ;
His dowless gait, the cause o' a' his care. 
For, " Nane, except the brave, deserve the fair." 
Hence sweet young Peggy lo'ed her manly Pate, 
An' Jenny geck't at Roger dowf an' blate.

Our gude Sir Willmm stands a lesson leal, 
To lairds wha'd hae their vassals lo'e them weel ;
To prince an' peer this maxim it imparts,
Their greatest treasures are the people's hearts. 

Frae Glaud an' Symon would we draw a moral,
The virtuous youth-time mak's the canty carle;
The twa auld birkies caper blythe an' bauld,
Nor shaw the least regret that they're tum'd auld. 

Poor Bauldy ! O, it's like to split my jaws ! 
I think I see him under Madge's claws : 
Sae may Misfortune tear him spawl and plack,
Wha'd wrang a bonnie lass, an' syne draw back.

But, Sirs, to you I maist forgat my mission, 
I'm sent to beg a truce to criticism ; 
We don't pretend to speak by square and rule, 
Like yon wise chaps bred up in Thespian-school ;
An' to your wishes should we not succeed. 
Pray be sae kind as tak' the will for deed ;

(An' as our immortal Robin Burns says) 
" Aiblins tho' we winna' stan' the test,
" Wink hard an' say. The folks hae done their best' 
An' keep this gen'rous maxim still in min',
" To err is human, to forgive divine ! "


EPISTLE
TO WILLIAM WYLIE. Jan. 1806.

DEAR kindred saul, thanks to the cause
First made us ken each ither, 
Ca't fate, or chance, I carena whilk,
To me it brought a brither. 

Thy furthy, kindly, takin' gait ;
Sure every gude chieP likes thee,
An' bad-luck wring his thrawart heart,
Wha snarling e'er would vex thee. 

Tho' mole-e'et Fortune's partial hand
O' clink may keep thee bare o't ;
Of what thou hast, pale Misery
Receives, unask'd, a share o't. 

Thou gi'est without ae hank'rin' thought,
Or cauld, self-stinted wish ; 
E'en winter-finger'd Avarice,
Approves thee with a blush.

If Grief e'er make thee her pack-horse,
Her leaden-load to carry't. 
Shove half the burthen on my back,
I'll do my best to bear it.

Glide kens we a' hae fauts enew, 
Tis Friendship's task to cure 'em,
But still she spurns the critic view,
An' bids us to look o'er 'em. 

When Death performs his beadle part, 
An' summons thee to heaven,
By virtue of thy warm, kind heart. 
Thy fauts will be forgiven.

And shouldst thou live to see thy friend,
Borne lifeless on the bier,
I ask of thee, for epitaph.
One kind, elegiac tear.


EPISTLE
TO J, BARR,

Wherever he may befound. March, 1804,

GUDE Pibrocharian, jorum-jirger,
Say, hae ye tum'd an Antiburgher ? 
Or lang-fac'd Presbyterian El'er ? 
Deep read in wiles o' gath'rin' siller ? 
Or cauld, splenetic solitair, 
Resolv'd to herd wi' man nae mair?
As to the second, IVe nae fear for't ;
For siller, faith ! ye ne'er did care for't, 
Unless to help a needfu' body.
An' get an antrin glass o' toddy.

But what the black mischief's come owre you ?
These three months I've been speirin* for you,
Till e'en the Muse, wi' downright grievin',
Has worn her chafts as things a shavin'. 
Say, hae ye ta'en a tramp to Lon'on, 
In Co. wi' worthy auld Buchanan,*
Wha mony a mile wad streek his shanks. 
To hae a crack wi' Josie Banks
Concerning " Shells, an' birds, an' metals,
Moths, spiders, butterflies, an' beetles." 
For you, I think ye'U cut a figure,
Wi' king o' pipers, Male. McGregor,
An' wi' your clarion, flute, an' fiddle. 
Will gar their southron heart-strings diddle. 
Or are ye through the kintra whiskin', 
Accoutr'd wi' the sock an' buskin, 
Thinkin' to climb to wealth an' fame. 
By adding Roscius to your name ? 
Frae thoughts o' that, pray keep abeigh ! 
Ye're far owre auld, an' far owre heigh ;
Since in thir novel-huntin' days
There's nane but bairns can act our plays.
At twal year auld, if ye had tried it, 
I doubtna but ye might succeedet ;
But full-grown boordly chields like you
Quite monst'rous, man, 'twill never do ! 

Or are ye gane, as there are few sic, 
For teachin' o' a band o* music ? 
O, hear auld Scotland's fervent pray'rs,
And teach her genuine native airs ! 
Whilk simply play'd, devoid o' art, 
Thrill through the senses to the heart. 
Play, when ye'd rouse the patriot's saul, 
True valour's tune, " The Garb of Gaul ;" 
An' when laid low in glory's bed. 
Let " Roslin Castle " soothe his shade. 
" The bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,"
Its every accent breathes despair ;
An' " Ettrick Banks," celestial strain ! 
Mak's simmer's gloamin mair serene ; 
An', O how sweet the plaintive muse, 
Amang " The broom o' Cowdenknowes ! " 
To hear the love-lorn swain complain,
Lone, on " The braes o' Ballendine ; "
It e'en might melt the dortiest she. 
That ever sklinted scomfu' e'e. 
When Beauty tries her vocal pow'rs
Amang the greenwood's echoing bow'rs, 
" The bonnie birks of Invermay " 
Might mend a seraph's sweetest lay. 
Then, should grim Care invest your castle, 
Just knock him down wi' " Willie Wastle,"
An' rant blythe " Lumps o' puddin'" owre him ;
And for his dirge sing "Tullochgorum."

When Orpheus charm'd his wife frae h—ll, 
Twas nae Scotch tune he play'd sae well ;
Else had the worthy auld wire-scraper
Been keepet for his d—Iship's piper.
Or if ye're tum'd a feathered fop,
Light dancing upon fashion's top,
Wi' lofty brow an' selfish e'e, 
Despising low-clad dogs like me ;
Uncaring your contempt or favour. 
Sweet butterfly, adieu for ever ! 
But, hold—I'm wrong to doubt your sense, 
For pride proceeds from ignorance.
If peace of mind lay in fine clothes,
I'd be the first of flutt'ring beaux,
An' strut as proud as ony peacock.
That ever craw'd on tap o' hay-cock ;
An' ere I'd know one vexing thought,
Get dollar buttons on my coat, 
Wi' a' the lave o' fulsome trash on. 
That constitutes a man b' fashion. 
O, grant me this, kind Providence,
A moderate, decent competence ;
Thou'lt see me smile in independence,
Above weak-saul'd pride-bom ascendence.

But whether ye*re gane to teach the Whistle,
Midst noise an' rough regimental bustle ;
Or gane to strut upon the stage, 
Smit wi' the mania o' the age; 
Or, Scotchman-like, hae tramp't abreed,
To yon big town far south the Tweed ;
Or dourin' in the hermit's cell, 
Unblessing an' unblest yoursel' 
In gude's name, write !—tak up your pen, 
A' how ye're doin' let me ken.
Sae, hoping quickly your epistle,
Adieu ! thou genuine son of song an' whistle. 

POSTSCRIPT.

We had a concert here short syne ;
Oh, man ! the Music was divine, 
Baith plaintive sang an' merry glee. 
In a' the soul of harmony.
When Smith and Stuart leave this earth. 
The gods, in token o' their worth. 
Will welcome them at heaven's portals,
The brightest, truest, best o' mortals ; 
Apollo proud, as weel he may.
Will walk on tip-toe a' that day ; 
While a' the Muses kindred claim,
Rememb'ring what they've done for them.


SECOND EPISTLE,
TO J. SCADLOCK, then at Perth. June, 1804. 

LET those who never felt its flame,
Say Friendship is an empty name ;
Such selfish, cauld philosophy
For ever I disclaim :

It soothes the soul with grief opprest. 
Half-cures the care-distemper'd breast. 
And in the jocund, happy hour,
Gives joy a higher zest. 

All nature sadden'd at our parting hour,
Winds plaintive howl'd, clouds, weeping, dropt a show'r
Our fields look'd dead—as if they'd said, 
" We ne'er shall see him more."

Tho' fate an' fortune threw their darts, 
Envying us your high deserts,
They well might tear you from our arms, 
But never from our hearts. 

When spring buds forth in vernal show'rs. 
When summer comes array'd in flow'rs. 
Or autumn kind, from Ceres' horn,
Her grateful bounty pours ;


Or bearded Winter curls his brow
I'll often fondly think on you, 
And on our happy days and nights
With pleasing back-cast view.

If e'er in musing mood ye stray
Alang the banks of classic Tay,
Think on our walks by Stanely Tow'r,
And sage Gleniffer brae ;

Think on our langsyne happy hours,
Spent where the bum wild, rapid, pours, 
And o'er the horrid dizzy steep
Dashes her mountain stores ;

Think on our walks by sweet Greenlaw,
By woody hill and birken shaw,
Where nature strews her choicest sweets 
To mak' the landscape braw. 

And think on rural Ferguslie,
Its plantin's green, and flow'ry lee ;
Such fairy scenes, tho' distant far, 
May please the mental e'e. 

Yon mentor, Geordie Zimmerman,
Agrees exactly with our plan,

That partial hours of Solitude 
Exalt the soul of man.

So, oft retired from strife and din, 
Let's shun the jarring ways of men. 
And seek serenity and peace
By stream and woody glen. 

But ere a few short summers gae
Your friend will mix his kindred clay,
For fell disease tugs at my breast,
To hurry me away. 

Yet while life's bellows bear to blaw,
Till life's last lang-fetch'd breath I draw,
I'll often fondly think on you, 
And mind your kindness a'. 

Now, fare-ye-weel ! still may ye find 
A friend congenial to your mind.
To share your joys, and half your woes- 
Warm, sympathising, kind.


EPISTLE
TO W. THOMSON. June, 1803.

DEAR Will, my much respected frien', 
I send you this to let you ken,
That, tho' at distance fate hath set you, 
Your frien's in Paisley don't forget you ; 
But often think on you, far lone,
Amang the braes of Overton. 

Our social club continues yet. 
Perpetual source of mirth an' wit ;
Our rigid rules admit but few,
Yet still we'll keep a chair for you. 

A country life I've oft envied. 
Where love, an' truth, an' peace preside ;
Without temptations to allure, 
Your days glide on, unstain'd an' pure ;

Nae midnight revels waste your health,
Nor greedy landlord drains your wealth, 
Ye're never fash't wi' whisky fever. 
Nor dizzy pow, nor dulness ever, 
But breathe the halesome caller air. 
Remote from aught that genders care.
I needna tell how much I lang
To hear your rural Scottish sang ;
To hear you sing your heath-clad braes,
Your jocund nights, an' happy days ;
An* lilt wi' glee the blythsome mom,
When dew-draps pearl every thorn;
When larks pour forth the early sang. 
An' lintwhites chant the whins amang.
An' pyats hap frae tree to tree, 
Teachin' their young anes how to flee. 
While frae the mavis to the wren, 
A' warble sweet in bush or glen. 
In town we scarce can fin' occasion. 
To note the beauties o' creation. 
But study mankind's diffrent dealings,
Their virtues, vices, merits, failings, 
Unpleasing task, compar'd wi' yours ;
Ye range the hills 'mang mountain flow'rs. 
An' view, afar, the smoky town. 
More blest than all its riches were your own.

A lang Epistle I might scribble,
But aiblins ye will grudge the trouble 
Of readin' sic low, hamert rhyme,
An' sae it's best to quat in time ;
Sae, I, with soul sincere an' fervent. 
Am still your trustful frien' an' servant. 


EPISTLE
TO J. BUCHANAN. Aug. 1806.

MY gude auld friend on Locher-banks,
Your kindness claims my warmest thanks ; 
Yet, thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase
O' little value now-a-days ;
Indeed, it's hardly worth the heeding,
Unless to show a body's breeding.
Yet mony a poor, doil't, servile body.
Will scrimp his stomach o' its crowdy,
An' pride to rin a great man's erran's, 
An' feed on smiles an' sour cheese parin's,
An' think himsel' nae sma' sheep-shank.
Rich laden wi' his lordship's thank. 
The sodger, too, for a' his troubles,
His hungry wames, and bluidy hubbies,
His agues, rheumatisms, cramps,
Receiv'd in plashy winter camps.

O blest reward ! at last he gains
His sov'reign's tha7iks for a' his pains.

Twas wisely said by "Queer Sir John,"
That "Honour wudna buy a scone." 
Sae ane, of thanks, may get a million,
Yet live as poor's a porter's scullion
Indeed, they're just (but, beg your pardon,)
Priest-blessing like, no' worth a fardin'.

Thus, tho' 'mang first o' friends I rank you, 
'Twere but sma' compliment to thank you;
Yet, lest you think me here ungratefu'.
Of hatefu' names, a name most hatefu', 
The neist time that ye come to toon. 
By a' the pow'rs beneath the moon
I'll treat you wi' a Highland gill, 
Tho' it should be my hindmaist fill. 

Tho' in the busthng town, the Muse
Has gather'd little feck o' news, 
—'Tis said, the Court of Antiquarians,
Has split on some great point o' variance. 
For ane has got, in gouden box. 
The spentacles of auld John Knox;

A second proudly thanks his fate wi' 
The hindmaist pen that Nelson wrate wi'; 
A third ane owns an antique rare, 
A saip-brush made o' mermaid's hair! 
But, niggard wights! they a' refuse 'em—
These precious relics, to the museum,
Whilk selfish, mean, illegal deeds,
Hae set them a' at loggerheads.
'Tis also said, our noble Prince,
Has play'd the wee-saul't loon for ance, 
Has gien his bonny wife the fling. 
Yet gars her wear Hans Carvel's ring; 
But a' sic clish-clash cracks I'll lea' 
To yon sculdudry committee.

Sure, taste refin'd and public spirit
Stand next to genius in merit; 
I'm proud to see your warm regard
For Caledonia's dearest bard. 
Of him ye've got sae guid a painting,*
That nocht but real life is wanting.
I think yon rising genius, Tannock,
May gain a niche in fame's heigh winnock;
There, with auld Rubens, placed subhme,
Look down upon the wreck of time.

I ne'er, as yet, hae found a patron.
For, scorn be till't ! I hate a' flatt'rin'. 
Besides, I never had an itchin' 
To slake about a great man's kitchen. 
An' like a spaniel, lick his dishes. 
An' come an' gang just to his wishes ; 
Yet, studious to give worth its due,
I pride to praise the like of you ; 
Gude chiels, replete wi' sterling sense, 
Wha wi' their worth mak' nae pretence.
Ay—there's my worthy friend, M'Math,
I'll lo'e him till my latest breath,
An' like a traitor-wretch be hang'd, 
Before I'd hear that fallow wrang'd
His every action shows his mind,
Humanely noble, bright, an' kind. 
An' here's the worth o't, doubly rooted. 
He never speaks ae word about it
—My compliments an' warm gude-will.
To Maisters Simpson, Barr, and Lyle.
Wad rav'ning Time but spare my pages. 
They'd tell the warl' in after-ages.
That it, to me, was wealth an' fame. 
To be esteem'd by chiels like them. 
Time, thou all-devouring bear ! 
Hear—" List, O list " my ardent pray'r ! 
I crave thee here, on bended knee,
To let my dear lov'd pages be !

tak' thy sharp-nail'd, nibbling elves, 
To musty scrolls on college shelves ! 
There, with dry treatises on law. 
Feast, cram, and gorge thy greedy maw
But grant, amidst thy thin-sown mercies,
To spare, O spare my darling verses ! 
Could I but up thro' hist'ry wimple,
Wi' Robertson, or sage Dalrymple ; 
Or had I half the pith an' lear 
Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair ! 
I aiblins then might tell some story, 
Wad shaw the Muse in bleezin' glory
But scrimp't o' time* an' lear scholastic. 
My lines limp on in Hudibrastic,
Till Hope, grown sick, flings down her claim,
An' draps her dreams o' future fame. 
—Yes, O waesuck ! should I be vaunty ? 
My Muse is just a Rosinante,
She stammers forth, wi' hilchin' canter, 
Sagely intent on strange adventure,
Yet, sae uncouth in garb an' feature, 
She seems the Fool of Literature. 
But lest the critic's birsie besom,
Soop aff this cant of egotism,

I'll sidelins hint—na, bauldly tell, 
I whyles think something o' mysel'
Else, wha the deil wad fash to scribble,
Expectin' scorn for a' his trouble ? 
Yet, lest dear self should be mista'en,
I'll fling the bridle o'er the mane, 
For after a', I fear this jargon.
Is but a Willie Glassford bargain.


LINES,

To W. MCLAREN,

KING Geordie issues out his summons,
To ca' his bairns, the Lairds an' Commons,
To creesh the nation's moolie-heels. 
An' butter commerce' rusty wheels. 
An' see what new, what untried tax. 
Will lie the easiest on our backs. 
The priest convenes his scandal-court,
To ken what houghmagandie sport.
Has been gaun on within the parish, 
Since last they met, their funds to cherish.

But I, the servant of Apollo,
Whose mandates I am proud to follow,
He bids me warn you as the friend 
Of Burns's fame, that ye'll attend, 
Neist Friday e'en, in Lucky Wright's,
To spend the best, the wale o' nights
Sae, under pain o' half-a-mark,
Ye'll come, as signed by me, the Clerk.


WILL MACNEIL'S ELEGY.

"He was a man without a clag, 
His heart was frank without a flaw." 
Willie was a wanton wag. 

Responsive to the roaring floods,
Ye winds, howl plaintive thro' the woods.
Thou gloomy sky, pour down hale clouds. 
His death to wail, 
For bright as heaven's brightest studs, 
Shin'd Will MacNeiL

He every selfish thought did scorn, 
His warm heart in his looks did burn.
Ilk body own'd his kindly turn. 
An' gait sae leal
A kinder saul was never born
Than Will MacNeil.

He ne'er kept up a hidlins plack
To spen' ahint a comrade's back. 
But on the table gar'd it whack,
Wi' free guid will
Free as the win' on winter stack. 
Was Will MacNeil.

He ne'er could bide a narrow saul 
To a' the social virtues caul'
He wished ilk sic a fiery scaul',
His shins to peel
Nane sic durst herd in fiel' or faul' 
Wi' Will MacNeil.

He ay abhor'd the spaniel art, 
Ay when he spak' 'twas frae the heart,
An honest, open, manly part
He ay uphel' ;
" Guile soud be davel'd i' the dirt,*' 
Said Will MacNeil.

He ne'er had greed to gather gear, 
Yet rigid kept his credit clear
He ever was to Mis'ry dear. 
Her loss she'll feel
She ay got saxpence, or a tear,
Frae Will MacNeil.

In Scotch antiquities he pridet
Auld Hardyknute, he kent wha made it
The bag-pipe, too, he sometimes sey'd it, 
Pibroch and reel
Our ain auld language, few could read it 
Like Will MacNeil.

117

In wilyart glens he lik'd to stray, 
By fuggy rocks, or castle grey ; 
Yet ghaist-rid rustics ne'er did say, 
" Uncanny chiel' !
They fill'd their horns wi' usquebae
To Will MacNeil.

He sail'd and trampet mony a mile,
To visit auld I-columb-kill
He clamb the heights o' Jura's isle, 
Wi' weary speel
But siccan sights ay paid the toil, 
Wi' Will MacNeil.

He rang'd thro' Morven's hills an' glens.
Saw some o' Ossian's moss-grown stanes, 
Where rest the low-laid heroes' banes,
Deep in the hill
He cruin't a cronach to their manes, 
Kind Will MacNeil.

He was deep-read in nature's beuk,
Explor'd ilk dark mysterious creuk,
Kent a' her laws wi' antrin leuk,
An' that right weel
But (fate o' genius) death soon teuk 
Aff Will MacNeil.

O' ilka rock he kent the ore, 
He kent the virtues o' ilk flow'r, 
Ilk banefu' plant he kent its pow'r,
An' warn'd frae ill
A' nature's warks few could explore
Like Will MacNeil.

He kent a' creatures, clute an' tail, 
Down frae the lion to the snail, 
Up frae the menin to the whale,
An' kraken eel; 
Scarce ane could tell their gaits sae weel
As Will MacNeiL

Nor past he ocht thing slightly by, 
But with keen scrutinizing eye. 
He to its inmaist bore would pry 
Wi' wond'rous skill
An' teaching ithers ay gae joy
To Will MacNeiL

He kent auld Archimedes' gait, 
What way he burnt the Roman fleet
" 'Twas by the rays' reflected heat, 
Frae speculum steel
For bare refraction ne'er could do't," 
Said Will MacNeil.

Yet fame his praise did never rair it, 
For poortith's weeds obscur'd his merit,
Forby, he had a bashfii' spirit,
That sham'd to tell 
His worth or wants ; let envy spare it 
To Will MacNeil.

Barra, thou wast sair to blame ! 
I here record it to thy shame.
Thou luit the brightest o' thy name
Unheeded steal 
Thro' murky life, to his lang hame
Poor Will MacNeil.

He ne'er did wrang to livin' creature. 
For ill. Will hadna't in his nature ; 
A warm kind heart his leading feature. 
His main-spring wheel,
Ilk virtue grew to noble stature 
In Will MacNeil.

There's no a man that ever kent him, 
But wi' their tears will lang lament him.
He hasna' left his match ahint him.
At hame or fiel', 
His worth lang on our minds will prent him
Kind Will MacNeil.

But close my sang ; my hamert lays, 
Are far unfit to speak his praise ; 
Our happy nights, our happy days,
Fareweel, fareweel
Now dowie, mute—tears speak our waes 
For Will MacNeil

THE CONTRARY.

Get up, my Muse, an' sound thy chanter,
Nor langer wi' our feelings saunter
Ilk true-blue Scot get up an' canter. 
He's hale an' weel
An' lang may fate keep aff mishanter, 
Frae Will MacNeil.


THE COCK-PIT

THE great, the important hour is come."
O Hope ! thou wily nurse !

I see bad luck behind thy back,
Dark, brooding, deep remorse. 

No fancied muse will I invoke,
To grace my humble strain, 
But sing my song in homely phrase,
Inspir'd by what I've seen. 

Here comes a " feeder " with his charge ; 
'Mong friends 'tis whisper'd straight.
How long he swung him on a string
To bring him to his weight

The carpet's laid—pit-money drawn
All's high with expectation
With birds bereft of Nature's garb.
The *' handlers " tak' their station. 

What roaring, betting, bawling, swearing.
Now assail the ear

" Three pounds ! "—" four pounds, on Phillip's cock !" 
" Done ! —done, by G—d, sir !—here !" 

Now cast a serious eye around
Behold the motley group,
All gamblers, swindlers, ragamuffins,
Votaries of the stoup. 

But why of it thus lightly speak?
The poor man's ae best frien*
When fortune's sky lours dark an' grim,
It clears the drumly scene. 

Here sits a wretch with meagre face. 
And sullen, drowsy eye ; 
Nor speaks he much—last night at cards 
A gamester drained him dry.

Here bawls another ven'trous soul, 
Who risks his every farthing
What d—I's the matter though at home
His wife an' brats are starving.

See, here's a father 'gainst a son, 
A brither 'gainst a brither,
Wha, e'en wi' mair than common spite,
Bark hard at ane anither.

But see yon fellow all in black,
His looks speak inward joy
Mad-happy since his father's death,
Sporting his legacy.

And, mark this aged debauchee,
With red bepimpl'd face
He fain would bet a crown or two, 
But purse is not in case.

But hark !—what cry ! " He's run ! —he's run ! "
And loud huzzas take place
Now, mark what deep dejection sits 
On every loser's face.

Observe the owner—frantic man. 
With imprecations dread. 
He grasps his vanquish'd idol-god.
And twirls off his head.

But, bliss attend their feeling souls, 
Wha nae sic deeds delight in ! 
Brutes are but brutes, let men be meu
Nor pleasure in cock-fighting.


TOWSER,
A TRUE TALE.

IN mony an instance, without doubt,
The man may copy frae the brute,
And by th' example grow much wiser ;
Then read the short memoirs of Towser. 

With def'rence to our great Lavaters,
Wha judge a* mankind by their features. 
There's mony a smiling, pleasant-fac'd cock. 
That wears a heart no worth a custock;
While mony a visage, antic, droll, 
O'er-veils a noble, gen'rous soul. 
With Towser this was just the case
He had an ill-faur't tawtie face, 
His mak' was something like a messin. 
But big, an' quite unprepossessing
His master caft him frae some fallows, 
Wha had him doom'd unto the gallows.

Because (sae hap'd poor Towser's lot), 
He wadna tear a comrade's throat
Yet, in affairs of love or honour,
He'd Stan' his part amang a hun'er. 
An' whare'er fighting was a merit. 
He never failed to shaw his spirit. 

He never girn'd in neighbour's face, 
Wi' wild, ill-natur'd scant o' grace, 
Nor e'er accosted ane wi' smiles. 
Then, soon as tum'd, wad bite his heels,
Nor ever kent the courtier art. 
To fawn wi' rancour at his heart
Nor aught kent he o' cankert quarlin'.
Nor snarlin' just for sake o' snarlin'
Ye'd pinch him sair afore he'd growl, 
Whilk £ver shaws a magnanimity of soul. 

But what adds maistly to his fame. 
An' will immortalize his name
(Immortalize ! —presumptive wight
Thy lines are dull as darkest night, 
Without ae spark o' wit or glee.
To light them through futurity.)
E'en be it sae ;—poor Towser's story, 
Though lamely tauld, will speak his glory.

'Twas in the month o' cauld December,
When Nature's fire seem'd just an ember,

An' growlin' winter bellow'd forth, 
In storms and tempests frae the north
When honest Towser's loving master,
Regardless o' the surly bluster, 
Set out to the neist borough town. 
To buy some needments o' his own
An', case some purse-pest soud way-lay him,
He took his trusty servant wi' him. 

His business done, 'twas near the gloamin',
An' ay the king o' storms was foamin'. 
The doors did ring—lum-pigs down tuml'd. 
The strawns gush'd big—the sinks loud ruml'd ; 
Auld grannies spread their looves, an' sigh't, 
Wi' " O sirs ! what an' awfu' night ! " 
Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd,
An's master gnidg'd that he had taigl'd
But, wi' his merchandizing load. 
Come weel, come wae, he took the road. 
Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift. 
Night flung her black cleuk o'er the lift
An' thro' the naked trees and hedges.
The horrid storm redoubl'd rages : 
An', to complete his piteous case.
It blew directly in his face. 
Whiles 'gainst the footpath stabs he thumped.
Whiles o'er the coots in holes he plumped

But on he gaed, an' on he waded,
Till he at length turn'd faint and jaded.
To gang he could nae langer bide, 
But lay down by the bare dyke-side.
Now, bairns and wife rush'd on his soul
He groan'd—poor Towser loud did howl,
An', moumin', couret down aside him ; 
But, oh ! his master couldna heed him,
For now his senses 'gan to dozen. 
His vera life-streams maist war' frozen ; 
An't seemed as if the cruel skies 
Exulted o'er their sacrifice. 
For fierce the win's did o'er him hiss. 
An' dash'd the sleet on his cauld face. 

As on a rock, far, far frae land,
Twa ship-wreck'd sailors shiv'ring stand. 
If chance a vessel they descry.
Their hearts exult with instant joy, 
Sae was poor Towser joy'd to hear 
The tread o' trav'llers drawing near, 
He ran, an' yowl'd, and fawn'd upon 'em, 
But couldna mak' them understan' him,
Till, tugging at the foremost's coat, 
He led them to the mournfu' spot.
Where, cauld an' stiff his master lay. 
To the rude storm a helpless prey.

Wi' Caledonian sympathy
They bore him kindly on the way,
Until they reach'd a cottage bien. 
They tauld the case, war' welcomed in- 
The rousin' fire, the cordial drop, 
Restor'd him soon to life an' hope
Fond raptures beam'd in Towser's eye. 
An' antic gambols spake his joy.
Wha reads this simple tale may see 
The worth of sensibihty.
And learn frae it to be humane
In Towser's life he sav'd his ain.


THE RESOLVE.

I WAS on a sunny Sabbath day,
When wark-wom bodies get their play,
(Thanks to the rulers o' the nation,
Wha gi'e us all a toleration. 
To gang, as best may please oursel's ; 
Some to the kirk, some to the fiel's).

I've wandered out, wi' serious leuk,
To read twa page on Nature's beuk
For lang I've thought, as little harm in 
Hearing a lively out-fiel' sermon, 
Even tho' rowted by a stirk, 
As that aft bawl'd in crowded kirk,
By some proud, stern, polemic wight,
Wha cries, " My way alone is right ! " 
Wha lairs himsel' in controversy.
Then d—s his neighbours without mercy, 
As if the fewer that were spar'd.
These few would be the better ser'd. 
Now to my tale—digression o'er
I wander'd out by Stanely tow'r, 
The lang grass on its tap did wave, 
Like weeds upon a warrior's grave
Whilk seem'd to mock the bloody braggers,
An' grow on theirs as rank's on beggars'
But hold, I'm frae the point again.—
I wander'd up Gleniffer glen ; 
There, leaning 'gainst a mossy rock,
I, musing, ey'd the passing brook. 
That in its murmurs seem'd to say, 
" 'Tis thus thy life glides fast away : 
Observe the bubbles on my stream
Like them, Fame is an empty dream,
They blink a moment to the sun, 
Then burst, and are for ever gone :

So Fame's a bubble of the mind ; 
Possessed, 'tis nought but empty wind,
No courtly gem e'er purchas'd dearer,
An' ne'er can satisfy the wearer. 
Let them wha hae a bleezing share o't 
Confess the truth, they sigh for mair o't 
Then let Contentment be thy cheer. 
An' never soar aboon thy sphere
Rude storms assail the mountain's brow
That lightly skiff the vale below." 
A gaudy rose was growing near, 
Proud, tow'ring on its leafy brier
In fancy's ear it seem'd to say
" Sir, have you seen a flower so gay ? 
The poets in my praise combine.
Comparing Chloe's charms to mine ; 
The sunbeams for my favour sue me. 
And dark-brow'd night comes down to woo me
But when I shrink from his request.
He draps his tears upon my breast,
And in his misty cloud sits wae.
Till chas'd awa' by rival day
That streamlet's grov'Uing gnmting fires me,
Since no ane sees me but admires me ; 
See yon bit violet 'neath my view
Wee sallow thing, its nose is blue ! 
An' that hit primrose 'side the breckan. 
Poor yellow ghaist, it seems forsaken !

The sun ne'er throws't ae transient glow,
Unless when passing whether or no ; 
But wisely spuming ane sae mean, 
He blinks on me frae mom till e'en"

To which the primrose calm replied
" Poor gaudy gowk, suppress your pride,
For soon the strong flow'r-sweeping blast 
Shall strew your honours in the dust
While I, beneath my lowly bield, 
Will live an' bloom frae harm conceal'd ; 
An' while the heavy rain-draps pelt you, 
Ye'll maybe think on what I've tell't you."
The rose, derisive, seem'd to sneer. 
An' wav'd upon its bonny brier. 

Now dark'ning clouds began to gather,
Presaging sudden change of weather
I wander'd hame by Stanely green. 
Deep pond'ring what I'd heard an' seen. 
Firmly resolv'd to shun from hence
The dangerous steeps of eminence.
To drap this rhyming trade for ever. 
And creep thro' life, a plain, day-plodding weaver.


LINES

Written on seeing a Spider dart out upon a Fly.

LET gang your grip, ye auld grim devil
Else with ae crush I'U mak' you civil
Like debtor-bard in merchant's claw,
The fient o' mercy yeVe at a'
Sae spite an' malice (hard to ken 'em).
Sit spewin' out their secret venom

Ah, hear !—poor buzzart's roaring " Murder : " 
Let gang !—Na, faith !—thou scom'st my order !
Weel, tak' thee that !—vile ruthless creature ! 
For wha but hates a savage nature ? 
Sic fate to ilk unsocial kebar
Who lays a snare to wrang his neighbour.


LINES

On a country Justice in the South,

WHAT gars yon gentry gang wi' Jock,
An' ca' him Sir and Master ?

The greatest dunce, the biggest block,
That ever Nature cuist her
Yet see, they've plac'd this human stock
Strict justice to dispense
Which plainly shows yon meikle folk 
Think siller stands for sense. 


LINES

THIS warl's a tap-room owre an' owre, 
Whare ilk ane tak's his caper, 
Some taste the sweet, some drink the sour, 
As waiter Fate sees proper
Let mankind live, ae social core. 
An' drap a' selfish quar'ling,
An' when the Landlord ca's his score, 
May ilk ane's clink be sterling.


LINES

Wee a , self-sainted wight.
If e'er he won to heaven,
The veriest wretch, though black as pitch,
May rest he'll be forgiven :

Wi' haly pride he cocks his nose, 
An' talks of honest dealings,
For when our webs are at the close, 
He nips aff twa three shillings.


FOR T. B., ESQ.,
A Gentleman whom Indigence never solicited in vain, 

EVER green be the sod o'er kind Tom of the wood.
For the poor man he ever supplied;

We may weel say, alas ! for our ain scant o' grace, 
That we reck'd not his worth till he died : 
Though no rich marble bust mimics grief o'er his dust. 
Yet fond memory his virtues will save. 
Oft at lone twilight hour sad remembrance shall pour
Her sorrows, unfeign'd, o'er his grave. - 


On a Crabbed Old Maid.

HERE slaethom Mary's hurcheon bouk,
Resigns its fretfu' bristles ;
And is she dead ! —no—reader, look. 
Her grave's o'ergrown wi' thistles.


On a farthing-gatherer.

HERE lies Jamie Wight, wha was wealthy an' proud.
Few shar'd his regard an' far fewer his goud ; 
He liv'd unesteem'd, and he died unlamented.
The kirk gat his gear an' auld Jamie is sainted.

 
EPISTLE TO ROBERT ALLAN.

KILBARCHAN.—1807.

Dear robin,
The Muse is now a wee at leisure, 
An' sits her down wi' meikle pleasure,
To skelp ye aff a blaud * o' rhyme.
As near's she can to true sublime
But here's the rub,—poor poet-devils.
We're compassed round wi' mony evils; 
We jerk oursel's into a fever 
To give the world something clever. 
An' after a' perhaps we muddle
In vile prosaic stagnant puddle.
For me—I seldom choose a subject.
My rhymes are oft without an object
I let the Muse e'en tak' her win',
And dash awa' thro' thick and thin
For Method's sic a servile creature. 
She spurns the wilds o' simple nature,
And paces on, wi' easy art, 
A lang day's journey frae the heart :
Sae what comes uppermaist you'll get it, 
Be't good or ill, for you I write it.

How fares my worthy friend, the bard ? 
Be peace and honour his reward ! 
May every ill that gars us fyke, 
"Bad webs, toom pouches, and sic like, 
An' ought that would his spirit bend,
Be ten miles distant from my friend. 
Alas ! this wicked endless war, 
Rul'd by some vile malignant star. 
Has sunk poor Britain low indeed. 
Has robb'd Industry o' her bread,
An' dash'd the sair-won cog o' crowdie 
Frae mony an honest eident body;
While Genius, dying through neglect, 
Sinks down amidst the general wreck
Just like twa cats tied tail to tail, 
They worry at it tooth and nail
They gim, they bite in deadly wrath. 
An' what is't for ? for nought, in faith ! 
Wee Lourie Frank wi' brazen snout,
Nae doubt would like to scart us out, 
For proud John Bull, aye us'd to hone him.
We'll no gi'e o'er to spit upon him
But Lourie's rais'd to sic degree,
John would be wise to let him be ; 

Else aiblins, as his wearin' aul',
Frank yet may tear him spawl frae spawl, '^ 
For wi' the mony chirts he's gotten, 
I fear his constitutiofi's rotten. 
But while the bullying blades o' Europe
Are boxing ither to a syrup,
Let's mind oursePs as weel's we can. 
An' live in peace, like man and man.
An' no cast out and fecht like brutes. 
Without a cause for our disputes.
When I read o'er your kind epistle, 
I didna dance, nor sing, nor whistle. 
But jump'd, and cried. Huzza ! huzza ! 
Like Robin Roughhead in the play :
But to be serious—jest aside, 
I felt a glow o' secret pride.
Thus to be roos'd t by ane like you
Yet doubted if sic praise was due.
Till self thus reason'd in the matter : 
Ye ken that Robin scorns to flatter, 
And ere he'd prostitute his quill, 
He'd rather bum his rhyming mill
Enough ! I cried—I've gain'd my end. 
Since I ha'e pleas'd my worthy friend.

My sangs are now before the warl',
An' some may praise, and some may snarl
They ha'e their faults, yet I can tell 
Nane sees them clearer than myseP;
But still, I think, they, too, inherit, 
Amang the dross, some sparks o* merit. 
Then come, my dear Parnassian brither. 
Let's lay our poet heads thegither.
And sing our ain sweet native scenes, 
Our streams, our banks, and rural plains,
Our woods, our shaws, and flow'ry holms, 
An' mountains clad wi' purple blooms,
Wi' bumies bickerin' down their braes,
Reflecting back the sunny rays : 
Ye've Semple Woods, and Calder Glen,

And Locherbank, sweet fairy den ! 
And Auchinames, a glorious theme ! 
Where Crawfurd lived, of deathless name, 
Where Sempill sued his lass to win,
And Nelly rose and let him in

Where Habbie Simpson lang did play,
The first o' pipers in his day
And though aneath the turf langsyne,
Their sangs and tunes shall never tyne.
Sae, Robin, briskly ply the Muse ; 
She warms our hearts, expands our views, 
Gars every sordid passion flee, 
And waukens every sympathy.

Now, wishing Fate may never tax you, 
Wi' cross, nor loss, to thraw and vex you. 
But keep you hale till ninety-nine.
Till you and yours in honour shine, 
Shall ever be my earnest prayer, 
While I've a friendly wish to spare.


ODE FOR BURNS' BIRTHDAY, 1810.

AGAIN the happy day returns, 
A day to Scotchmen ever dear,
Tho' bleakest of the changeful year,
It blest us with a Burns.

Fierce the whirling blast may blow,
Drifting wide the crispy snow
Rude the ruthless storms may sweep. 
Howling round our mountain's steep
While the heavy lashing rains. 
Swell our rivers, drench our plains.
And the angry ocean roars 
Round our broken craggy shores
But, mindful of our poet's worth,
We hail the honoured day that gave him birth.


Come, ye vot'ries of the lyre, 
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire. 
Raise the song in Scotia's praise.
Sing anew her bonnie braes. 
Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams
Sing her sons beyond compare.
Sing her dochters, peerless, fair
Sing, till Winter's storms be o'er, 
The matchless bards that sung before
And I, the meanest of the Muse's train, 
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain. 

Dear Scotia, though thy clime be cauld. 
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld. 
Thy dochters modest, kind, and leal. 
The fairest in creation's fiel'; 
Alike inur'd to every toil, 
Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil
Prepar'd alike in peace and weir. 
To guide the plough or wield the spear
As the mountain torrent raves. 
Dashing through its rugged caves, 
So the Scottish legions pour
Dreadful in the avenging hour
But when Peace, with kind accord,
Bids them sheath the sated sword,

See them in their native vales, 
Jocund as the Summer gales,
Cheering labour all the day.
With some merry roundelay.
Dear Scotia, though thy nights be drear,
When surly Winter rules the year. 
Around thy cottage hearths are seen 
The glow of health, the cheerful mien
The mutual glance that fondly shares,
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares : 
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet. 
The canty lads and lasses meet. 
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free, 
The hours of joy come dancing on, 
To share their frolic and their fun. 
Here many a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound,
Performed in dreary wizard glen.
By wrinkled hags and warlike men. 
Or of the hell-fee'd crew combin'd.
Carousing on the midnight wind.
On some infernal errand bent,
While darkness shrouds their black intent
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight
To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments flee, 
Without a care unless for thee,

Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon, 
And sought the native sphere aboon. 
Thy "Lovely Jean," thy "Nannie, O,"
Thy much lov^d "Caledonia,"
Thy " Wat ye wha's in yonder town,"
Thy " Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,"
Thy " Shepherdess on Afton Braes,"
Thy "Logan Lassie's" bitter waes, 
Are a' gane o'er, sae sweetly tun'd,
That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound,
Fa's lown, * and sings with eerie slight, 
" O let me in this ae, ae night."
Alas ! our best, our dearest Bard,
How poor, how great was his reward 
Unaided he has fix'd his name,
Immortal, in the rolls of fame
Yet who can hear without a tear. 
What sorrows wrung his manly breast. 
To see his little, helpless, filial band,
Imploring succour from a father's hand.
And there no succour near ? 
Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest. 
Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest
For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone,
She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.


SONGS

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the bum,
The dews begin to fa', 
The paitricks * doun the rushy holm.
Set up their evening ca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'. 

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky.
The mavis mends her lay.
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains. 
To charm the lingering day
While weary yeldrins t seem to wail 
Their little nestlings torn. 
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell, 
The honeysuckle and the birk 
Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others crowd the giddy court 
Of mirth and revelry.
The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.


GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'

Air—''Lord Balgownie*s Favourite"

GLOOMY Winter's now awa',
Saft the westlan' breezes blaw
'Mang the birks of Stanley shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O ;

Sweet the crawflower's early bell 
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, 
Blooming like thy bonny sel', 
My young, my artless dearie, O,

Come, my lassie, let us stray 
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blythely spend the gowden day,
Midst joys that never weary, O. 

Tow'ring o'er the Newton t woods.
Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds.
Siller saughs, wi' downy buds. 
Adorn the banks sae briery, O.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feathery breckans fringe the rocks, 
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks.
And ilka thing is cheerie, O. 

Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O.


LOUDON'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES. 

Air—" Earl Moiras Welcome to Scotland.

LOUDON'S bonnie woods and braes,
I maun lea' them a', lassie ; 
Wha can thole when Britain's faes, 
Would gi'e Britons law, lassie ?

Wha would shun the field o' danger ? 
Wha frae Fame would live a stranger ? 
Now when Freedom bids avenge her, 
Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? 
Loudon's bonnie woods and braes 
Ha'e seen our happy bridal days,
And gentle hope shall soothe thy waes, 
When I am far awa', lassie. 

Hark ! the swelling bugle sings,
Yielding joy to thee, laddie ; 
But the dolefu' bugle brings
Waefu^ thoughts to me, laddie. 
Lanely I may climb the mountain,
Lanely stray beside the fountain,
Still the weary moments counting 
Far frae love and thee, laddie. 
O'er the gory fields o' war. 
When Vengeance drives his crimson car, 
Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar. 
And nane to close thy e'e, laddie.

Oh, resume thy wonted smile ! 
Oh, suppress thy fears, lassie !
Glorious honour crowns the toil 
That the soldier shares lassie. 
Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,
Till the vengeful strife is over. 
Then we'll meet, nae mair to sever
Till the day we dee, lassie : 
Midst our bonnie woods and braes, 
We'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
As blythe's yon lichtsome lamb that plays
On Loudon's flowery lea, lassie.


CROCSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S. 

Through Crocston Castle's lanely wa's 
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's. 
Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary :

Yes, Mary, though the wind should rave 
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy nicht I'd brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep,
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ; 
But I will ford the whirling deep,
That roars between me and my treasure : 
Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave 
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee.
Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave. 
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, 
And makes the nichtly wanderer eerie, 
But when the lonesome way is past,
I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary.
Yes, Mary, though stem Winter rave 
Wi' a' his storms to keep me frae thee. 
The wildest dreary nicht I'd brave. 
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.


THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. 

Air—" Saw ye my wee thing."

KEEN blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover 
Amang the brume bushes by Stanely green shaw ;
The wild flowers o' Simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ;
But far to the camp they ha'e march'd my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheerie,
Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw ;
Now naething is heard but the win' whistling dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. 
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ;
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, 
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie ; 
Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae,
V/hile down the deep glen bawls the sna'-flooded fountain,
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie an' me.
Tis no its loud roar, on the wint'ry win' swellin', 
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tear to my e'e, 
For, oh, gin I saw my bonnie Scots callan. 
The dark days o' Winter were Simmer to me !


LANGSYNE BESIDE THE WOODLAND BURN.

LANGSYNE, beside the woodland burn,
Amang the brume sae yellow,
I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On Nature's mossy pillow ; 
A' round my seat the flowers were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel' a Simmer snood. 
To pleasure my dear fellow.

I twin'd the woodbine round the rose.
Its richer hues to mellow. 
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.

The crawflow'r blue, an' meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link ; 
But little, little, did I think
I should have wove the willow. 

My bonnie lad was forced away, 
Tost on the raging billow ; 
Perhaps he's fa'n in bludy war, 
Or wreck'd on rocky shallow : 
Yet, ay I hope for his return. 
As round our wonted haunts I mourn. 
And often by the woodland burn,
I pu' the weeping willow.


WE'LL MEET BESIDE THE DUSKY GLEN,

WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Whar the bushes form a cozie den, on yon burn side,
Tho' the brumy knowes be green. 
Yet, there we may be seen, 
But we'll meet—we'll meet at e'en, down by yon bum side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bow'r, on yon burn side, 
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flow'r, on yon burn side, 
There the busy prjdng eye, 
Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ithers' arms they lie, down by yon burn side. 

Awa', ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side. 
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side,
There Fancy smooths her theme. 
By the sweetly murmuring stream,
An' the rock-lodg'd echoes skim, down by yon bum side. 

Now the plantin' taps are ting'd wi' goud, on yon burn side. 
And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon bum side. 
Far frae the noisy scene,
I'll through the fields alane,
There we'll meet—My ain dear Jean ! down by yon bumside.


JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE. 

THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene. 
While lanely I stray in the calm Simmer gloaming.
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

How sweet is the brier wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, w? its mantle o' green ;
Yet sweeter, and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonnie,
For guileless Simplicity marks her its ain ;
And far be the villain, divested o' feelin', 
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the evening, 
Thou'rt dear to the echoes o' Calderwood glen ;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ; 
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain,
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur.
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain ;
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.


THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE. 

Set to Music by Mr. Ross of Aberdeen,

FAR lone amang the Highland hills. 
Midst Nature's wildest grandeur.
By rocky dens, an' woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.

The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are naught to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. 

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe.
Just opening fresh an' bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
An's scarcely seen by ony : 
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, 
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie
Mair fair an' gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie. 

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean, 
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow-
Ambition courts promotion
Let Fortune pour her golden store. 
Her laurel'd favours many,
Gi'e me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass o' Arranteenie.


THE FLOWER O' LEVERN SIDE.

YE sunny braes that skirt the Clyde,
Wi' Simmer flowers sae braw,
There's ae sweet flower on Levern side. 
That's fairer than them a'

Yet aye it droops its head in wae, 
Regardless o' the sunny ray, 
And wastes its sweets frae day to day,
Beside the lanely shaw. 
Wi' leaves a' steep'd in sorrow's dew,
Fause, cruel man, it seems to rue : 
Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu'. 
Then rend its heart in twa. 

Thou bonnie flower on Levern side, 
Oh, gin thou'lt be but mine ; 
I'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride,
Wi' love that ne'er shall tyne.
I'll tak' thee to my shelt'ring bower. 
And shield thee frae the beating shower. 
Unharmed by aught thou'lt bloom secure 
Frae a' the blasts that blaw : 
Thy charms surpass the crimson dye
That streaks the glowing western sky
But here, unshaded, soon thou'lt die, 
And lone will be thy fa'.


WI' WAEFU' HEART.

Air—" Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came.' 

WI' waefu' heart and sorrowing e'e 
I saw my Jamie sail awa';
Oh I 'twas a fatal day to me,
That day he pass'd the Berwick Law ; 
How joyless now seemed all behind ! 
I lingering, strayed along the shore;
Dark boding fears hung on my mind
That I might never see him more. 

The night came on with heavy rain, 
Loud, fierce, and wild the tempest blew 
In mountains rolled the awful main:
Ah, hapless maid ! my fears how true ! 
The landsmen heard their drowning cries, 
The wreck was seen with dawning day;
My love was found, an' now he lies 
Low in the isle of gloomy May.

O boatman, kindly waft me o'er ! 
The cavern'd rock shall be my home ; 
'Twill ease my burdened heart, to pour
Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb ; 
With sweetest flowers I'll deck his grave, 
And tend them through the langsome year;
I'll water them, ilk morn and eve. 
With deepest sorrow's warmest tear.


THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Air—" The three carles d Buchanan."

LET US go, lassie, go. 
To the braes of Balqiihither,
Where the blaeberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather

Where the deer and the rae, 
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang Simmer day
On the braes o' Balquhither. '*

I will twine thee a bow'r,
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er 
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary.
And return wi' their spoils,
To the bow'r o' my deary.

When the rude wintry win' 
Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn 
On the night breeze is swelling;
So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us, 
Till the dear shieling ring
Wi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the Simmer is in prime,
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming ; 
To our dear native scenes 
Let us journey together, ; 
Whar glad innocence reigns,
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.


WHEN JOHN AN' ME WAR' MARRIED.

Air— '' Clean pca-strae.'

WHEN John an' me war' married. 
Our haudin' was but sma'. 
For my minnie, cankert carlin,
Would gie us nocht ava'

I wair't my fee wi' canny care, 
As far as, it would gae, 
But, weel-I-wat, our bridal bed
Was clean pea-strae.

Wi* workin' late an* early,
We've come to what ye see, 
For fortune thrave aneath our ban's,
Sae eident ay war' we;
The lowe o' love made labour licht, 
I'm sure ye'll find it sae. 
When kind ye cuddle down at e'en, 
'Mang clean pea-strae.

The rose blumes gay on caimy brae. 
As weel's in birken shaw. 
An' love will lowe in cottage low. 
As weel's in lofty ha':
Sae, lassie, tak' the lad ye like, 
Whate'er your minnie say, 
Tho' ye soud mak' your bridal bed
O' clean pea-strae.


BAROCHAN JEAN.

Air ' Johnnie M'Gill."

'TIS ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
An' ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean ? 
How death an' starvation cam' o'er the hale nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawkie een. 
The lads an' the lasses were deein' in dizzens,
The tane killed wi' love, an' the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughin', the sawin', the shearin', the mawin'
A' wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean. 

Frae the south an' the north, o'er the Tweed an' the Forth,
Sic comin' and gangin' there never was seen; 
The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie,
Despairin' or hopin' for Barochan Jean. 
The carlins at hame were a' gimin' and granin',
The bairns were a' greetin' frae momin' till e'en;
They gat naething for crowdie but runts boiled tae sowdie,
For naething gat growin' for Barochan Jean.

The doctors declared it was past their descrivin',
The ministers said 'tvvas a judgment for sin; 
But they looked sae blae, an' their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deein' for Barochan Jean. 
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinkin',
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin ;
A' roun' the peat-stacks, an' alangst the dyke backs,
E'en the win's were a' sighin', sweet Barochan Jean.

The timmer ran dune wi' the makin' o' coffins, 
Kirkyairds o' their swaird were a' howkit fu' clean;
Deid lovers were packit like herrin' in barrels, 
Sic thousan's were deein' for Barochan Jean. 
But mony braw thanks tae the laird o' Glenbrodie, 
The grass owre their graffsf is now bonnie an' green:
He sta' the proud heart o' our wanton young ladie. 
An' spoiled a' the charms o' her twa pawkie een.


O ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE.

Air—"Sleepin Maggie.'

Chor.—" O are ye sleepin', Maggie,
O are ye sleepin', Maggie !
Let me in, for loud the linn, 
Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie."

MIRK an' rainy is the nicht. 
No' a starn in a' the carry, 
Lightnin's gleam athwart the lift, 
An' win's drive wi' Winter's fury. 
O are ye sleepin', Maggie

Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild an' dreary,
Loud the iron yett does clank, 
An' cry o' howlets mak's me eerie. 
O are ye sleepin', Maggie,

Aboon my breath I daurna' speak.
For fear I rouse your waukrif' daddie. 
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek,
rise, rise my bonnie ladie ! 
O are ye sleepn', Maggie

She op'd the door, she let me in, 
I cuist aside my dreepin' plaidie 

Blaw your warst, ye rain an' win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye. 

Now since ye're waukin', Maggie,
Now since ye're waukin', Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry, 
For boortree bank, or warlock craigie?


THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDIN'.

Written to an ancient Highland Air. 

AULD Wattie o' Kebbuckston brae, 
Wi' lear an' readin' o' beuks auld farren'. 
What think ye ! the body cam' owre the day.
An' tauld us he's gaun tae be married tae Mirren.

We a' gat a biddin' 
Tae gang tae the weddin', 
Baith Johnnie an' Saunie, an' Nellie an' Nannie
An' Tarn o' the Knows,
He swears an' he vows, 
At the dancin' he'll face tae the bride wi' his grannie. 

A' the lads ha'e trystet their joes ; 
Slee Wullie cam' up, an' ca'd on Nellie ; 
Although she was hecht tae Geordie Bowse,
She's gi'en him the gimk, an' she's gaun wi' WuUie.
Wee collier Johnnie
Has yoket his pony, 
An's aff tae the toun for a ladin' o' nappy, 
Wi' fouth o' glide meat
Tae ser' us tae eat
Sae wi' fuddlin' an' feastin' we'll a' be fu' happy.

Wee Patie Brydie's * tae say the grace
The body's aye ready at dredgies an' weddin's

An' flunkie McFee, o' the Skiverton place,
Is chosen tae scuttle the pies and th' puddin's.
For there'll be plenty
O' ilka thing dainty, 
Baith lang kail an' haggis, an' ilka thing fittin'
Wi' luggies o' beer,
Our wizzens tae clear, 
Sae the de'il fill his kyte wha gaes clung frae the meetin'.

Lowrie has caft Gibbie Cameron's gun, 
That his auld gutcher bore whan he followed Prince Charlie
The barrel was rusted as black as the grun', 
But he's ta'en't to the smiddy, an's fettled it rarelie. 
Wi' wallets o' pouther,
His musket he'll shouther.
An' ride at our head, tae the bride's a-paradin'
At ilka farm toon, 
He'll fire them three roun',
Till the hale kintra ring wi' the Kebbuckston weddin'. 

Jamie an' Johnie maun ride the broose,
For few like them can sit in the saddle

An' Willie Ga'braith, the best o' the bows,
Is trysted to jig in the barn wi' his fiddle. 
Wi' whiskin' an' fliskin', 
An' reelin' an' wheelin',
The young anes are like to loiip out o' the body,
An' Wullie M'Naim,
Though sair forfaim,
He vows that he'll wallop twa sets wi' the howdie.

Saunie McNab, wi' his tartan trews, 
Has hecht tae come doon in the midst o' the caper, 
An' gi'e us three wallops o' merry shantrews,
Wi' the true Hielan' fling o' Macrimmon the piper, 
Sic hippin' an' skippin',
An' springin' an' flingin', 
I'se wad that there's nane in the Lawlands can waff it !
Faith ! Wullie maun fiddle. 
An' jirgim an' diddle,
An' screed till the sweet fa' in beads frae his haffet. 

Then gi'e me your han', my trusty guid fiien', 
An' gi'e me yer word, my worthy auld kimmer, 
Ye'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen,
An' join us in rantin' and toomin' the timmer.
Wi' fouth o' guid liquor, 
We'll haud at the bicker,

And lang may the mailin' o' Kebbuckston flourish ; 
For Wattle's sae free, 
Between you an' me,
I'se warrant he's bidden the ha'f o' the parish.


I'LL HIE ME TO THE SHEELIN' HILL. 

Air—'' Gillie Callum."

I'LL hie me to the sheelin' hill, 
And bide amang the braes, Callum
Ere I gang to Crochan mill,
I'll live on hips and slaes, Callum.
Wealthy pride but ill can hide
Your runkl'd measl't shins, Callum ;
Lyart pow, as white's the tow,
And beard as rough's the whins, Callum.

Wily woman aft deceives,
Sae ye*ll think, I ween, Callum

Trees may keep their withered leaves,
Till ance they get the green, Callum.
Blythe young Donald's won my heart. 
Has my willing vow, Callum ; 
Now, for a' your couthy art, 
I winna marry you, Callum.





O LASSIE, WILL YOU TAK' A MAN?

Air—" Whistle owre the lave o't. 

O LASSIE, will ye tak' a man,
Rich in housin', gear, an' lan7
De'il tak' the cash ! that I soud ban,
Nae mair I'll be the slave o't.

I'll buy you claise to busk you braw,
A ridin' pouney, pad an' a'; 
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, an' a' the lave o't 

Oh, poortith is a wintry day
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, an' blae. 
But baskin' under Fortune's ray. 
There's joy whate'er ye'd have o't. 

Then gie's your han', yell be my wife, 
I'll mak you happy a* your life; 
We'll row in love and siller rife, 
Till death wind up the lave o't.


WINTER WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

Air "Forneth house "

NOW Winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
Is far ayont yon mountains.
And Spring beholds her azure sky
Reflected in the fountains. 
Now, on the budding slaethom bank,
She spreads her early blossom. 
And wooes the mirly-breasted birds 
To nestle in her bosom ; 
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, 
Sae darksome, duU, an' dreary,
Now lav'rocks sing to hail the Spring,
An' Nature all is cheery.

Then let us leave the town, my love. 
An' seek our country dwelling,
Where waving woods, and spreading flow'rs 
On ev'ry side are smiling.

We'll tread again the daisied green, 
Where first your beauty mov'd me
We'll trace again the woodland scene, 
Where first ye own'd ye lov'd me. 
We soon will view the roses blaw, 
In a' the charms o' fancy,
For doubly dear these pleasiures a', 
When shar'd with you, my Nancy.


MY MARY.

Air -  "Invercauld's Reel"

MY Mary is a bonnie lassie. 
Sweet as dewy mom. 
When Fancy tunes her rural reed 
Beside the upland thorn. 
She lives ahint yon sunny knowe.
Where flow'rs in wild profusion grow, 
Where spreading birks and hazels throw
Their shadows o'er the burn.

Tis no' the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bow'rs. 
That gars me wade in solitude 
Amang the wild-sprung flow'rs;

But aft I cast a langin' e'e, 
Down frae the bank, out owre the lea, 
There, haply, I my lass may see. 
As through the brume she scours. 

Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie 
Coming frae the toun,
We raptured sank in ither's arms. 
An' press'd the breckans doun. 
The paitrick sung his e'ening note,
The rye-craik * risp'd his clamorous throat. 
While there the heavenly vow I got.
That erl'd her my own.


OH, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID.

Arranged by Ross of Aberdeen,

LAWLAND lassie, wilt thou go
Whar the hills are clad wi' snow; 
Whar, beneath the icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep ?
Ill nor wae shall thee betide. 
When rowed within my Highland plaid.

Soon the voice of cheery Spring
Will gar a' our plantings ring

Soon our bonnie heather braes, 
Will put on their Simmer claes
On the mountain's sunny side, 
We'll lean us on my Highland plaid.

When the Simmer spreads the flow'rs. 
Busks the glens in leafy bow'rs. 
Then we'll seek the caller shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed ; 
While the burning hours preside,
I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Then we'll leave the sheep an' goat,
I will launch the bonnie boat. 
Skim the loch in canty glee. 
Rest the oars to pleasure thee ; 
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Lawland lads may dress mair fine.
Woo in words mair saft than mine ; 
Lawland lads ha'e mair o' art, 
A' my boast's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride : 
Oh, row thee in my Highland plaid !

" Bonnie lad, ye've been sae leal, 
My heart would break at our fareweel
Lang your love has made me fain : 
Tak' me, — tak' me for your ain !

'Cross the Firth awa' they glide,
Young Donald and his Lawland bride.


MY HEART IS SAIR WI' HEAVY CARE.

Air—" The rosy brier."

MY heart is sair wi' heavy care, 
To think on Friendship's fickle smile
It blinks a wee wi' kindly e'e, 
When warld's thrift rins weel the while. 
But let Misfortune's tempests low'r,
It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour;
It looks sae high and scornfully,
It winna ken a poor man's door.

I ance had siller in my purse,
I dealt it out right frank and free,
And hoped, should Fortune change her course. 
That they would do the same for me :

But, weak in wit, I little thought
That Friendship's smiles were sold and bought,
Till ance I saw, like April snaw, 
They waned awa' when I had nought.

It's no' to see my threadbare coat.
It's no' to see my coggie toom,
It's no' to wair my hindmost groat,
That gars me fret an' gars me gloom;
But 'tis to see the scornful pride
That honest poortith aft maun bide 
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with Fortune on their side.

But let it gang ; what de'il care I
Wi' eident thrift I'll toil for mair;
I'll halve my mite with misery.
But fient a ane o' them shall share : 
With soul unbent I'll stand the stour. 
And while they're flutt'ring past my door,
I'll sing with glee, and let them see 
An honest heart can ne'er be poor.


YE ECHOES THAT RING.

Set to Music by R. A. Smith.

YE echoes that ring roun' the woods o' Bowgreen, 
Say, did ye e'er listen sae meltin' a strain, 
When lovely young Jessie gaed wand'rin' unseen, 
An' sung o' her laddie, the pride o' the plain ? 
Aye she sang, " Willie, my bonnie young Willie ! 
There's no' a sweet flow'r on the mountain or valley,
Mild blue spritl'd crawflow'r, or wild woodland lily. 
But tynes a' its sweets in my bonnie young swain. 
Thou goddess o' Love, keep him constant tae me.
Else, with'rin' in sorrow, puir Jessie shall dee !" 

Her laddie had stray'd through the dark leafy wood.
His thoughts war a' fixt on his dear lassie's charms. 
He heard her sweet voice, a' transported he stood,
'Twas the soul o' his wishes—he flew tae her arms.

" No, my dear Jessie I my lovely young Jessie
Thro' simmer, thro' winter I'll daut an* caress thee, 
Thou'rt dearer than life ! thou'rt my ae only lassie ! 
Then, banish thy bosom these needless alarms : 
Yon red setting sun sooner changeful shall be, 
Ere wav'ring in falsehood I wander frae thee."


THE COGGIE.

Air—'* Cauld kail in Aberdeen." 

WHEN poortith cauld, an' sour disdain. 
Hang owre life's vale sae foggie.
The sun that brightens up the scene.
Is Friendship's kindly coggie ! 
Then, oh ! revere the coggie, sirs ! 
The friendly, social coggie ! 
It gars the wheels o' life run licht, 
Tho' e'er so doilt an' cloggie. 

Let Pride in Fortune's chariot fly, 
Sae empty, vain, an' voggie;*
The source o' wit, the spring o' joy. 
Lies in the social coggie !

Then, oh ! revere the coggie, sirs
The independent coggie ! 
An' never snool beneath the frown
O' ony selfish roggie.

Puir modest Worth, wi' cheerless e'e, 
Sits hiirklin' in the boggie,
Till she asserts her dignity,
By virtue o' the coggie ! 
Then, oh ! revere the coggie, sirs ! 
The poor man's patron coggie.
It warsels care, it fechts life's faughts.
An' lifts him frae the boggie.

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail-broo, 
Gi'e France her weel-spic'd froggie, 
Gi'e brither John his luncheon too, 
But gi'e to us our coggie ! 
Then, oh ! revere the coggie, sirs ! 
Our soul-warm kindred coggie ;
Hearts doubly knit in social tie. 
When just a wee thocht groggie.

In days of yore our sturdy sires, 
Upon their hills sae scroggie, 
Glow'd with true Freedom's warmest fires, 
An' faught to save their coggie ! 
Then, oh ! revere the coggie, sirs,
Our brave forefathers' coggie ; 
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds, 
O'er whilk we'll lang be voggie.

Then, here's — May Scotland ne'er fa' doun,
A cringin', coward doggie.
But bauldly stan' an' bang the loon,
Wha'd reave t her o' her coggie
Then, oh ! protect the coggie, sirs. 
Our guid auld mither's coggie ! 
Nor let her luggie e'er be drained
By ony foreign roggie.

FRAGMENT OF A SCOTTISH BALLAD

Air — " Fingal's Lamentation.''

WILD drives the bitter northern blast. 
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw, 
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps. 
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa'

I'll tak' you to my father's ha', 
An' shield you frae the wintry air, 
For, wand'ring thro' the drifting snaw,
I fear ye'll sink to rise nae mair." 

" Ah ! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor. 
For he wha's dearest to my heart,
Now waits me on the western shore;
With mom he spreads his outward sail
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel. 
We maybe part to meet nae mair." 

" Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your dead
The dreary waste lies far an' wide ; 
Abide till mom, an' then ye'll hae
My father's herd-boy for your guide." 
" No, lady,—no ! I maunna' turn. 
Impatient love now chides my stay, 
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam.
Will licht me on my weary way." 

Ah ! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart ? 
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e ? 
Yon's but thy true-love's fleeting form. 
Thy true-love mair thou'lt never see

Deep in the hollow glen she lies, 
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree, 
She soundly sleeps in Death's cauld arms, 
A victim to her love for thee.


MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY.

Air—" Were I obliged to beg.'* 

WHEN gloamin' treads the heels o' day,
And birds sit courin' on the spray, 
Alang the flowery hedge I stray
To meet mine ain dear somebody.

The scented brier, the fragrant bean,
The clover bloom, the dewy green, 
A' charm me, as I rove at e'en, 
To meet mine ain dear somebody.

Let warriors prize the hero's name.
Let mad Ambition tow'r for fame, 
I'm happier in my lowly hame,
Obscurely blest wi' somebody.


JOHNNIE, LAD.

Air—" The lasses o the ferry.' 

OCH, hey! Johnnie, lad, 
Ye're no sae kind's ye soud ha'e been ;
Och, hey! Johnnie, lad, 
Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen : 
I waited lang beside the wud,
Sae wae an' weary, a' my lane ;
Och, hey ! Johnnie, lad, 
Ye're no sae kind's ye soud ha'e been.

I looked by the whinny knowe,
I looked by the firs sae green,
I looked owre the spunkie howe.
An' aye I thocht ye would ha'e been. 
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my een ; 
Och, hey ! Johnnie, lad, 
Ye're no sae kind's ye soud ha'e been. 

Gin ye war waitin' by the wud,
Then I was waitin' by the thorn,
I thocht it was the place we set, 
And waited maist till dawnin' morn ;

Sae be na' vex'd, my bonnie lassie, 
Let my waitin' stan' for thine, 
We'll awa' to Craigton-shaw, 
And seek the joys we tint yestreen.


FLY WE TO SOME DESERT ISLE.

Gaelic Air. 

FLY we to some desert isle. 
There well pass our days thegither,
Shun the world's derisive smile,
Wand'ring tenants of the heather;
Shelter'd in some lonely glen, 
Far remov'd from mortal ken. 
Forget the selfish ways o' men. 
Nor feel a wish beyond each other. 

Though my friends deride me still, Jamie, 
I'll disown thee never ; 
Let them scorn me as they will,
I'll be thine, and thine for ever. 
What are a' my kin to me,
A' their pride o' pedigree
What were Hfe, if wantin' thee,
An' what were death, if we maun sever !


OH, SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH.

Arranged by R. A, Smith,

Oh, sair I rue the witless wish,
That gar'd me gang wi' ye at e'en;
An' sair I rue the birken bush,
That screen'd us wi' its leaves sae green: 
An' tho' ye vowed ye wad be mine.
The tear o' grief aye dims my e'e;
For, oh ! I'm fear'd that I may tyne
The love that ye ha'e promis'd me !

While ithers seek their e'ening sports, 
I wander, dowie,* a' my lane. 
For whan I join their glad resorts. 
Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain.
Alas, it wasna sae shortsyne,
Whan a' my nichts war spent wi' glee ; 
But, oh ! I'm fear'd that I may tyne
The love that ye ha'e promis'd me !

Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon,
For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee;
I've caft a bonnie silken goun, 
Tae be a bridal gift for thee. 
An' sooner shall the hills fa' doun,
An' mountain high shall stan' th' sea, 
Ere I'd accept a gouden croun, 
Tae change that love I bear for thee.


DESPAIRING MARY.

Set to Music by'K. A. Smith.

'MARY, why thus waste thy youthtime in sorrow?
See a' aroun' you the flowers sweetly blaw ;
Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cHffs o' Jura,
Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw !

"How can this heart ever mair think o' pleasure,
Simmer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane ;
Cauld i' the grave lies my heart's only treasure, 
Nature seems deid since my Jamie is gane.

" This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token,
Dear, dear tae me was the gift for his sake ! 
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,
Hope dee'd wi* Jamie, an' left it tae break.
Sighin' for him I lie doun in the e'enin', 
Sighin' for him I awake in the mom;
Spent are my days a' in secret repinin'.
Peace tae this bosom can never return.

" Oft ha'e we wander'd in sweetest retirement,
Tellin' our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam;
Sweet were our meetin's o' tender endearment, 
But fled are these joys like a fleet passin' dream.

Cruel Remembrancer, ah I why wilt thou wreck me?
Broodin^ o'er joys that for ever are flown; 
Cruel Remembrance, in pity forsake me,
Flee tae some bosom where grief is unknown !"


RAB RORYSON'S BONNET

Air — " The auld wife o' the glen"

YE'LL a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet;
'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the heid that was in it, 
Gar't a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet. 

This bonnet, that theekit his won'erfu' heid. 
Was his shelter in Winter, in Simmer his shade ; 
An' at kirk, or at market, or bridals, I ween, 
A braw gawcier bonnet there never was seen. 

Wi' a roun' rosy tap, like a muckle blackbide.
It was slouch'd just a kennin' on either han' side 
Some maintained it was black, some maintained it was blue,
It had something o' baith, as a body may trew.

But, in sooth, I assure you, for ought that I saw,
Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava' ; 
Tho' the haill pairish talk'd o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
Twas a' for the marvellous heid that was in it. 

That heid, let it rest, it is noo in the mools,
Tho' in life a' the warld beside it war fools
Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his heid was possess't,
Nane e'er kent but himseP, sae there's nane that will miss't.

There are some still in life wha eternally blame,
Wha on dufs an' on i/s rear their fabric o' fame
Unto such I inscribe this most elegant sonnet, 
Sae let them be croun'd in Rab Roryson's bonnet !


THE HIELANDER'S INVITATION.

Air — " Will ye come to the bower?" 

WILL ye come tae the board I've prepared for you?
Your drink shall be guid, o' the true Hielan' blue. 
Will ye, Donald, will ye, Callum, come tae the board ? 
There each shall be great as her ain native lord. 

There'll be plenty o' pipe, an' a glorious supply
O' the guid sneesh-te-bacht, an' the fine cut-an'-dry.

Will ye, Donald, will ye, Callum, come then at e*en ? 
There be some for the stranger, but mair for the frien'.

There we'll drink foggy Care tae his gloomy abodes,
An' we'll smoke till we sit in the clouds like the gods. 
Will ye, Donald, will ye, Callum, won't you do so ? 
'Tis the way that our forefathers did long ago. 

An' we'll drink tae the Cameron, we'll drink tae Lochiel,
An' for Gharlie, we'll drink a' the French tae the de'il. 
Will ye, Donald, will ye, Callum, drink there until 
There be heids lie like peats if hersel' had her will

There be groats on the Ian', there be fish in the sea, 
An' there's fouth * in the coggie for freen'ship an' me. 
Gome then, Donald, come then, Callum., come then to-night,
Sure the Hielander be first in the fuddle an' the fight. 


THE FAREWELL.

Air -  "Lord Gregory." 

Accuse me not, inconstant fair, 
Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so, 
Hadst thou been true to me. 
But when I knew thy plighted lips
Once, to a rival's press't, 
Love-smothered independence rose, 
And spurn'd thee from my breast.

The fairest flower in Nature's field 
Conceals the rankling thorn;
So thou, sweet flower ! as false as fair, 
This once kind heart hath torn. 
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
That slighted love can feel;
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act 
Which bids this long fareweel.


OUR BONNIE SCOTS LADS.

OUR bonnie Scots lads in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, an' feathers sae braw,
Ranked up on the green war fair to be seen, 
But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a' ;
His cheeks war* as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud lookin' down on the snaw ;
His lang yellow hair owre his braid shoulders fell. 
An' the een o' the lasses war fix'd on him a*.

My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day,
When torn frae my bosom they marched him awa*,
He bade me farewell, he cried, " Oh, be leal
!" An* his red cheeks war* wet wi' the tears that did fa'. 
Ah ! Harry, my love, though thou ne'er shou'dst return,
Till life*s latest hour I thy absence will mourn : 
An' memory shall fade like a leaf on the tree, 
Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.


ANACREONTIC

FILL, fill, the merry bowl,
Drown corrosive care and sorrow, 
Why, why clog the soul. 
By caring for to-morrow ? 
Fill you glasses, toast your lassies, 
Blythe Anacreon bids you live ;
Love with firiendship far surpasses 
All the pleasures life can give.
Ring, ring th* enlivening bell, 
The merry dirge of care and sorrow. 
Why leave them life to tell 
Their heavy tales to-morrow ?

Come, join the social glee.
Give the reins to festive pleasure ;
While Fancy, light and free, 
Dances to the measure. 
Love and wit, with all the graces. 
Revel round in fairy ring,

Smiling joy adorns our faces, 
While with jocund hearts we sing.
Now, since our cares are drowned,
Spite of what the sages tell us, 
Hoary Time, in all his round. 
Ne'er saw such happy fellows.


COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME.

Dorothy sits i' the cauld Ingle neuk,
Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae, 
Wi' gimin', her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk,
Wi' smokin', her teeth's like the jet o' the slae. 
An' aye she sings "Weel's me," aye she sings " Weel's me,
Coggie, thou heals me ! coggie, thou heals me ! 
Aye my best frien' whan there's onything ails me,
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I dee." 

Dorothy ance was a weel-tocher'd lass. 
Had charms like her neebours, and lovers enow. 
But she spited them sae, wi' her pride an' her sauce, 
They left her for thirty lang simmers to rue. 
Then aye she sang " Wae's me !" aye she sang " Wae*s me! 
Oh, I'll turn crazy, oh, I'll turn crazy ! 
Naething in a' the wide warld can ease me,
De'il tak' the wooers,—Oh, what shall I do ? "

Dorothy, dozen'd wi' leevin' her lane,
Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her e'e
She thocht on the braw merry days that war gane, 
An' caft a wee coggie for company.
Now aye she sings "Weel's me !" aye she sings "Weel's me!
Coggie, thou heals me ! coggie, thou heals me ! 
Aye my best frien' whan there's onything ails me,
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I dee."



ELLEN MORE.

Air — "Marys Dream"

THE sun had kissed green Erin's waves, 
The dark blue mountains tower'd between. 
Mild evening's dews refresh'd the leaves,
The moon unclouded rose serene
When Ellen wandered forth, unseen, 
All lone her sorrows to deplore ; 
False was her lover, false her friend,
And false was hope to Ellen More.

Young Henry was fair Ellen's love,
Young Emma to her heart was dear
Nor weel nor woe did Ellen prove, 
But Emma ever seemed to share. 
Yet envious still, she spread the wile. 
That sullied Ellen's virtues o'er
Het faithless Harry spurn'd the while,
His fair, his faithful Ellen More.

She wander'd down Loch-Mary side. 
Where oft at ev'ning hour she stole. 
To meet her love with secret pride
Now deepest anguish wrung her soul. 
O'ercome with grief, she sought the steep
Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar
Oh, Pity ! veil thy eyes and weep ! 
A bleeding corpse Hes Ellen More.

The sun may shine on Yarrow braes. 
And woo the mountain flow'rs to bloom. 
But never can his golden rays 
Awake the flow'r in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn. 
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower
There oft from eve till breezy morn, 
He weeps his faithful Ellen More.


MY DEAR HIELAN' LADDIE, O. 

Air — "Morneen I gaberland"

BLYTHE was the time when he fee'd wi' my faither, O,
Happy war the days when we herded thegither, O,
Sweet war the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O,
An' vowed tae be mine, my dear Hielan' laddie, O.

But, ah ! waes me ! wi' their sodg'ring sae gaudy, O,
The laird's wys'd awa' my braw Hielan' laddie, O ; 
Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O,
That aye seemed sae blythe wi' my dear Hielan' laddie, O.

The blaeberry banks, noo, are lanesome an' dreary, O,
Muddy are the streams that gush'd doun sae clearly, O,
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O,
The wild meltin' strains o' my dear Hielan' laddie, O. 

He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen, 
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen.
He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steep sae giddy, O, 
Sae lovin' an' kind was my dear Hielan' laddie, O. 

Fareweel my ewes ! an' fareweel my doggie, O,
Fareweel ye knowes ! now sae cheerless an' scroggie, O; 
Fareweel, Glenfeoch ! my mammie an' my daddie, O,
I will lea' ye a' for my dear Hielan' laddie, O.






YE WOOER LADS V/HA GREET AN' GRANE

Air — "Callum Brogach"

YE wooer lads wha greet an* grane, 
Wha preach an* fleech, an' mak' a mane,
An* pine yoursel's tae skin an* bane,
Come a* to Callum Brogach.
I'll learn you here the only art 
Tae win a bonnie lassie's heart
Just tip wi' gowd Love's siller dart 
Like dainty Callum Brogach.

I ca*d her aye my sonsie doo. 
The fairest flow'r that e'er I knew ; 
Yet, like a souple spankie grew, 
She fled frae Callum Brogach. 
But sune's she heard the guinea ring,
She turn'd as I had been a king,
Wi'—" Tak' my han' or ony thing,
Dear, dainty Callum Brogach ! 

It's gowd can mak' the blin' to see, 
Can bring respec' whar nana wad be. 
An' Cupid ne'er shall want his fee, 
Frae dainty Callum Brogach.
Nae mair wi' greetin' blin' your een, 
Nae mair wi' sichin' warm the win', 
But hire the gettlin' for your frien'. 
Like dainty Callum Brogach.


AN' WAR YE AT DUNTOCHER BURN?

AN' war ye at Duntocher burn ? 
An' did ye see them a', man ? 
An' hoo's my wifie an' the bairns ? 
I ha'e been lang awa', man.

This hedger wark's a weary trade,
It doesna suit ava', man ; 
Wi' lanely house an' lanely bed
My comforts are but sma', man.

An' how's wee Sandy, Pate, an' Tam ? 
Sit doun an' tak' your blaw, man ; 
Fey, lassie, rin, fetch in a dram,
Tae treat my frien', John Lamon' ;
For ilka plack ye've gien tae mine,
Your callans shall get twa, man;
O were my heels as licht's my heart,
I sune would see them a', man. 

My blessing on her kindly heart,
She likes tae see me braw, man ; 
She's darn'd my hose, an' bleach'd my sarks 
As white's the driven snaw, man.
An' ere the win's o' Martinmas
Sough thro' the scroggie shaw, man,
I'll lift my weel-hain'd penny fee. 
An' gang an' see them a', man.


WHEN ROSIE WAS FAITHFU'

Written on reading the "Harper of Mull," a Highland story. 
Set to Music by R. A. Smith.

WHEN Rosie was faithful, how happy was I, 
Still gladsome as Simmer the time glided by
I play'd my harp cheerie, while fondly I sang
Of the charms o' my Rosie the winter nichts lang.

But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come Simmer, come Winter, 'tis a' ane tae me : 
or th' dark gloom o* falsehood sae clouds my sad soul, 
That cheerless for aye is the Harper o' Mull.

I wander the glens an' the wild woods alane. 
In their deepest recesses I mak' my sad mane ;
My harp's mournfu' melody joins in the strain, 
While sadly I sing o' the days that are gane. 
Tho' Rosie is faithless, she's no the less fair, 
An' the thought o' her beauty but feeds my despair ;
Wi' painfu' remembrance my bosom is full. 
An' weary o' life is the Harper o' Mull.

As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, an' I ne'er was sae blest, 
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph tae my breast. 
Thou fause fleetin' vision, too soon thou wert o'er ! 
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before ; 
But Death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull. 
An' the green grass wave over the Harper o' Mull.


BONNIE WOOD O' CRAIGIELEA.

Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea,
Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea,
Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
An' won my Mary's heart in thee. 

THE broom, the brier, the birken bush. 
Bloom bonnie o'er thy flowery lea, 
An' a' the sweets that ane can wish 
Frae Nature's han', are strewed on thee. 
Thou bonnie wood, [and]c

Far ben thy dark green plantings shade,
The cushat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, doun thy bughted glade, 
Gars echo ring frae ev'ry tree. 
Thou bonnie wood, [and]c.

Awa', ye thochtless, murd'rin' gang, 
Wha tear the nesthn's ere they flee ! 
They'll sing you yet a canty sang, 
Then, oh ! in pity let them be !
Thou bonnie wood, [and]c. 

Whan Winter blaws in sleety showers, 
Frae aff the Norlan hills sae hie, 
He lightly skiffs thy bonnie bow'rs. 
As laith to harm a flow'r in thee. 
Thou bonnie wood, [and]c.

Tho' fate should drive me south the line, 
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea, 
The happy hours I'll ever min'. 
That I in youth ha'e spent in thee. 
Thou bonnie wood, [and]c,


THE FIVE FRIENDS

Air—We're a noddin. 

WEEL, wha's in the bouroch, an' what is your cheer?
The best that ye'll find in a thousand year. 
And we're a' noddin', nid nid noddin',
We're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There's our ain Jamie Clark, frae the ha' o' Argyle,
W his leal Scottish heart, an' his kind open smile.
And we're a' noddin etc. 

There is Will the guid fallow, wha kills a' our care 
Wi' his sang an' his joke, an' a mutchkin mair. 
And we're a^ noddin etc. 

There is blythe Jamie Barr, frae St. Barchan's toun,*
When wit gets a kingdom, he's sure o' the croun. 
And we're a' noddin' etc. 

There is Rab, frae the south, wi' his fiddle an' his flute;
I could list tae his strains till the stamsf fa' out. 
And we're a' noddin' etc, 

Apollo, for our comfort, has furnished the bowl,
An' here is my bardship, as blind as an owl. 
For we're a' noddin' etc.


HEY, DONALD! HO, DONALD!

THOUGH Simmer smiles on bank an' brae,
An' Nature bids the heart be gay, 
Yet a' the joys o' flow'ry May
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me.

Hey, Donald ! ho, Donald ! 
Think upon your vow, Donald;
Min' the heathery knowe, Donald,
Whar ye vow'd tae lo'e me. 


MEG O' THE GLEN.

Air — " When she cam ben she bobbit" 

MEG o' the glen set aff tae the fair, 
Wi' ruffles, an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare ; 
Her heart it was heavy, her heid it was licht, 
For a' the lang way for a wooer she sicht. 
She spak' tae the lads, but the lads slippet by.
She spak' tae the lassies, the lassies war shy;
She thocht she might dae, but she didna weel ken,
For nane seem'd tae care for Meg o' the Glen. 

THE LASSIE O' MERRY EIGHTEEN

MY faither wad ha'e me tae marry the miller,
My mither wad ha'e me tae marry the laird, 
But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siller, 
That heightens their fancy tae ony regard.
The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit. 
The laird, tho' he's wealthy, he's lyart an' lean ;
He's auld, an' he's cauld, an' he's blin', an' he's bald,
An' he's no' for a lassie o' merry Eighteen.


THE LASSES A' LEUGH.

Air — "Kissd yestreen"

THE lassies a' leugh, an' the carlin flate, 
But Maggie was sittin' fu' ourie an' blate, 
The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen ; 
Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen ; 
She blether'd it roun' tae her fae an' her frien', 
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen.


COME HAME TO YOUR LINGELS.

Air — "Whistle an I'll come to you my lad"

COME hame tae your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, 
You're the king o' the dyvours, the talk o' the toun;
Sae soon as the Munonday mornin' comes in, 
Your wearifu' daidlin'f again maun begin.
Guidwife, ye're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell, 
Tae the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell;
But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill. 
The souter shall aye hae his Munonday's yill. 


NOW WINTER IS GANE.

Air -  "The fair-haired child." 

YE mind when the snaw lay sae deep on the hill, 
When cauld icy cranreuch hung white on the tree, 
When bushes were leafless, and mournfully still 
Were the wee birds o' sweet Woodhouselee : 
When snaw show'rs were fa'ing.
And wintry winds blawing,
Loud whistling o'er mountain and meadow sae chill, 
We mark'd it wi' sorrowin' e'e ', 
But now since the flowers 
Again busk the bowers,
O come, my dear lassie, wi' smilin' good-will.
And wander around Woodhouselee.


O HOW CAN YOU GANG LASSIE.

Air — "The bonniest lass in a' the warld"

O HOW can you gang, lassie, how can you gang, 
O how can you gang sae to grieve me ! 
Wi' your beauty, and your art, ye hae broken my heart,
For I never, never dreamt ye would leave me.


I'LL LAY ME ON THE WINTRY LEA.

Air — "Waly, waly, —old Set"

I'LL lay me on the wintry lea, 
An' sleep amidst the wind an' weet,
An' ere another's bride I be,
O bring tae me my winding sheet !

What can a hapless lassie do,
Whan ilka freen' wad prove her foe, 
Wad gar her break her dearest vow, 
Tae wed wi' ane she canna lo'e ?

FAITHLESS NANNIE.

FULL eighteen Simmers up life's brae,
I speeded on fu' canny, O,
Till sleeky Love threw in my way
Young, bonnie, fair-haired Nannie, O.

I woo'd her soon, I wan her syne, 
Our vows o' love war mony, O,
An', O what happy days war mine,
Wi' bonnie fair-haired Nannie, O.


DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATIE.

Davie TULLOCH'S bonnie Katie, 
Davie's bonnie blythesome Katie, 
Tarn the laird cam' doun yestreen.
He socht her love, but gat her pity.

Wi' tremblin' grip he squeezed her haun',
While his auld heart gaed pitty-patty ;
Aye he thocht his gear an' laim' 
Wad win the love o' bonnie Katie. 

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie, 
Davie's bonnie blythesome Katie,
Aye she smil'd as Tammie wil'd. 
Her smile was scorn, yet mixt wi' pity.


THOU CAULD GLOOMY FEBERWAR.

THOU cauld gloomy Feberwar,
O gin thou wert awa', 
I'm wae to hear thy sughin' winds,
I*m wae to see thy snaw; 
For my bonnie brave young Hielander,
The lad I lo'e sae dear,
Has vow'd to come an' see me,
In the spring o' the year.


NOW, MARION, DRY YOUR TEARFU' E'E.

NOW, Marion, dry your tearfu' e'e, 
Gae break ye're rock in twa. 
For soon ye're gallant sons ye'll see, 
Return'd in safety a'. 
O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain !
An' shall I see my bairns again, 
A' seated roun' our ain hearth-stane,
Nae mair tae gang awa' ?


THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU

THE weary sun's gane doun the west,
The birds sit nodding on the tree, 
All Nature now inclines for rest, 
But rest aUow'd there's nane for me : 
The trumpet calls to War's alarms. 
The rattling drum forbids my stay
Ah ! Nancy, bless thy soldier's arms, 
For ere morn I will be far away. 


THE BANKS OF SPEY.

SCENES of my childhood, your wanderer hails you, 
Wing'd with rude storm, though the Winter assails you. 
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me,
For here, amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me ;

'Tis sad to see the wither'd lea, the drumly flooded fountain,
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moorand mountain;
But frae the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I'll defend her,
And frae the bonnie banks o' Spey * I never more shall wander.


MY DAYS HAE FLOWN WI' GLEESQME SPEED

MY days hae flown wi' gleesome speed.
Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind, 
Sae happy wi' my rural reed,
I lilted every care behind
I've been vext and sair perplext
When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy ; 
But, like gude John o' Badenyon,
I croon'd my lilt and car'd na by.
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