Remorseful Apology.
The friend whom, wild
from Wisdom’s way,
The fumes of wine infuriate
send,
(Not moony madness more
astray)
Who but deplores that
hapless friend?
Mine was th’ insensate
frenzied part,
Ah! why should I such
scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent
to my heart!
’Tis thine to
pity and forgive.
Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?
Tune “The
Sutor’s Dochter.”
Wilt thou be my Dearie?
When Sorrow wring thy
gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer
thee!
By the treasure of my
soul,
That’s the love
I bear thee:
I swear and vow that
only thou
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Only thou, I swear and
vow,
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Lassie, say thou lo’es
me;
Or, if thou wilt na
be my ain,
O say na thou’lt
refuse me!
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose
me,
Let me, lassie, quickly
die,
Still trusting that
thou lo’es me!
Lassie, let me quickly
die,
Still trusting that
thou lo’es me!
A Fiddler In The North.
Tune “The
King o’ France he rade a race.”
Amang the trees, where
humming bees,
At buds and flowers
were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out
her drone,
And to her pipe was
singing, O:
’Twas Pibroch,
Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels,
She dirl’d them
aff fu’ clearly, O:
When there cam’
a yell o’ foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie,
O.
Their capon craws an’
queer “ha, ha’s,”
They made our lugs grow
eerie, O;
The hungry bike did
scrape and fyke,
Till we were wae and
weary, O:
But a royal ghaist,
wha ance was cas’d,
A prisoner, aughteen
year awa’,
He fir’d a Fiddler
in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie,
O.
The Minstrel At Lincluden.
Tune “Cumnock
Psalms.”
As I stood by yon roofless
tower,
Where the wa’flow’r
scents the dery air,
Where the howlet mourns
in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight
moon her care.
Chorus A
lassie all alone, was making her moan,
Lamenting our lads beyond
the sea:
In the bluidy wars they
fa’, and our honour’s gane an’
a’,
And broken-hearted we
maun die.
The winds were laid,
the air was till,
The stars they shot
along the sky;
The tod was howling
on the hill,
And the distant-echoing
glens reply.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
The burn, adown its
hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d
wa’,
Hasting to join the
sweeping Nith,
Whase roarings seem’d
to rise and fa’.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
The cauld blae North
was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’
hissing, eerie din,
Athort the lift they
start and shift,
Like Fortune’s
favours, tint as win.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
Now, looking over firth
and fauld,
Her horn the pale-faced
Cynthia rear’d,
When lo! in form of
Minstrel auld,
A stern and stalwart
ghaist appear’d.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
And frae his harp sic
strains did flow,
Might rous’d the
slumbering Dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale
of woe,
As ever met a Briton’s
ear!
A lassie all alone,
&c.
He sang wi’ joy
his former day,
He, weeping, wail’d
his latter times;
But what he said it
was nae play,
I winna venture’t
in my rhymes.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
A Vision.
As I stood by yon roofless
tower,
Where the wa’flower
scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns
in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight
moon her care.
The winds were laid,
the air was still,
The stars they shot
alang the sky;
The fox was howling
on the hill,
And the distant echoing
glens reply.
The stream, adown its
hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d
wa’s,
Hasting to join the
sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring
swells and fa’s.
The cauld blae North
was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’
hissing, eerie din;
Athwart the lift they
start and shift,
Like Fortune’s
favors, tint as win.
By heedless chance I
turn’d mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam,
shook to see
A stern and stalwart
ghaist arise,
Attir’d as Minstrels
wont to be.
Had I a statue been
o’ stane,
His daring look had
daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav’d
was plain,
The sacred posy “Libertie!”
And frae his harp sic
strains did flow,
Might rous’d the
slumb’ring Dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale
of woe,
As ever met a Briton’s
ear!
He sang wi’ joy
his former day,
He, weeping, wailed
his latter times;
But what he said it
was nae play,
I winna venture’t
in my rhymes.
A Red, Red Rose.
[Hear Red, Red Rose]
O my Luve’s like
a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung
in June:
O my Luve’s like
the mélodie,
That’s sweetly
play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my
bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee
still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas
gang dry.
Till a’ the seas
gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’
the sun;
And I will luve thee
still, my dear,
While the sands o’
life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel,
my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel,
a while!
And I will come again,
my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere
ten thousand mile!
Young Jamie, Pride Of A’ The Plain.
Tune “The
Carlin of the Glen.”
Young Jamie, pride of
a’ the plain,
Sae gallant and sae
gay a swain,
Thro’ a’
our lasses he did rove,
And reign’d resistless
King of Love.
But now, wi’ sighs
and starting tears,
He strays amang the
woods and breirs;
Or in the glens and
rocky caves,
His sad complaining
dowie raves:
“I wha sae late
did range and rove,
And chang’d with
every moon my love,
I little thought the
time was near,
Repentance I should
buy sae dear.
“The slighted
maids my torments see,
And laugh at a’
the pangs I dree;
While she, my cruel,
scornful Fair,
Forbids me e’er
to see her mair.”
The Flowery Banks Of Cree.
Here is the glen, and
here the bower
All underneath the birchen
shade;
The village-bell has
told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely
maid?
’Tis not Maria’s
whispering call;
’Tis but the balmy
breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler’s
dying fall,
The dewy star of eve
to hail.
It is Maria’s
voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark
in the grove,
His little, faithful
mate to cheer;
At once ’tis music
and ’tis love.
And art thou come! and
art thou true!
O welcome dear to love
and me!
And let us all our vows
renew,
Along the flowery banks
of Cree.
Monody.
On a lady famed for
her Caprice.
How cold is that bosom
which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek
where the rouge lately glisten’d;
How silent that tongue
which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear
which to flatt’ry so listen’d!
If sorrow and anguish
their exit await,
From friendship and
dearest affection remov’d;
How doubly severer,
Maria, thy fate,
Thou diedst unwept,
as thou livedst unlov’d.
Loves, Graces, and Virtues,
I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant,
ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring
of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull
for Maria’s cold bier.
We’ll search through
the garden for each silly flower,
We’ll roam thro’
the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle,
so typical, shower,
For none e’er
approach’d her but rued the rash deed.
We’ll sculpture
the marble, we’ll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on
her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation
shall dart on his prey,
Which spurning Contempt
shall redeem from his ire.
The Epitaph.
Here lies, now a prey
to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly,
gay in life’s beam:
Want only of wisdom
denied her respect,
Want only of goodness
denied her esteem.
Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage.
If you rattle along
like your Mistress’ tongue,
Your speed will outrival
the dart;
But a fly for your load,
you’ll break down on the road,
If your stuff be as
rotten’s her heart.
Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell.
Sic a reptile was Wat,
sic a miscreant slave,
That the worms ev’n
damn’d him when laid in his grave;
“In his flesh
there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries,
“And his heart
is rank poison!” another replies.
Epistle From Esopus To Maria.
From those drear solitudes
and frowsy cells,
Where Infamy with sad
Repentance dwells;
Where turnkeys make
the jealous portal fast,
And deal from iron hands
the spare repast;
Where truant ’prentices,
yet young in sin,
Blush at the curious
stranger peeping in;
Where strumpets, relics
of the drunken roar,
Resolve to drink, nay,
half, to whore, no more;
Where tiny thieves not
destin’d yet to swing,
Beat hemp for others,
riper for the string:
From these dire scenes
my wretched lines I date,
To tell Maria her Esopus’
fate.
“Alas! I
feel I am no actor here!”
’Tis real hangmen
real scourges bear!
Prepare Maria, for a
horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge
to deadly pale;
Will make thy hair,
tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d,
By barber woven, and
by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth
with Harry’s nicest care,
Like hoary bristles
to erect and stare.
The hero of the mimic
scene, no more
I start in Hamlet, in
Othello roar;
Or, haughty Chieftain,
’mid the din of arms
In Highland Bonnet,
woo Malvina’s charms;
While sans-culottes
stoop up the mountain high,
And steal from me Maria’s
prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet!
once my proudest dress,
Now prouder still, Maria’s
temples press;
I see her wave thy towering
plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb
to the wordy war:
I see her face the first
of Ireland’s sons,
And even out-Irish his
Hibernian bronze;
The crafty Colonel leaves
the tartan’d lines,
For other wars, where
he a hero shines:
The hopeful youth, in
Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby’s
heart without the head,
Comes ’mid a string
of coxcombs, to display
That veni, vidi,
vici, is his way:
The shrinking Bard adown
the alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting
worse than Woolwich hulks:
Though there, his hérésies
in Church and State
Might well award him
Muir and Palmer’s fate:
Still she undaunted
reels and rattles on,
And dares the public
like a noontide sun.
What scandal called
Maria’s jaunty stagger
The ricket reeling of
a crooked swagger?
Whose spleen (e’en
worse than Burns’ venom, when
He dips in gall unmix’d
his eager pen,
And pours his vengeance
in the burning line,)
Who christen’d
thus Maria’s lyre-divine
The idiot strum of Vanity
bemus’d,
And even the abuse of
Poesy abus’d?
Who called her verse
a Parish Workhouse, made
For motley foundling
Fancies, stolen or strayed?
A Workhouse! ah, that
sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn
my rack’d repose!
In durance vile here
must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch
in sorrow steep;
That straw where many
a rogue has lain of yore,
And vermin’d gipsies
litter’d heretofore.
Why, Lonsdale, thus
thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must earth no rascal
save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt
immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly
of hell?
Thou know’st the
Virtues cannot hate thee worse;
The Vices also, must
they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin
to others fall,
Because thy guilt’s
supreme enough for all?
Maria, send me too thy
griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure
thy Esopus shares.
As thou at all mankind
the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one Satire’s
vengeance hurls
Who calls thee, pert,
affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and
a fool in wit!
Who says that fool alone
is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries
to prove it true!
Our force united on
thy foes we’ll turn,
And dare the war with
all of woman born:
For who can write and
speak as thou and I?
My periods that deciphering
defy,
And thy still matchless
tongue that conquers all reply!
Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb.
Capt. Wm. Roddirk,
of Corbiston.
Light lay the earth
on Billy’s breast,
His chicken heart so
tender;
But build a castle on
his head,
His scull will prop
it under.
On Capt. Lascelles.
When Lascelles thought
fit from this world to depart,
Some friends warmly
thought of embalming his heart;
A bystander whispers “Pray
don’t make so much o’t,
The subject is poison,
no reptile will touch it.”
On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe.
“Stop thief!”
dame Nature call’d to Death,
As Willy drew his latest
breath;
How shall I make a fool
again?
My choicest model thou
hast ta’en.
On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs.
Here lies John Bushby honest
man,
Cheat him, Devil if
you can!
Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell.
Of Glenriddell and Friars’
Carse.
No more, ye warblers
of the wood! no more;
Nor pour your descant
grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring!
gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to
me grim Winter’s wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye
flowers, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod
that wraps my friend!
How can I to the tuneful
strain attend?
That strain flows round
the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers!
pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues
weeping o’er his bier:
The man of worth and
hath not left his peer!
Is in his “narrow
house,” for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring! again
with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss
will only meet.
The Lovely Lass O’ Inverness.
The lovely lass o’
Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure
can she see;
For, e’en to morn
she cries, alas!
And aye the saut
tear blin’s her e’e.
“Drumossie moor,
Drumossie day
A waefu’ day it
was to me!
For there I lost my
father dear,
My father dear, and
brethren three.
“Their winding-sheet
the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growin’
green to see;
And by them lies the
dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s
e’e!
“Now wae to thee,
thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow
thou be;
For mony a heart thou
has made sair,
That ne’er did
wrang to thine or thee!”
Charlie, He’s My Darling.
’Twas on a Monday
morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to
our town,
The young Chevalier.
Chorus An’
Charlie, he’s my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie, he’s
my darling,
The young Chevalier.
As he was walking up
the street,
The city for to view,
O there he spied a bonie
lass
The window looking through,
An’ Charlie, &c.
Sae light’s he
jumped up the stair,
And tirl’d at
the pin;
And wha sae ready as
hersel’
To let the laddie in.
An’ Charlie, &c.
He set his Jenny on
his knee,
All in his Highland
dress;
For brawly weel he ken’d
the way
To please a bonie lass.
An’ Charlie, &c.
It’s up yon heathery
mountain,
An’ down yon scroggie
glen,
We daur na gang
a milking,
For Charlie and his
men,
An’ Charlie, &c.
Bannocks O’ Bear Meal.
Chorus Bannocks
o’ bear meal,
Bannocks o’ barley,
Here’s to the
Highlandman’s
Bannocks o’ barley!
Wha, in a brulyie, will
First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi’
the
Bannocks o’ barley,
Bannocks o’ bear
meal, &c.
Wha, in his wae days,
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi’
the
Bannocks o’ barley!
Bannocks o’ bear
meal, &c.
The Highland Balou.
Hee balou, my sweet
wee Donald,
Picture o’ the
great Clanronald;
Brawlie kens our wanton
Chief
Wha gat my young Highland
thief.
Leeze me on thy bonie
craigie,
An’ thou live,
thou’ll steal a naigie,
Travel the country thro’
and thro’,
And bring hame a Carlisle
cow.
Thro’ the Lawlands,
o’er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may
thou furder!
Herry the louns o’
the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands
hame to me.
The Highland Widow’s Lament.
Oh I am come to the
low Countrie,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Without a penny in my
purse,
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in
the Highland hills,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Nae woman in the Country
wide,
Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score
o’kye,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Feeding on you hill
sae high,
And giving milk to me.
And there I had three
score o’yowes,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonie
knowes,
And casting woo’
to me.
I was the happiest of
a’ the Clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest
man,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie Stewart
cam at last,
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald’s arm
was wanted then,
For Scotland and for
me.
Their waefu’ fate
what need I tell,
Right to the wrang
did yield;
My Donald and his Country
fell,
Upon Culloden field.
Oh I am come to the
low Countrie,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Nae woman in the warld
wide,
Sae wretched now as
me.
It Was A’ For Our Rightfu’ King.
It was a’ for
our rightfu’ King
We left fair Scotland’s
strand;
It was a’ for
our rightfu’ King
We e’er saw Irish
land, my dear,
We e’er saw Irish
land.
Now a’ is done
that men can do,
And a’ is done
in vain;
My Love and Native Land
fareweel,
For I maun cross the
main, my dear,
For I maun cross the
main.
He turn’d him
right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle reins
a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
my dear,
And adiue for evermore.
The soger frae the wars
returns,
The sailor frae the
main;
But I hae parted frae
my Love,
Never to meet again,
my dear,
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and
night is come,
And a’ folk bound
to sleep;
I think on him that’s
far awa,
The lee-lang night,
and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night,
and weep.
Ode For General Washington’s Birthday.
No Spartan tube, no
Attic shell,
No lyre Aeolian I awake;
’Tis liberty’s
bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia,
let me take!
See gathering thousands,
while I sing,
A broken chain exulting
bring,
And dash it in a tyrant’s
face,
And dare him to his
very beard,
And tell him he no more
is feared
No more the despot of
Columbia’s race!
A tyrant’s proudest
insults brav’d,
They shout a
People freed! They hail an Empire saved.
Where is man’s
god-like form?
Where is that brow erect
and bold
That eye that can unmov’d
behold
The wildest rage, the
loudest storm
That e’er created
fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff,
servile, base,
That tremblest at a
despot’s nod,
Yet, crouching under
the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand
that struck th’ insulting blow!
Art thou of man’s
Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance
divine?
Each skulking feature
answers, No!
But come, ye sons of
Liberty,
Columbia’s offspring,
brave as free,
In danger’s hour
still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain,
the Royalty of Man!
Alfred! on thy starry
throne,
Surrounded by the tuneful
choir,
The bards that erst
have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous’d the
freeborn Briton’s soul of fire,
No more thy England
own!
Dare injured nations
form the great design,
To make detested tyrants
bleed?
Thy England execrates
the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile
banners waving,
Every pang of honour
braving,
England in thunder calls,
“The tyrant’s cause is mine!”
That hour accurst how
did the fiends rejoice
And hell, thro’
all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw
the generous English name
Linkt with such damned
deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee, Caledonia! thy
wild heaths among,
Fam’d for the
martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with
swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of
Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty
dead,
Beneath that hallow’d
turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, Wallace!
in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in
silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero’s
sleep,
Nor give the coward
secret breath!
Is this the ancient
Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless
as the storm?
Show me that eye which
shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot’s
proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which,
nerv’d with thundering fate,
Crush’d Usurpation’s
boldest daring!
Dark-quench’d
as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance
lightens afar;
That palsied arm no
more whirls on the waste of war.
Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry.
Here, where the Scottish
Muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and
tuneful numbers joined,
Accept the gift; though
humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute
of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling
in my breast,
Discordant, jar thy
bosom-chords among;
But Peace attune thy
gentle soul to rest,
Or Love, ecstatic, wake
his seraph song,
Or Pity’s notes,
in luxury of tears,
As modest Want the tale
of woe reveals;
While conscious Virtue
all the strains endears,
And heaven-born Piety
her sanction seals.
On The Seas And Far Away.
Tune “O’er
the hills and far away.”
How can my poor heart
be glad,
When absent from my
sailor lad;
How can I the thought
forego
He’s on the seas
to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me
rove,
Still my heart is with
my love;
Nightly dreams, and
thoughts by day,
Are with him that’s
far away.
Chorus. On
the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts
by day,
Are aye with him that’s
far away.
When in summer noon
I faint,
As weary flocks around
me pant,
Haply in this scorching
sun,
My sailor’s thund’ring
at his gun;
Bullets, spare my only
joy!
Bullets, spare my darling
boy!
Fate, do with me what
you may,
Spare but him that’s
far away,
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
Fate, do with me what
you may,
Spare but him that’s
far away.
At the starless, midnight
hour
When Winter rules with
boundless power,
As the storms the forests
tear,
And thunders rend the
howling air,
Listening to the doubling
roar,
Surging on the rocky
shore,
All I can I
weep and pray
For his weal that’s
far away,
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
All I can I
weep and pray,
For his weal that’s
far away.
Peace, thy olive wand
extend,
And bid wild War his
ravage end,
Man with brother Man
to meet,
And as a brother kindly
greet;
Then may heav’n
with prosperous gales,
Fill my sailor’s
welcome sails;
To my arms their charge
convey,
My dear lad that’s
far away.
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
To my arms their charge
convey,
My dear lad that’s
far away.
Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes Second
Version.
Chorus. Ca’the
yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them
where the heather grows,
Ca’ them
where the burnie rowes,
My bonie Dearie.
Hark the mavis’
e’ening sang,
Sounding Clouden’s
woods amang;
Then a-faulding let
us gang,
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
We’ll gae down
by Clouden side,
Thro’ the hazels,
spreading wide,
O’er the waves
that sweetly glide,
To the moon sae clearly.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Yonder Clouden’s
silent towers,^
Where, at moonshine’s
midnight hours,
O’er the dewy-bending
flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt
thou fear,
Thou’rt to Love
and Heav’n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come
thee near;
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Fair and lovely as thou
art,
Thou hast stown my very
heart;
I can die but
canna part,
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’
Tune “Oonagh’s
Waterfall.”
Sae flaxen were her
ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker
hue,
Bewitchingly o’er-arching
Twa laughing e’en
o’ lovely blue;
Her smiling, sae wyling.
Wad make a wretch forget
his woe;
What pleasure, what
treasure,
Unto these rosy lips
to grow!
Such was my Chloris’
bonie face,
When first that bonie
face I saw;
And aye my Chloris’
dearest charm
She says, she lo’es
me best of a’.
Like harmony her motion,
Her pretty ankle is
a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget
the sky:
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and
gracefu’ air;
Ilk feature auld
Nature
Declar’d that
she could do nae mair:
Hers are the willing
chains o’ love,
By conquering Beauty’s
sovereign law;
And still my Chloris’
dearest charm
She says, she lo’es
me best of a’.
Let others love the
city,
And gaudy show, at sunny
noon;
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve and rising
moon,
Fair beaming, and streaming,
Her silver light the
boughs amang;
While falling; recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes
his sang;
There, dearest Chloris,
wilt thou rove,
By wimpling burn and
leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o’
truth and love,
And say, thou lo’es
me best of a’.
To Dr. Maxwell.
On Miss Jessy Staig’s
recovery.
Maxwell, if merit here
you crave,
That merit I deny;
You save fair Jessie
from the grave!
An Angel could not die!
To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J N
On her Principles of
Liberty and Equality.
How, Liberty! girl,
can it be by thee nam’d?
Equality too! hussey,
art not asham’d?
Free and Equal indeed,
while mankind thou enchainest,
And over their hearts
a proud Despot so reignest.
On Chloris.
Requesting me to give
her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.
From the white-blossom’d
sloe my dear Chloris requested
A sprig, her fair breast
to adorn:
No, by Heavens!
I exclaim’d, let me perish, if ever
I plant in that bosom
a thorn!
On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico.
Kemble, thou cur’st
my unbelief
For Moses and his rod;
At Yarico’s sweet
nor of grief
The rock with tears
had flow’d.
Epigram On A Country Laird,
not quite so wise as
Solomon.
Bless Jesus Christ,
O Cardonessp,
With grateful, lifted
eyes,
Who taught that not
the soul alone,
But body too shall rise;
For had He said “the
soul alone
From death I will deliver,”
Alas, alas! O Cardoness,
Then hadst thou lain
for ever.
On Being Shewn A Beautiful Country Seat.
Belonging to the same
Laird.
We grant they’re
thine, those beauties all,
So lovely in our eye;
Keep them, thou eunuch,
Cardoness,
For others to enjoy!
On Hearing It Asserted Falsehood.
is expressed in the
Rev. Dr. Babington’s very looks.
That there is a falsehood
in his looks,
I must and will deny:
They tell their Master
is a knave,
And sure they do not
lie.
On A Suicide.
Earth’d up, here
lies an imp o’ hell,
Planted by Satan’s
dibble;
Poor silly wretch, he’s
damned himsel’,
To save the Lord the
trouble.
On A Swearing Coxcomb.
Here cursing, swearing
Burton lies,
A buck, a beau, or “Dem
my eyes!”
Who in his life did
little good,
And his last words were
“Dem my blood!”
On An Innkeeper Nicknamed “The Marquis”
Here lies a mock Marquis,
whose titles were shamm’d,
If ever he rise, it
will be to be damn’d.
On Andrew Turner.
In se’enteen hunder’n
forty-nine,
The deil gat stuff to
mak a swine,
An’ coost it in
a corner;
But wilily he chang’d
his plan,
An’ shap’d
it something like a man,
An’ ca’d
it Andrew Turner.
Pretty Peg.
As I gaed up by yon
gate-end,
When day was waxin’
weary,
Wha did I meet come
down the street,
But pretty Peg, my dearie!
Her air sae sweet, an’
shape complete,
Wi’ nae proportion
wanting,
The Queen of Love did
never move
Wi’ motion mair
enchanting.
Wi’ linked hands
we took the sands,
Adown yon winding river;
Oh, that sweet hour
and shady bower,
Forget it shall I never!
Esteem For Chloris.
As, Chloris, since it
may not be,
That thou of love wilt
hear;
If from the lover thou
maun flee,
Yet let the friend be
dear.
Altho’ I love
my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could
tell;
My passion I will ne’er
declare
I’ll say, I wish
thee well.
Tho’ a’
my daily care thou art,
And a’ my nightly
dream,
I’ll hide the
struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.
Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly.
Tune “When
she cam’ ben she bobbit.”
O saw ye my Dear, my
Philly?
O saw ye my Dear, my
Philly,
She’s down i’
the grove, she’s wi’ a new Love,
She winna come hame
to her Willy.
What says she my dear,
my Philly?
What says she my dear,
my Philly?
She lets thee to wit
she has thee forgot,
And forever disowns
thee, her Willy.
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Philly!
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Philly!
As light as the air,
and fause as thou’s fair,
Thou’s broken
the heart o’ thy Willy.
How Lang And Dreary Is The Night.
How lang and dreary
is the night
When I am frae my Dearie;
I restless lie frae
e’en to morn
Though I were ne’er
sae weary.
Chorus. For
oh, her lanely nights are lang!
And oh, her dreams are
eerie;
And oh, her window’d
heart is sair,
That’s absent
frae her Dearie!
When I think on the
lightsome days
I spent wi’ thee,
my Dearie;
And now what seas between
us roar,
How can I be but eerie?
For oh, &c.
How slow ye move, ye
heavy hours;
The joyless day how
dreary:
It was na sae ye
glinted by,
When I was wi’
my Dearie!
For oh, &c.
Inconstancy In Love.
Tune “Duncan
Gray.”
Let not Woman e’er
complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not Woman e’er
complain
Fickle Man is apt to
rove:
Look abroad thro’
Nature’s range,
Nature’s mighty
Law is change,
Ladies, would it not
seem strange
Man should then a monster
prove!
Mark the winds, and
mark the skies,
Ocean’s ebb, and
ocean’s flow,
Sun and moon but set
to rise,
Round and round the
seasons go.
Why then ask of silly
Man
To oppose great Nature’s
plan?
We’ll be constant
while we can
You can be no more,
you know.
The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress.
Tune “Deil
tak the wars.”
Sleep’st thou,
or wak’st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts
his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which
Nature
Waters wi’ the
tears o’ joy.
Now, to the streaming
fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,
The hart, hind, and
roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
In twining hazel bowers,
Its lay the linnet pours,
The laverock to the
sky
Ascends, wi’ sangs
o’ joy,
While the sun and thou
arise to bless the day.
Phoebus gilding the
brow of morning,
Banishes ilk darksome
shade,
Nature, gladdening and
adorning;
Such to me my lovely
maid.
When frae my Chloris
parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
The night’s gloomy
shades, cloudy, dark, o’ercast my sky:
But when she charms
my sight,
In pride of Beauty’s
light
When thro’ my
very heart
Her burning glories
dart;
’Tis then ’tis
then I wake to life and joy!
The Winter Of Life.
But lately seen in gladsome
green,
The woods rejoic’d
the day,
Thro’ gentle showers,
the laughing flowers
In double pride were
gay:
But now our joys are
fled
On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich
array,
Again shall bring them
a’.
But my white pow, nae
kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws
of Age;
My trunk of eild, but
buss or beild,
Sinks in Time’s
wintry rage.
Oh, Age has weary days,
And nights o’
sleepless pain:
Thou golden time, o’
Youthfu’ prime,
Why comes thou not again!
Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves.
Tune “My
lodging is on the cold ground.”
Behold, my love, how
green the groves,
The primrose banks how
fair;
The balmy gales awake
the flowers,
And wave thy flowing
hair.
The lav’rock shuns
the palace gay,
And o’er the cottage
sings:
For Nature smiles as
sweet, I ween,
To Shepherds as to Kings.
Let minstrels sweep
the skilfu’ string,
In lordly lighted ha’:
The Shepherd stops his
simple reed,
Blythe in the birken
shaw.
The Princely revel may
survey
Our rustic dance wi’
scorn;
But are their hearts
as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white
thorn!
The shepherd, in the
flowery glen;
In shepherd’s
phrase, will woo:
The courtier tells a
finer tale,
But is his heart as
true!
These wild-wood flowers
I’ve pu’d, to deck
That spotless breast
o’ thine:
The courtiers’
gems may witness love,
But, ’tis na
love like mine.
The Charming Month Of May.
Tune “Daintie
Davie.”
It was the charming
month of May,
When all the flow’rs
were fresh and gay.
One morning, by the
break of day,
The youthful, charming
Chloe
From peaceful slumber
she arose,
Girt on her mantle and
her hose,
And o’er the flow’ry
mead she goes
The youthful, charming
Chloe.
Chorus. Lovely
was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming
Chloe,
Tripping o’er
the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming
Chloe.
The feather’d
people you might see
Perch’d all around
on every tree,
In notes of sweetest
melody
They hail the charming
Chloe;
Till, painting gay the
eastern skies,
The glorious sun began
to rise,
Outrival’d by
the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming
Chloe.
Lovely was she, &c.
Lassie Wi’ The Lint-White Locks.
Tune “Rothiemurchie’s
Rant.”
Chorus. Lassie
wi’the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless
lassie,
Wilt thou wi’
me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my Dearie,
O?
Now Nature cleeds the
flowery lea,
And a’ is young
and sweet like thee,
O wilt thou share its
joys wi’ me,
And say thou’lt
be my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
The primrose bank, the
wimpling burn,
The cuckoo on the milk-white
thorn,
The wanton lambs at
early morn,
Shall welcome thee,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
And when the welcome
simmer shower
Has cheer’d ilk
drooping little flower,
We’ll to the breathing
woodbine bower,
At sultry noon, my Dearie,
O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
When Cynthia lights,
wi’ silver ray,
The weary shearer’s
hameward way,
Thro’ yellow waving
fields we’ll stray,
And talk o’ love,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
And when the howling
wintry blast
Disturbs my Lassie’s
midnight rest,
Enclasped to my faithfu’
breast,
I’ll comfort thee,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
Dialogue song Philly And Willy.
Tune “The
Sow’s tail to Geordie.”
He.
O Philly, happy be that day,
When roving thro’
the gather’d hay,
My youthfu’ heart
was stown away,
And by thy charms, my
Philly.
She.
O Willy, aye I bless the grove
Where first I own’d
my maiden love,
Whilst thou did pledge
the Powers above,
To be my ain dear Willy.
Both.
For a’ the joys that gowd can gie,
I dinna care a single
flie;
The lad I love’s
the lad for me,
The lass I love’s
the lass for me,
And that’s my
ain dear Willy.
And that’s my
ain dear Philly.
He.
As songsters of the early year,
Are ilka day mair sweet
to hear,
So ilka day to me mair
dear
And charming is my Philly.
She.
As on the brier the budding rose,
Still richer breathes
and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom
grows
The love I bear my Willy.
Both.
For a’ the joys, &c.
He.
The milder sun and bluer sky
That crown my harvest
cares wi’ joy,
Were ne’er sae
welcome to my eye
As is a sight o’
Philly.
She.
The little swallow’s wanton wing,
Tho’ wafting o’er
the flowery Spring,
Did ne’er to me
sic tidings bring,
As meeting o’
my Willy.
Both. For a’
the joys, &c.
He.
The bee that thro’ the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the op’ning
flower,
Compar’d wi’
my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o’
Philly.
She.
The woodbine in the dewy weet,
When ev’ning shades
in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant
or sae sweet
As is a kiss o’
Willy.
Both.
For a’ the joys, &c.
He.
Let fortune’s wheel at random rin,
And fools may tine and
knaves may win;
My thoughts are a’
bound up in ane,
And that’s my
ain dear Philly.
She.
What’s a’ the joys that gowd can gie?
I dinna care a single
flie;
The lad I love’s
the lad for me,
And that’s my
ain dear Willy.
Both.
For a’ the joys, &c.
Contented Wi’ Little And Cantie Wi’ Mair.
Tune “Lumps
o’ Puddin’.”
Contented wi’
little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather
wi’ Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp as
they’re creeping alang,
Wi’ a cog o’
gude swats and an auld Scottish sang.
Chorus Contented
wi’ little, &c.
I whiles claw the elbow
o’ troublesome thought;
But Man is a soger,
and Life is a faught;
My mirth and gude humour
are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom’s
my Lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
Contented wi’
little, &c.
A townmond o’
trouble, should that be may fa’,
A night o’ gude
fellowship sowthers it a’:
When at the blythe end
o’ our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks
o’ the road he has past?
Contented wi’
little, &c.
Blind Chance, let her
snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be’t to me, be’t
frae me, e’en let the jade gae:
Come Ease, or come Travail,
come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:
“Welcome, and welcome again!”
Contented wi’
little, &c.
Farewell Thou Stream.
Air “Nansie’s
to the greenwood gane.”
Farewell, thou stream
that winding flows
Around Eliza’s
dwelling;
O mem’ry! spare
the cruel thoes
Within my bosom swelling.
Condemn’d to drag
a hopeless chain
And yet in secret languish;
To feel a fire in every
vein,
Nor dare disclose my
anguish.
Love’s veriest
wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would
cover;
The bursting sigh, th’
unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom’st
me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst
relieve me;
But, O Eliza, hear one
prayer
For pity’s sake
forgive me!
The music of thy voice
I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav’d
me;
I saw thine eyes, yet
nothing fear’d,
Till fears no more had
sav’d me:
Th’ unwary sailor
thus, aghast
The wheeling torrent
viewing,
’Mid circling
horrors sinks at last,
In overwhelming ruin.
Canst Thou Leave Me Thus, My Katie.
Tune “Roy’s
Wife.”
Chorus Canst
thou leave me thus, my Katie?
Canst thou leave me
thus, my Katie?
Well thou know’st
my aching heart,
And canst thou leave
me thus, for pity?
Is this thy plighted,
fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part,
my Katie?
Is this thy faithful
swain’s reward
An aching, broken heart,
my Katie!
Canst thou leave me,
&c.
Farewell! and ne’er
such sorrows tear
That finkle heart of
thine, my Katie!
Thou maysn find those
will love thee dear,
But not a love like
mine, my Katie,
Canst thou leave me,
&c.
My Nanie’s Awa.
Tune “There’ll
never be peace till Jamie comes hame.”
Now in her green mantle
blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins
that bleat o’er her braes;
While birds warble welcomes
in ilka green shaw,
But to me it’s
delightless my Nanie’s awa.
The snawdrap and primrose
our woodlands adorn,
And violetes bathe in
the weet o’ the morn;
They pain my sad bosom,
sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’
Nanie and Nanie’s awa.
Thou lav’rock
that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn
o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis
that hails the night-fa’,
Give over for pity my
Nanie’s awa.
Come Autumn, sae pensive,
in yellow and grey,
And soothe me wi’
tidings o’ Nature’s decay:
The dark, dreary Winter,
and wild-driving snaw
Alane can delight me now
Nanie’s awa.
The Tear-Drop.
Wae is my heart, and
the tear’s in my e’e;
Lang, lang
has Joy been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless,
my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice
o’ Pity ne’er sounds in my ear.
Love thou hast pleasures,
and deep hae I luv’d;
Love, thou hast sorrows,
and sair hae I pruv’d;
But this bruised heart
that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel, by its throbbings,
will soon be at rest.
Oh, if I were where
happy I hae been
Down by yon stream,
and yon bonie castle-green;
For there he is wand’ring
and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the
tear-drop that clings to my e’e.
For The Sake O’ Somebody.
My heart is sair I
dare na tell,
My heart is sair for
Somebody;
I could wake a winter
night
For the sake o’
Somebody.
O-hon! for Somebody!
O-hey! for Somebody!
I could range the world
around,
For the sake o’
Somebody.
Ye Powers that smile
on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on
Somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep
him free,
And send me safe my
Somebody!
O-hon! for Somebody!
O-hey! for Somebody!
I wad do what
wad I not?
For the sake o’
Somebody.