A Man’s A Man For A’ That.
Tune “For
a’ that.”
Is there for honest
Poverty
That hings his head,
an’ a’ that;
The coward slave we
pass him by,
We dare be poor for
a’ that!
For a’ that, an’
a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’
a’ that,
The rank is but the
guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the
gowd for a’ that.
What though on hamely
fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’
a that;
Gie fools their silks,
and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man
for a’ that:
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’
a’ that;
The honest man, tho’
e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men
for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d
a lord,
Wha struts, an’
stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds
worship at his word,
He’s but a coof
for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’
a’ that:
The man o’ independent
mind
He looks an’ laughs
at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted
knight,
A marquis, duke, an’
a’ that;
But an honest man’s
abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna
fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
Their dignities an’
a’ that;
The pith o’ sense,
an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than
a’ that.
Then let us pray that
come it may,
(As come it will for
a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth,
o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree,
an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
It’s coming yet
for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the
world o’er,
Shall brothers be for
a’ that.
Craigieburn Wood.
Sweet fa’s the
eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the
morrow;
But a’ the pride
o’ Spring’s return
Can yield me nocht but
sorrow.
I see the flowers and
spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds
singing;
But what a weary wight
can please,
And Care his bosom wringing!
Fain, fain would I my
griefs impart,
Yet dare na
for your anger;
But secret love will
break my heart,
If I conceal it länger.
If thou refuse to pity
me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yon green leaves
fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they’ll
wither.
Versicles of 1795.
The Solemn League And Covenant.
The Solemn League and
Covenant
Now brings a smile,
now brings a tear;
But sacred Freedom,
too, was theirs:
If thou’rt a slave,
indulge thy sneer.
Compliments Of John
Syme Of Ryedale.
Lines sent with a Present of a Dozen
of Porter.
O had the malt thy strength
of mind,
Or hops the flavour
of thy wit,
’Twere drink for
first of human kind,
A gift that e’en
for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
Inscription On A Goblet.
There’s Death
in the cup, so beware!
Nay, more there
is danger in touching;
But who can avoid the
fell snare,
The man and his wine’s
so bewitching!
Apology For Declining An Invitation To Dine.
No more of your guests,
be they titled or not,
And cookery the first
in the nation;
Who is proof to thy
personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other
temptation.
Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson.
Here Brewer Gabriel’s
fire’s extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He’s blest if,
as he brew’d, he drink,
In upright, honest morals.
Epigram On Mr. James Gracie.
Gracie, thou art a man
of worth,
O be thou Dean for ever!
May he be damned to
hell henceforth,
Who fauts thy weight
or measure!
Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay.
Cauld is the e’enin
blast,
O’ Boreas o’er
the pool,
An’ dawin’
it is dreary,
When birks are bare
at Yule.
Cauld blaws the e’enin
blast,
When bitter bites the
frost,
And, in the mirk and
dreary drift,
The hills and glens
are lost:
Ne’er sae murky
blew the night
That drifted o’er
the hill,
But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
Gat grist to her mill.
Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage.
To the Memory of Robert
Riddell.
To Riddell, much lamented
man,
This ivied cot was dear;
Wandr’er, dost
value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.
There Was A Bonie Lass.
There was a bonie lass,
and a bonie, bonie lass,
And she lo’ed
her bonie laddie dear;
Till War’s loud
alarms tore her laddie frae her arms,
Wi’ mony a sigh
and tear.
Over sea, over shore,
where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a stranger
to fear;
And nocht could him
quail, or his bosom assail,
But the bonie lass he
lo’ed sae dear.
Wee Willie Gray.
Tune “Wee
Totum Fogg.”
Wee Willie Gray, and
his leather wallet,
Peel a willow wand to
be him boots and jacket;
The rose upon the breir
will be him trews an’ doublet,
The rose upon the breir
will be him trews an’ doublet,
Wee Willie Gray, and
his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower
will be him sark and cravat;
Feathers of a flee wad
feather up his bonnet,
Feathers of a flee wad
feather up his bonnet.
O Aye My Wife She Dang Me.
Chorus O
aye my wife she dang me,
An’ aft my wife
she bang’d me,
If ye gie a woman a’
her will,
Gude faith! she’ll
soon o’er-gang ye.
On peace an’ rest
my mind was bent,
And, fool I was!
I married;
But never honest man’s
intent
Sane cursedly miscarried.
O aye my wife, &c.
Some sairie comfort
at the last,
When a’ thir days
are done, man,
My pains o’ hell
on earth is past,
I’m sure o’
bliss aboon, man,
O aye my wife, &c.
Gude Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon.
Chorus O
gude ale comes and gude ale goes;
Gude ale gars
me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn
my shoon
Gude ale keeps my heart
aboon!
I had sax owsen in a
pleugh,
And they drew a’
weel eneugh:
I sell’d them
a’ just ane by ane
Gude ale keeps the heart
aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.
Gude ale hauds me bare
and busy,
Gars me moop wi’
the servant hizzie,
Stand i’ the stool
when I hae done
Gude ale keeps the heart
aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.
O Steer Her Up An’ Haud Her Gaun.
O steer her up, an’
haud her gaun,
Her mither’s at
the mill, jo;
An’ gin she winna
tak a man,
E’en let her tak
her will, jo.
First shore her wi’
a gentle kiss,
And ca’ anither
gill, jo;
An’ gin she tak
the thing amiss,
E’en let her flyte
her fill, jo.
O steer her up, an’
be na blate,
An’ gin she tak
it ill, jo,
Then leave the lassie
till her fate,
And time nae länger
spill, jo:
Ne’er break your
heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still,
jo:
That gin the lassie
winna do’t,
Ye’ll find anither
will, jo.
The Lass O’ Ecclefechan.
Tune “Jack
o’ Latin.”
Gat ye me, O gat ye
me,
O gat ye me wi’
naething?
Rock an reel, and spinning
wheel,
A mickle quarter basin:
Bye attour my Gutcher
has
A heich house and a
laich ane,
A’ forbye my bonie
sel,
The toss o’ Ecclefechan.
O haud your tongue
now, Lucky Lang,
O haud your tongue
and jauner
I held the gate till
you I met,
Syne I began to wander:
I tint my whistle and
my sang,
I tint my peace and
pleasure;
But your green graff,
now Lucky Lang,
Wad airt me to my treasure.
O Let Me In Thés Ae Night.
O Lassie, are ye sleepin
yet,
Or are ye waukin, I
wad wit?
For Love has bound me
hand an’ fit,
And I would fain be
in, jo.
Chorus O
let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
O let me in this ae
night,
I’ll no come back
again, jo!
O hear’st thou
not the wind an’ weet?
Nae star blinks thro’
the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary
feet,
And shield me frae the
rain, jo.
O let me in, &c.
The bitter blast that
round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded
fa’s;
The cauldness o’
thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my care
and pine, jo.
O let me in, &c.
Her Answer.
O tell na
me o’ wind an’ rain,
Upbraid na me wi’
cauld disdain,
Gae back the gate ye
cam again,
I winna let ye in, jo.
Chorus I
tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a’
this ae night,
I winna let ye in, jo.
The snellest blast,
at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless
wand’rer pours
Is nocht to what poor
she endures,
That’s trusted
faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The sweetest flower
that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the
vilest weed
Let simple maid the
lesson read
The weird may be her
ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The bird that charm’d
his summer day,
Is now the cruel Fowler’s
prey;
Let witless, trusting,
Woman say
How aft her fate’s
the same, jo!
I tell you now, &c.
I’ll Aye Ca’ In By Yon Town.
Air “I’ll
gang nae mair to yon toun.”
Chorus I’ll
aye ca’ in by yon town,
And by yon garden-green
again;
I’ll aye ca’
in by yon town,
And see my bonie Jean
again.
There’s nane sall
ken, there’s nane can guess
What brings me back
the gate again,
But she, my fairest
faithfu’ lass,
And stownlins we sall
meet again.
I’ll aye ca’
in, &c.
She’ll wander
by the aiken tree,
When trystin time draws
near again;
And when her lovely
form I see,
O haith! she’s
doubly dear again.
I’ll aye ca’
in, &c.
O Wat Ye Wha’s In Yon Town.
Tune “I’ll
gang nae mair to yon toun.”
Chorus O
wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin
sun upon,
The dearest maid’s
in yon town,
That e’ening sun
is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay
green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading
tree;
How blest ye flowers
that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances
o’ her e’e!
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
How blest ye birds that
round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming
year;
And doubly welcome be
the Spring,
The season to my Jeanie
dear.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
The sun blinks blythe
on yon town,
Among the broomy braes
sae green;
But my delight in yon
town,
And dearest pleasure,
is my Jean.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
Without my Fair, not
a’ the charms
O’ Paradise could
yield me joy;
But give me Jeanie in
my arms
And welcome Lapland’s
dreary sky!
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
My cave wad be a lover’s
bower,
Tho’ raging Winter
rent the air;
And she a lovely little
flower,
That I wad tent and
shelter there.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
O sweet is she in yon
town,
The sinkin, sun’s
gane down upon;
A fairer than’s
in yon town,
His setting beam ne’er
shone upon.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
If angry Fate is sworn
my foe,
And suff’ring
I am doom’d to bear;
I careless quit aught
else below,
But spare, O spare me
Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
For while life’s
dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her
shall ne’er depart,
And she, as fairest
is her form,
She has the truest,
kindest heart.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Election, 1795.
Ballad First.
Whom will you send to
London town,
To Parliament and a’
that?
Or wha in a’ the
country round
The best deserves to
fa’ that?
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Thro’ Galloway
and a’ that,
Where is the Laird or
belted Knight
The best deserves to
fa’ that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree’s
open yett,
(And wha is’t
never saw that?)
Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree
met,
And has a doubt of a’
that?
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and
a’ that.
Tho’ wit and worth,
in either sex,
Saint Mary’s Isle
can shaw that,
Wi’ Dukes and
Lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk
fa’ that.
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for
a’ that.
But why should we to
Nobles jouk,
And is’t against
the law, that?
For why, a Lord may
be a gowk,
Wi’ ribband, star
and a’ that,
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
A Lord may be a lousy
loun,
Wi’ ribband, star
and a’ that.
A beardless boy comes
o’er the hills,
Wi’ uncle’s
purse and a’ that;
But we’ll hae
ane frae mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a’
that.
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
For we’re not
to be bought and sold,
Like naigs, and nowt,
and a’ that.
Then let us drink The
Stewartry,
Kerroughtree’s
laird, and a’ that,
Our representative to
be,
For weel he’s
worthy a’ that.
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
A House of Commons such
as he,
They wad be blest that
saw that.
Ballad Second Election
Day.
Tune “Fy,
let us a’ to the Bridal.”
Fy, let us a’
to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin’
there;
For Murray’s light
horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes
will swear!
And there will be Murray,
Commander,
And Gordon, the battle
to win;
Like brothers they’ll
stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance
and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit
Johnie,
The tongue o’
the trump to them a’;
An he get na Hell
for his haddin’,
The Deil gets na
justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton’s
birkie,
A boy no sae black at
the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob
fortune,
We’ll e’en
let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton’s
new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu’
brawly has sped,
She’s gotten the
heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what’s
become o’ the head?
And there will be Cardoness,
Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness’
eyes;
A wight that will weather
damnation,
The Devil the prey will
despise.
And there will be Douglasses
doughty,
New christening towns
far and near;
Abjuring their democrat
doings,
By kissin’ the-o’
a Peer:
And there will be folk
frae Saint Mary’s
A house o’ great
merit and note;
The deil ane but honours
them highly
The deil ane will gie
them his vote!
And there will be Kenmure
sae gen’rous,
Whose honour is proof
to the storm,
To save them from stark
reprobation,
He lent them his name
in the Firm.
And there will be lads
o’ the gospel,
Muirhead wha’s
as gude as he’s true;
And there will be Buittle’s
Apostle,
Wha’s mair o’
the black than the blue.
And there will be Logan
M’Dowall,
Sculdudd’ry an’
he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot
o’ Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowder
Blair.
But we winna mention
Redcastle,
The body, e’en
let him escape!
He’d venture the
gallows for siller,
An ‘twere na
the cost o’ the rape.
But where is the Doggerbank
hero,
That made “Hogan
Mogan” to skulk?
Poor Keith’s gane
to hell to be fuel,
The auld rotten wreck
of a Hulk.
And where is our King’s
Lord Lieutenant,
Sae fam’d for
his gratefu’ return?
The birkie is gettin’
his Questions
To say in Saint Stephen’s
the morn.
But mark ye! there’s
trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honor was ever
his law;
If the Virtues were
pack’d in a parcel,
His worth might be sample
for a’;
And strang an’
respectfu’s his backing,
The maist o’ the
lairds wi’ him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal
barons,
Wha’s property’s
paper not land.
And there, frae the
Niddisdale borders,
The Maxwells will
gather in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch
Geordie, an’ Wellwood,
That griens for the
fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron,
the Major,
Wha’ll ne’er
be forgot in the Greys;
Our flatt’ry we’ll
keep for some other,
Him, only it’s
justice to praise.
And there will be maiden
Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming’s
gude Knight,
And there will be roarin
Birtwhistle,
Yet luckily roars i’
the right.
And there’ll be
Stamp Office Johnie,
(Tak tent how ye purchase
a dram!)
And there will be gay
Cassencarry,
And there’ll be
gleg Colonel Tam.
And there’ll be
wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should
hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless
bestowing
His merit had won him
respect.
And there will be rich
brother nabobs,
(Tho’ Nabobs,
yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Collieston’s
whiskers,
And Quintin a
lad o’ the first.
Then hey! the chaste
Interest o’ Broughton
And hey! for the blessin’s
’twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie
to the Commons,
In Sodom ’twould
make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified
Murray,
Our land wha wi’
chapels has stor’d;
He founder’d his
horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig
to the Lord.
Ballad Third.
John Bushby’s
Lamentation.
Tune “Babes
in the Wood.”
’Twas in the seventeen
hunder year
O’ grace, and
ninety-five,
That year I was the
wae’est man
Of ony man alive.
In March the three-an’-twentieth
morn,
The sun raise clear
an’ bright;
But oh! I was a
waefu’ man,
Ere to-fa’
o’ the night.
Yerl Galloway lang
did rule this land,
Wi’ equal right
and fame,
And thereto was his
kinsmen join’d,
The Murray’s noble
name.
Yerl Galloway’s
man o’ men was I,
And chief o’ Broughton’s
host;
So twa blind beggars,
on a string,
The faithfu’ tyke
will trust.
But now Yerl Galloway’s
sceptre’s broke,
And Broughton’s
wi’ the slain,
And I my ancient craft
may try,
Sin’ honesty is
gane.
‘Twas by the banks
o’ bonie Dee,
Beside Kirkcudbright’s
towers,
The Stewart and the
Murray there,
Did muster a’
their powers.
Then Murray on the auld
grey yaud,
Wi’ winged spurs
did ride,
That auld grey yaud
a’ Nidsdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.
And there had na
been the Yerl himsel,
O there had been nae
play;
But Garlies was to London
gane,
And sae the kye might
stray.
And there was Balmaghie,
I ween,
In front rank he wad
shine;
But Balmaghie had better
been
Drinkin’ Madeira
wine.
And frae Glenkens cam
to our aid
A chief o’ doughty
deed;
In case that worth should
wanted be,
O’ Kenmure we
had need.
And by our banners march’d
Muirhead,
And Buittle was na
slack;
Whase haly priesthood
nane could stain,
For wha could dye the
black?
And there was grave
squire Cardoness,
Look’d on till
a’ was done;
Sae in the tower o’
Cardoness
A howlet sits at noon.
And there led I the
Bushby clan,
My gamesome billie,
Will,
And my son Maitland,
wise as brave,
My footsteps follow’d
still.
The Douglas and the
Heron’s name,
We set nought to their
score;
The Douglas and the
Heron’s name,
Had felt our weight
before.
But Douglasses o’
weight had we,
The pair o’ lusty
lairds,
For building cot-houses
sae fam’d,
And christenin’
kail-yards.
And there Redcastle
drew his sword,
That ne’er was
stain’d wi’ gore,
Save on a wand’rer
lame and blind,
To drive him frae his
door.
And last cam creepin’
Collieston,
Was mair in fear than
wrath;
Ae knave was constant
in his mind
To keep that knave frae
scaith.
Inscription For An Altar Of Independence.
At Kerroughtree, the
Seat of Mr. Heron.
Thou of an independent
mind,
With soul resolv’d,
with soul resign’d;
Prepar’d Power’s
proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor
have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost
revere,
Thy own reproach alone
dost fear
Approach this shrine,
and worship here.
The Cardin O’t, The Spinnin O’t.
I coft a stane o’
haslock woo’,
To mak a wab to Johnie
o’t;
For Johnie is my only
jo,
I loe him best of onie
yet.
Chorus The
cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
The warpin’ o’t,
the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me
a groat,
The tailor staw the
lynin’ o’t.
For tho’ his locks
be lyart grey,
And tho’ his brow
be beld aboon,
Yet I hae seen him on
a day,
The pride of a’
the parishen.
The cardin o’t,
&c.
The Cooper O’ Cuddy.
Tune “Bab
at the bowster.”
Chorus We’ll
hide the Cooper behint the door,
Behint the door, behint
the door,
We’ll hide the
Cooper behint the door,
And cover him under
a mawn, O.
The Cooper o’
Cuddy came here awa,
He ca’d the girrs
out o’er us a’;
An’ our gudewife
has gotten a ca’,
That’s anger’d
the silly gudeman O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
He sought them out,
he sought them in,
Wi’ deil hae her!
an’, deil hae him!
But the body he was
sae doited and blin’,
He wist na where
he was gaun O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
They cooper’d
at e’en, they cooper’d at morn,
Till our gudeman has
gotten the scorn;
On ilka brow she’s
planted a horn,
And swears that there
they sall stan’ O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
The Lass That Made The Bed To Me.
When Januar’
wind was blawing cauld,
As to the north I took
my way,
The mirksome night did
me enfauld,
I knew na where
to lodge till day:
By my gude luck a maid
I met,
Just in the middle o’
my care,
And kindly she did me
invite
To walk into a chamber
fair.
I bow’d fu’
low unto this maid,
And thank’d her
for her courtesie;
I bow’d fu’
low unto this maid,
An’ bade her make
a bed to me;
She made the bed baith
large and wide,
Wi’ twa white
hands she spread it doun;
She put the cup to her
rosy lips,
And drank “Young
man, now sleep ye soun’.”
Chorus The
bonie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the
bed to me,
I’ll ne’er
forget till the day I die,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
She snatch’d the
candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber
went wi’ speed;
But I call’d her
quickly back again,
To lay some mair below
my head:
A cod she laid below
my head,
And served me with due
respect,
And, to salute her wi’
a kiss,
I put my arms about
her neck.
The bonie lass, &c.
“Haud aff
your hands, young man!” she said,
“And dinna sae
uncivil be;
Gif ye hae ony luve
for me,
O wrang na
my virginitie.”
Her hair was like the
links o’ gowd,
Her teeth were like
the ivorie,
Her cheeks like lilies
dipt in wine,
The lass that made the
bed to me:
The bonie lass, &c.
Her bosom was the driven
snaw,
Twa drifted heaps sae
fair to see;
Her limbs the polish’d
marble stane,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
I kiss’d her o’er
and o’er again,
And aye she wist na
what to say:
I laid her ‘tween
me and the wa’;
The lassie thocht na
lang till day.
The bonie lass, &c.
Upon the morrow when
we raise,
I thank’d her
for her courtesie;
But aye she blush’d
and aye she sigh’d,
And said, “Alas,
ye’ve ruin’d me.”
I claps’d her
waist, and kiss’d her syne,
While the tear stood
twinkling in her e’e;
I said, my lassie, dinna
cry.
For ye aye shall make
the bed to me.
The bonie lass, &c.
She took her mither’s
holland sheets,
An’ made them
a’ in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may
she be,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
Chorus The
bonie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the
bed to me.
I’ll ne’er
forget till the day I die,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me.
Had I the wyte, had
I the wyte,
Had I the wyte? she
bade me;
She watch’d me
by the hie-gate side,
And up the loan she
shaw’d me.
And when I wadna venture
in,
A coward loon she ca’d
me:
Had Kirk an’ State
been in the gate,
I’d lighted when
she bade me.
Sae craftilie she took
me ben,
And bade me mak nae
clatter;
“For our ramgunshoch,
glum gudeman
Is o’er ayont
the water.”
Whae’er shall
say I wanted grace,
When I did kiss and
dawte her,
Let him be planted in
my place,
Syne say, I was the
fautor.
Could I for shame, could
I for shame,
Could I for shame refus’d
her;
And wadna manhood been
to blame,
Had I unkindly used
her!
He claw’d her
wi’ the ripplin-kame,
And blae and bluidy
bruis’d her;
When sic a husband was
frae hame,
What wife but wad excus’d
her!
I dighted aye her e’en
sae blue,
An’ bann’d
the cruel randy,
And weel I wat, her
willin’ mou
Was sweet as sugar-candie.
At gloamin-shot, it
was I wot,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I cam thro’
the Tyseday’s dew,
To wanton Willie’s
brandy.
Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?
Tune “Push
about the Jorum.”
Does haughty Gaul invasion
threat?
Then let the louns beware,
Sir;
There’s wooden
walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore,
Sir:
The Nith shall run to
Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in
Solway,
Ere we permit a Foreign
Foe
On British ground to
rally!
We’ll ne’er
permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to
rally!
O let us not, like snarling
curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in
an unco loun,
And wi’ a rung
decide it!
Be Britain still to
Britain true,
Amang ourselves united;
For never but by British
hands
Maun British wrangs
be righted!
No! never but by British
hands
Shall British wrangs
be righted!
The Kettle o’
the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may
fail in’t;
But deil a foreign tinkler
loun
Shall ever ca’a
nail in’t.
Our father’s blude
the Kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to
spoil it;
By Heav’ns! the
sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil
it!
By Heav’ns! the
sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil
it!
The wretch that would
a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his
true-born brother,
Who would set the Mob
aboon the Throne,
May they be damn’d
together!
Who will not sing “God
save the King,”
Shall hang as high’s
the steeple;
But while we sing “God
save the King,”
We’ll ne’er
forget The People!
But while we sing “God
save the King,”
We’ll ne’er
forget The People!
Address To The Woodlark.
Tune “Loch
Erroch Side.”
O stay, sweet warbling
woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the
trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts
thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Again, again that tender
part,
That I may catch thy
melting art;
For surely that wad
touch her heart
Wha kills me wi’
disdaining.
Say, was thy little
mate unkind,
And heard thee as the
careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and
sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe
could wauken!
Thou tells o’
never-ending care;
O’speechless grief,
and dark despair:
For pity’s sake,
sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is
broken.
Song. On Chloris Being Ill.
Tune “Aye
wauken O.”
Chorus Long,
long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow
While my soul’s
delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care?
Can I cease to languish,
While my darling Fair
Is on the couch of anguish?
Long, long, &c.
Ev’ry hope is
fled,
Ev’ry fear is
terror,
Slumber ev’n I
dread,
Ev’ry dream is
horror.
Long, long, &c.
Hear me, Powers Divine!
Oh, in pity, hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare
me!
Long, long, &c.
How Cruel Are The Parents.
Altered from an old
English song.
Tune “John
Anderson, my jo.”
How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby
Poor Woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile, the hapless
Daughter
Has but a choice of
strife;
To shun a tyrant Father’s
hate
Become a wretched Wife.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus
flies,
To shun impelling ruin,
Awhile her pinions tries;
Till, of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless
Falconer,
And drops beneath his
feet.
Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion.
Air “Deil
tak the wars.”
Mark yonder pomp of
costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled
bride:
But when compar’d
with real passion,
Poor is all that princely
pride.
Mark yonder, &c. (four
lines repeated).
What are the showy treasures,
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay, gaudy glare
of vanity and art:
The polish’d jewels’
blaze
May draw the wond’ring
gaze;
And courtly grandeur
bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can
come near the heart.
But did you see my dearest
Chloris,
In simplicity’s
array;
Lovely as yonder sweet
opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze
of day,
But did you see, &c.
O then, the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In Love’s delightful
fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world’s imperial
crown,
Ev’n Avarice would
deny,
His worshipp’d
deity,
And feel thro’
every vein Love’s raptures roll.
’Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E’e.
Tune “Laddie,
lie near me.”
’Twas na
her bonie blue e’e was my ruin,
Fair tho’ she
be, that was ne’er my undoin’;
’Twas the dear
smile when nae body did mind us,
‘Twas the bewitching,
sweet, stown glance o’ kindness:
‘Twas the bewitching,
sweet, stown glance o’ kindness.
Sair do I fear that
to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that
despair maun abide me,
But tho’ fell
fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in
my bosom for ever:
Queen shall she be in
my bosom for ever.
Chloris, I’m thine
wi’ a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted
me love o’ the dearest!
And thou’rt the
angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his
motion would falter:
Sooner the sun in his
motion would falter.
Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle.
Tune “Humours
of Glen.”
Their groves o’
sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming
summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon
lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing
under the lang, yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are
yon humble broom bowers
Where the blue-bell
and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping,
among the wild flowers,
A-list’ning the
linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the
breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia’s
blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented
woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? the
haunt of the Tyrant and Slave.
The Slave’s spicy
forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian
views wi’ disdain;
He wanders as free as
the winds of his mountains,
Save Love’s willing
fetters the chains of his Jean.
Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near.
Air “Let
me in this ae night.”
Forlorn, my Love, no
comfort near,
Far, far from thee,
I wander here;
Far, far from thee,
the fate severe,
At which I most repine,
Love.
Chorus O
wert thou, Love, but near me!
But near, near, near
me,
How kindly thou wouldst
cheer me,
And mingle sighs with
mine, Love.
Around me scowls a wintry
sky,
Blasting each bud of
hope and joy;
And shelter, shade,
nor home have I;
Save in these arms of
thine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.
Cold, alter’d
friendship’s cruel part,
To poison Fortune’s
ruthless dart
Let me not break thy
faithful heart,
And say that fate is
mine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.
But, dreary tho’
the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet
shall meet;
That only ray of solace
sweet,
Can on thy Chloris shine,
Love!
O wert thou, &c.
Fragment, Why, Why Tell The Lover.
Tune “Caledonian
Hunt’s delight.”
Why, why tell thy lover
Bliss he never must
enjoy”?
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes
the lie?
O why, while fancy,
raptur’d slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all
the theme,
Why, why would’st
thou, cruel
Wake thy lover from
his dream?
The Braw Wooer.
Tune “The
Lothian Lassie.”
Last May, a braw wooer
cam doun the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his
love he did deave me;
I said, there was naething
I hated like men
The deuce gae wi’m,
to believe me, believe me;
The deuce gae wi’m
to believe me.
He spak o’ the
darts in my bonie black e’en,
And vow’d for
my love he was diein,
I said, he might die
when he liked for Jean
The Lord forgie me for
liein, for liein;
The Lord forgie me for
liein!
A weel-stocked mailen,
himsel’ for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand,
were his proffers;
I never loot on that
I kenn’d it, or car’d;
But thought I might
hae waur offers, waur offers;
But thought I might
hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think? in
a fortnight or less
The deil tak his taste
to gae near her!
He up the Gate-slack
to my black cousin, Bess
Guess ye how, the jad!
I could bear her, could bear her;
Guess ye how, the jad!
I could bear her.
But a’ the niest
week, as I petted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryst
o’ Dalgarnock;
But wha but my fine
fickle wooer was there,
I glowr’d as I’d
seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr’d as I’d
seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther
I gae him a blink,
Lest neibours might
say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d
as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was
his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was
his dear lassie.
I spier’d for
my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d
her hearin’,
And how her new shoon
fit her auld schachl’t feet,
But heavens! how he
fell a swearin, a swearin,
But heavens! how he
fell a swearin.
He begged, for gudesake,
I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him
wi’ sorrow;
So e’en to preserve
the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him
to-morrow, to-morrow;
I think I maun wed him
to-morrow.
This Is No My Ain Lassie.
Tune “This
is no my house.”
Chorus This
is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho, the lassie
be;
Weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her
e’re.
I see a form, I see
a face,
Ye weel may wi’
the fairest place;
It wants, to me, the
witching grace,
The kind love that’s
in her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
She’s bonie, blooming,
straight, and tall,
And lang has had
my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my
very saul,
The kind love that’s
in her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
A thief sae pawkie is
my Jean,
To steal a blink, by
a’ unseen;
But gleg as light are
lover’s een,
When kind love is in
her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
It may escape the courtly
sparks,
It may escape the learned
clerks;
But well the watching
lover marks
The kind love that’s
in her eye.
This is no my ain, &c.
O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier.
O bonie was yon rosy
brier,
That blooms sae far
frae haunt o’ man;
And bonie she, and ah,
how dear!
It shaded frae the e’enin
sun.
Yon rosebuds in the
morning dew,
How pure, amang the
leaves sae green;
But purer was the lover’s
vow
They witness’d
in their shade yestreen.
All in its rude and
prickly bower,
That crimson rose, how
sweet and fair;
But love is far a sweeter
flower,
Amid life’s thorny
path o’ care.
The pathless, wild and
wimpling burn,
Wi’ Chloris in
my arms, be mine;
And I the warld nor
wish nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs
alike resign.
Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham.
Now spring has clad
the grove in green,
And strew’d the
lea wi’ flowers;
The furrow’d,
waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering
showers.
While ilka thing in
nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone
are mine
The weary steps o’
woe!
The trout in yonder
wimpling burn
That glides, a silver
dart,
And, safe beneath the
shady thorn,
Defies the angler’s
art
My life was ance
that careless stream,
That wanton trout was
I;
But Love, wi’
unrelenting beam,
Has scorch’d my
fountains dry.
That little floweret’s
peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that
grows,
Which, save the linnet’s
flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love
has o’er me past,
And blighted a’
my bloom;
And now, beneath the
withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The waken’d lav’rock
warbling springs,
And climbs the early
sky,
Winnowing blythe his
dewy wings
In morning’s rosy
eye;
As little reck’d
I sorrow’s power,
Until the flowery snare
O’witching Love,
in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o’
care.
O had my fate been Greenland
snows,
Or Afric’s burning
zone,
Wi’man and nature
leagued my foes,
So Peggy ne’er
I’d known!
The wretch whose doom
is “Hope nae mair”
What tongue his woes
can tell;
Within whase bosom,
save Despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart.
Tune “Morag.”
O wat ye wha that lo’es
me
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that
lo’es me,
As dews o’ summer
weeping,
In tears the rosebuds
steeping!
Chorus O
that’s the lassie o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O she’s the queen
o’ womankind,
And ne’er a ane
to peer her.
If thou shalt meet a
lassie,
In grace and beauty
charming,
That e’en thy
chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast
sae warming,
Had ne’er sic
powers alarming;
O that’s the lassie,
&c.
If thou hadst heard
her talking,
And thy attention’s
plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her, by thee is
slighted,
And thou art all delighted;
O that’s the lassie,
&c.
If thou hast met this
Fair One,
When frae her thou hast
parted,
If every other Fair
One
But her, thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted,
O that’s the lassie
o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that’s the queen
o’ womankind,
And ne’er a ane
to peer her.
Inscription.
Written on the blank leaf of a copy
of the last edition of my poems, presented to the
Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion,
but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship,
I have so often sung under the name of “Chloris."^1
’Tis Friendship’s
pledge, my young, fair Friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear
attend
The moralising Muse.
Since thou, in all thy
youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world ’gainst
Peace in constant arms)
To join the Friendly
Few.
Since, thy gay morn
of life o’ercast,
Chill came the tempest’s
lour;
(And ne’er Misfortune’s
eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower.)
Since life’s gay
scenes must charm no more,
Still much is left behind,
Still nobler wealth
hast thou in store
The comforts of the
mind!
Thine is the self-approving
glow,
Of conscious Honour’s
part;
And (dearest gift of
Heaven below)
Thine Friendship’s
truest heart.
The joys refin’d
of Sense and Taste,
With every Muse to rove:
And doubly were the
Poet blest,
These joys could he
improve.
R.B.
Fragment. Leezie Lindsay.
Will ye go to the Hielands,
Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Hielands
wi’ me?
Will ye go to the Hielands,
Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling
to be.
Fragment. The Wren’s Nest.
The Robin to the Wren’s
nest
Cam keekin’ in,
cam keekin’ in;
O weel’s me on
your auld pow,
Wad ye be in, wad ye
be in?
Thou’s ne’er
get leave to lie without,
And I within, and I
within,
Sae lang’s I hae
an auld clout
To rowe ye in, to rowe
ye in.
News, Lassies, News.
There’s news,
lassies, news,
Gude news I’ve
to tell!
There’s a boatfu’
o’ lads
Come to our town to
sell.
Chorus The
wean wants a cradle,
And the cradle wants
a cod:
I’ll no gang to
my bed,
Until I get a nod.
Father, quo’ she,
Mither, quo she,
Do what you can,
I’ll no gang to
my bed,
Until I get a man.
The wean, &c.
I hae as gude a craft
rig
As made o’yird
and stane;
And waly fa’
the ley-crap,
For I maun till’d
again.
The wean, &c.
Crowdie Ever Mair.
O that I had ne’er
been married,
I wad never had nae
care,
Now I’ve gotten
wife an’ weans,
An’ they cry “Crowdie”
evermair.
Chorus Ance
crowdie, twice crowdie,
Three times crowdie
in a day
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye’ll crowdie
a’ my meal away.
Waefu’ Want and
Hunger fley me,
Glowrin’ by the
hallan en’;
Sair I fecht them at
the door,
But aye I’m eerie
they come ben.
Ance crowdie, &c.
Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet.
Chorus Mally’s
meek, Mally’s sweet,
Mally’s modest
and discreet;
Mally’s rare,
Mally’s fair,
Mally’s every
way complete.
As I was walking up
the street,
A barefit maid I chanc’d
to meet;
But O the road was very
hard
For that fair maiden’s
tender feet.
Mally’s meek,
&c.
It were mair meet that
those fine feet
Were weel laced up in
silken shoon;
An’ ’twere
more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt
aboon,
Mally’s meek,
&c.
Her yellow hair, beyond
compare,
Comes trinklin down
her swan-like neck,
And her two eyes, like
stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking
ship frae wreck,
Mally’s meek,
&c.
Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss.
Air “Bonie
lass tak a man.”
Jockey’s taen
the parting kiss,
O’er the mountains
he is gane,
And with him is a’
my bliss,
Nought but griefs with
me remain,
Spare my Love, ye winds
that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating
rain!
Spare my Love, thou
feath’ry snaw,
Drifting o’er
the frozen plain!
When the shades of evening
creep
O’er the day’s
fair, gladsome e’e,
Sound and safely may
he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening
be.
He will think on her
he loves,
Fondly he’ll repeat
her name;
For where’er he
distant roves,
Jockey’s heart
is still the same.
Verses To Collector Mitchell.
Friend of the Poet,
tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might
beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle
deil
Wi’ a’ his
witches
Are at it skelpin jig
and reel,
In my poor pouches?
I modestly fu’
fain wad hint it,
That One pound one,
I sairly want it;
If wi’ the hizzie
down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi’
life-blood dunted,
I’d bear’t
in mind.
So may the Auld year
gang out moanin’
To see the New come
laden, groanin’,
Wi’ double plenty
o’er the loanin’,
To thee and thine:
Domestic peace and comforts
crownin’
The hale design.
Postscript.
Ye’ve heard this
while how I’ve been lickit,
And by fell Death was
nearly nickit;
Grim loon! he got me
by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by gude luck I lap
a wicket,
And turn’d a neuk.
But by that health,
I’ve got a share o’t,
But by that life, I’m
promis’d mair o’t,
My hale and wee, I’ll
tak a care o’t,
A tentier way;
Then farewell folly,
hide and hair o’t,
For ance and aye!