Chapter 24

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun’s departing beam Look’d on the fading yellow woods, That wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail’d his lord, Whom Death had all untimely ta’en.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears! And as he touch’d his trembling harp, And as he tun’d his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves, To Echo bore the notes alang.

“Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing, The reliques o’ the vernal queir! Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds The honours of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e; But nocht in all-revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.

“I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is gane; Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room.

“I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years, On earth I am a stranger grown: I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing, and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, I bear alane my lade o’ care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a’ hat would my sorrows share.

“And last, (the sum of a’ my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay; The flow’r amang our barons bold, His country’s pride, his country’s stay: In weary being now I pine, For a’ the life of life is dead, And hope has left may aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled.

“Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair! Awake, resound thy latest lay, Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only, friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the Bard Thou brought from Fortune’s mirkest gloom.

“In Poverty’s low barren vale, Thick mists obscure involv’d me round; Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found’st me, like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

“O! why has worth so short a date, While villains ripen grey with time? Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prim Why did I live to see that day— A day to me so full of woe? O! had I met the mortal shaft That laid my benefactor low!

“The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, And a’ that thou hast done for me!”

Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart

With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever’st, Who, save thy mind’s reproach, nought earthly fear’st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The Friend thou valued’st, I, the Patron lov’d; His worth, his honour, all the world approved: We’ll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the shadowy path to that dark world unknown.

Craigieburn Wood

Sweet closes the ev’ning on Craigieburn Wood, And blythely awaukens the morrow; But the pride o’ the spring in the Craigieburn Wood Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.

Chorus.—Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O to be lying beyond thee! O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That’s laid in the bed beyond thee!

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing; But pleasure they hae nane for me, While care my heart is wringing. Beyond thee, &c.

I can na tell, I maun na tell, I daur na for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. Beyond thee, &c.

I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall, I see thee sweet and bonie; But oh, what will my torment be, If thou refuse thy Johnie! Beyond thee, &c.

To see thee in another’s arms, In love to lie and languish, ’Twad be my dead, that will be seen, My heart wad burst wi’ anguish. Beyond thee, &c.

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say thou lo’es nane before me; And a’ may days o’ life to come I’l gratefully adore thee, Beyond thee, &c.

The Bonie Wee Thing

Chorus.—Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel it should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish In that bonie face o’ thine, And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Bonie wee thing, &c.

Wit, and Grace, and Love, and Beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine! Bonie wee thing, &c.

Epigram On Miss Davies

On being asked why she had been formed so little, and Mrs. A—so big.

Ask why God made the gem so small? And why so huge the granite?— Because God meant mankind should set That higher value on it.

The Charms Of Lovely Davies

Tune—“Miss Muir.”

O how shall I, unskilfu’, try The poet’s occupation? The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours, That whisper inspiration; Even they maun dare an effort mair Than aught they ever gave us, Ere they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o’ lovely Davies.

Each eye it cheers when she appears, Like Phoebus in the morning, When past the shower, and every flower The garden is adorning: As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s shore, When winter-bound the wave is; Sae droops our heart, when we maun part Frae charming, lovely Davies.

Her smile’s a gift frae ’boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes; A sceptred hand, a king’s command, Is in her darting glances; The man in arms ’gainst female charms Even he her willing slave is, He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies.

My Muse, to dream of such a theme, Her feeble powers surrender: The eagle’s gaze alone surveys The sun’s meridian splendour. I wad in vain essay the strain, The deed too daring brave is; I’ll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms o’ lovely Davies.

What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi’ An Auld Man

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’. Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’!

He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang; He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen,— O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man! He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen, O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man.

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a’ that I can; He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows,— O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man! He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows, O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man.

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan, I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

The Posie

O luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will doun yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear; For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet, bonie mou; The hyacinth’s for constancy wi’ its unchanging blue, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller gray, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day; But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’, when the e’ening star is near, And the diamond draps o’ dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet’s for modesty, which weel she fa’s to wear, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove, And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.

On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain

A Fragment, 1791.

Thou, Liberty, thou art my theme; Not such as idle poets dream, Who trick thee up a heathen goddess That a fantastic cap and rod has; Such stale conceits are poor and silly; I paint thee out, a Highland filly, A sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple, As sleek’s a mouse, as round’s an apple, That when thou pleasest canst do wonders; But when thy luckless rider blunders, Or if thy fancy should demur there, Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.

These things premised, I sing a Fox, Was caught among his native rocks, And to a dirty kennel chained, How he his liberty regained.

Glenriddell! Whig without a stain, A Whig in principle and grain, Could’st thou enslave a free-born creature, A native denizen of Nature? How could’st thou, with a heart so good, (A better ne’er was sluiced with blood!) Nail a poor devil to a tree, That ne’er did harm to thine or thee?

The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was, Quite frantic in his country’s cause; And oft was Reynard’s prison passing, And with his brother-Whigs canvassing The Rights of Men, the Powers of Women, With all the dignity of Freemen.

Sir Reynard daily heard debates Of Princes’, Kings’, and Nations’ fates, With many rueful, bloody stories Of Tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories: From liberty how angels fell, That now are galley-slaves in hell; How Nimrod first the trade began Of binding Slavery’s chains on Man; How fell Semiramis—God damn her! Did first, with sacrilegious hammer, (All ills till then were trivial matters) For Man dethron’d forge hen-peck fetters;

How Xerxes, that abandoned Tory, Thought cutting throats was reaping glory, Until the stubborn Whigs of Sparta Taught him great Nature’s Magna Charta; How mighty Rome her fiat hurl’d Resistless o’er a bowing world, And, kinder than they did desire, Polish’d mankind with sword and fire; With much, too tedious to relate, Of ancient and of modern date, But ending still, how Billy Pitt (Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit, Has gagg’d old Britain, drain’d her coffer, As butchers bind and bleed a heifer,

Thus wily Reynard by degrees, In kennel listening at his ease, Suck’d in a mighty stock of knowledge, As much as some folks at a College; Knew Britain’s rights and constitution, Her aggrandisement, diminution, How fortune wrought us good from evil; Let no man, then, despise the Devil, As who should say, ’I never can need him,’ Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom.

Poem On Pastoral Poetry

Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d! In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d ’Mang heaps o’ clavers: And och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d, ’Mid a’ thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang, While loud the trump’s heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd—sang But wi’ miscarriage?

In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin’, till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho’s flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin’ patches O’ heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.

In this braw age o’ wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air, And rural grace; And, wi’ the far-fam’d Grecian, share A rival place?

Yes! there is ane—a Scottish callan! There’s ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou’s for ever.

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonie lasses bleach their claes, Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi’ hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays, At close o’ day.

Thy rural loves are Nature’s sel’; Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O’ witchin love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.

Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig

As on the banks o’ wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmer morn I stray’d, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lammies play’d, I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o’ fancy’s dream, When from the eddying deep below, Up rose the genius of the stream.

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his caves, the sigh he gave— “And come ye here, my son,” he cried, “To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

“There was a time, it’s nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a’ my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool: And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool;

“When, glinting thro’ the trees, appear’d The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu’ rose its ingle reek, That, slowly curling, clamb the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld, Its leafy bield for ever gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast its lane.”

“Alas!” quoth I, “what ruefu’ chance Has twin’d ye o’ your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare— Has stripped the cleeding o’ your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring? Or was’t the wil’fire scorch’d their boughs, Or canker-worm wi’ secret sting?”

“Nae eastlin blast,” the sprite replied; “It blaws na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!” the genius sighed— As through the cliffs he sank him down— “The worm that gnaw’d my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.”^1

The Gallant Weaver

Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea, By mony a flower and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant Weaver. O, I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine; And I was fear’d my heart wad tine, And I gied it to the Weaver.

My daddie sign’d my tocher-band, To gie the lad that has the land, But to my heart I’ll add my hand, And give it to the Weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers, While bees delight in opening flowers, While corn grows green in summer showers, I love my gallant Weaver.

[Footnote 1: The Duke of Queensberry.]

Epigram At Brownhill Inn^1

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, And plenty of bacon each day in the year; We’ve a’ thing that’s nice, and mostly in season, But why always Bacon—come, tell me a reason?

You’re Welcome, Willie Stewart

Chorus.—You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May, That’s half sae welcome’s thou art!

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it, The tappet hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart, You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, &c.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack Ilk action, may he rue it, May woman on him turn her back That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart, You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, &c.

Lovely Polly Stewart

Chorus.—O lovely Polly Stewart, O charming Polly Stewart, There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May, That’s half so fair as thou art!

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s, And art can ne’er renew it; But worth and truth, eternal youth Will gie to Polly Stewart, O lovely Polly Stewart, &c.

[Footnote 1: Bacon was the name of a presumably intrusive host. The lines are said to have “afforded much amusement.”—Lang]

May he whase arms shall fauld thy charms Possess a leal and true heart! To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart! O lovely Polly Stewart, &c.

Fragment,—Damon And Sylvia

Tune—“The Tither Morn.”

Yon wandering rill that marks the hill, And glances o’er the brae, Sir, Slides by a bower, where mony a flower Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir; There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay, To love they thought no crime, Sir, The wild birds sang, the echoes rang, While Damon’s heart beat time, Sir.

Johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver

When first my brave Johnie lad came to this town, He had a blue bonnet that wanted the crown; But now he has gotten a hat and a feather, Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush, We’ll over the border, and gie them a brush; There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour, Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

My Eppie Macnab

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin the laird, She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab.

O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; Whate’er thou hast dune, be it late, be it sune, Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? She let’s thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab.

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! As light as the air, and as fause as thou’s fair, Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab.

Altho’ He Has Left Me

Altho’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller, I dinna envy him the gains he can win; I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow, Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him.

My Tocher’s The Jewel

O Meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him. It’s a’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree, It’s a’ for the hinny he’ll cherish the bee, My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller, He canna hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny, My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin’, Sae ye wi anither your fortune may try. Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood, Ye’re like to the bark o’ yon rotten tree, Ye’ll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye’ll crack your credit wi’ mae nor me.

O For Ane An’ Twenty, Tam

Chorus.—An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! And hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, An’ I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam.

They snool me sair, and haud me down, An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam; But three short years will soon wheel roun’, An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam. An’ O for, &c.

A glieb o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. An’ O for, &c.

They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; But, hear’st thou laddie! there’s my loof, I’m thine at ane an’ twenty, Tam! An’ O for, &c.

Thou Fair Eliza

Turn again, thou fair Eliza! Ae kind blink before we part; Rue on thy despairing lover, Can’st thou break his faithfu’ heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza! If to love thy heart denies, Oh, in pity hide the sentence Under friendship’s kind disguise!

Thee, sweet maid, hae I offended? My offence is loving thee; Can’st thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine would gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe: Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o’ sinny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the Minstrel in the moment Fancy lightens in his e’e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me.

My Bonie Bell

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonie blue are the sunny skies. Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell; All creatures joy in the sun’s returning, And I rejoice in my bonie Bell.

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, The yellow Autumn presses near; Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear: Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell; But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonie Bell.

Sweet Afton

Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes, Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.