Chapter 29

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,^1 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.

[Footnote 1: An old ruin in a sweet situation at the confluence of the Clouden and the Nith.—R. B.]

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!