Part 9

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care: The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav’n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms, To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking dewy lawn, And misty mountain gray; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows’ wat’ry bed! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn.

So may Old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band, Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses The grace be—‘Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonnie lasses!’

YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where’er he go, where’er he stray, May Heaven be his warden, Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon!

The trees, now naked groaning, Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging, The birdies, dowie moaning, Shall a’ be blythely singing, And every flower be springing: Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day, When, by his mighty warden, My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey And bonnie Castle-Gordon.

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth! Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains, high cover’d with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e’en and morn she cries, ‘alas!’ And aye the saut tear blins her ee: ‘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 growing green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman’s ee! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee. Or did misfortune’s bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o’ the globe, Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE

’Twas even—the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang; The Zephyrs wanton’d round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In every glen the Mavis sang, All nature listening seem’d the while: Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray’d, My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy, When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanced to spy; Her look was like the morning’s eye, Her hair like nature’s vernal smile; Perfection whisper’d, passing by, Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in Autumn mild, When roving thro’ the garden gay, Or wandering in the lonely wild: But Woman, Nature’s darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Ev’n there her other works are foil’d By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

O had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland’s plain! Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine: Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day have joys divine, With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD

He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, The ae best fellow e’er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil’d.

Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens, Wi’ toddlin din, Or foaming strang wi’ hasty stens Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow’rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o’ flow’rs.

At dawn when ev’ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev’n when beans their fragrance shed I’ th’ rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin’ thro’ the glade, Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood— He’s gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day, ’Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay; And, when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r, What time the moon wi’ silent glowr Sets up her horn, Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains; But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay green flow’ry tresses shear For him that’s dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air The roaring blast, Wide o’er the naked world declare The worth we’ve lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight, Ne’er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life’s dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great, In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! But by thy honest turf I’ll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow’s fate Eer lay in earth.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

When o’er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow’d field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O, If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, And I were ne’er sae wearie O, I’d meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo’es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN’ WHEEL

O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel, O leeze me on my rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e’en! I’ll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal— O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie’s nest, And little fishes’ caller rest: The sun blinks kindly in the biel’, Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And echo cons the doolfu’ tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither’s lays; The craik amang the claver hay, The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley, The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel.

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a’ the pride of a’ the great? Amid their flaring, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel?

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.

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine; And I was fear’d my heart would 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 gie it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; While bees rejoice in opening flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I’ll love my gallant weaver.

EPPIE ADAIR

An’ O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi’ Eppie Adair? By love, and by beauty, By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair!

An’ O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi’ Eppie Adair? A’ pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e’er I beguile thee, My Eppie Adair!

FOR WEANS AND WIFE

(TO DR. BLACKLOCK)

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kenn’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to; Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye, And then ye’ll do....

But what d’ye think, my trusty fier, I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye’ll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt, But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair; Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme (I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time)— To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

CROWDIE EVER MAIR

O that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, An’ they cry “crowdie!” ever mair.

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 hallen en’; Sair I fecht them at the door, But aye I’m eerie they come ben.

‘BRAW SOBER LESSONS’

(EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND)

I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, A something to have sent you, Tho’ it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento; But how the subject theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev’n when your end’s attained; And a’ your views may come to nought, Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

I’ll no say men are villains a’; The real harden’d wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked: But oh! mankind are unco weak, An’ little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It’s rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still th’ important end of life They equally may answer. A man may hae an honest heart, Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor’s part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han’, your story tell, When wi’ a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro’ ev’ry other man Wi’ sharpen’d sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th’ illicit rove, Tho’ naething should divulge it: I wave the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing; But oh! it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev’ry wile That’s justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border: Its slightest touches, instant pause— Debar a’ side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev’n the rigid feature: Yet ne’er with wits profane to range Be complaisance extended; An atheist laugh’s a poor exchange For Deity offended.

When ranting round in pleasure’s ring, Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n, A conscience but a canker— A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n Is sure a noble anchor.

Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne’er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting. In ploughman phrase, God send you speed Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede Than ever did th’ adviser!

TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill; Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’ need; While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin’, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive, Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

Is there that o’er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed— The trembling earth resounds his tread! Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY

Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley; Here’s to the Highlandman’s Bannocks o’ barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley.

Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley; Here’s to the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley; Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body; Jenny’s seldom dry; She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen; Gin a body kiss a body, Need the world ken?

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN

The wind blew hollow frae the hills; By fits the sun’s departing beam Look’d on the fading yellow woods That waved 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 taen.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years; His locks were bleachèd white wi’ 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 of the vernal quire! Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds The honours of the agèd 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 agèd tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold 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 others plant them in my room.

‘I’ve seen so many 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’ that 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 my agèd 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.