Part II.
Reading edition
The spring had pass'd over, 'twas summer nae mair, And, trembling, were scatter'd the leaves in the air; "Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, "we kindly agree, For wae looks the sun when he shines upon me." Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent; Despair it was come, and she thought it content; She thought it content, but her cheek was grown pale, And she droop'd like a snow-drop broke down by the hail. Her father was sad, and her mother was wae, But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray; He wander'd his lane, and his face was as lean As the side of a brae where the torrents have been. He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would take, And often he said, "It is best, for her sake!" While Jeanie supported his head as he lay, The tears trickled down upon auld Robin Gray. "Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie!" said he, wi' a groan; "I 'm nae worth your sorrow—the truth maun be known; Send round for your neighbours—my hour it draws near, And I 've that to tell that it 's fit a' should hear. "I 've wrang'd her," he said, "but I kent it o'er late; I 've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date; But a 's for the best, since my death will soon free A faithfu' young heart, that was ill match'd wi' me. "I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet o' her vow;— In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow! "I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee; I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me; While she fed your parents, oh! did you not say, You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray? "But sickness at hame, and want at the door— You gi'ed me your hand, while your heart it was sore; I saw it was sore, why took I her hand? Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! "How truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight! For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white; White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me. Oh, Jeanie, I 'm thankfu'—I 'm thankfu' to dee! "Is Jamie come here yet?" and Jamie he saw; "I 've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a'; Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be! Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me." They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by grace; "Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en he will be, Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win thee?" * * * * * The first days were dowie, while time slipt awa'; But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of a' Was thinking she couldna be honest and right, Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart was sae light. But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay; A bonnie wee bairn—the auld folks by the fire— Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire!
In an earlier continuation of the original ballad, there are some good stanzas, which, however, the author had thought proper to expunge from the piece in its altered and extended form. One verse, descriptive of Robin Gray's feelings, on observing the concealed and withering grief of his spouse, is beautiful for its simplicity:—
"Nae questions he spier'd her concerning her health, He look'd at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth; When his heart it grew grit, and, sighin', he feign'd To gang to the door to see if it rain'd."
SONG.
Why tarries my love? Ah! where does he rove? My love is long absent from me. Come hither, my dove, I 'll write to my love, And send him a letter by thee. To find him, swift fly! The letter I 'll tie Secure to thy leg with a string. Ah! not to my leg, Fair lady, I beg, But fasten it under my wing. Her dove she did deck, She drew o'er his neck A bell and a collar so gay; She tied to his wing The scroll with a string, Then kiss'd him and sent him away. It blew and it rain'd, The pigeon disdain'd To seek shelter; undaunted he flew, Till wet was his wing, And painful his string, So heavy the letter it grew. It flew all around, Till Colin he found, Then perch'd on his head with the prize; Whose heart, while he reads, With tenderness bleeds, For the pigeon that flutters and dies.
JOHN TAIT.
John Tait was, in early life, devoted to the composition of poetry. In Ruddiman's Edinburgh Weekly Magazine for 1770, he repeatedly published verses in the Poet's Corner, with his initials attached, and in subsequent years he published anonymously the "Cave of Morar," "Poetical Legends," and other poems. "The Vanity of Human Wishes, an Elegy, occasioned by the Untimely Death of a Scots Poet," appears under the signature of J. Tait, in "Poems on Various Subjects by Robert Fergusson, Part II.," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the Signet on the 21st of November 1781; and in July 1805 was appointed Judge of Police, on a new police system being introduced into Edinburgh. In the latter capacity he continued to officiate till July 1812, when a new Act of Parliament entrusted the settlement of police cases, as formerly, to the magistrates of the city. Mr Tait died at his house in Abercromby Place, on the 29th of August 1817.
"The Banks of the Dee," the only popular production from the pen of the author, was composed in the year 1775, on the occasion of a friend leaving Scotland to join the British forces in America, who were then vainly endeavouring to suppress that opposition to the control of the mother country which resulted in the permanent establishment of American independence. The song is set to the Irish air of "Langolee." It was printed in Wilson's Collection of Songs, which was published at Edinburgh in 1779, with four additional stanzas by a Miss Betsy B——s, of inferior merit. It was re-published in "The Goldfinch" (Edinburgh, 1782), and afterwards was inserted in Johnson's "Musical Museum." Burns, in his letter to Mr George Thomson, of 7th April 1793, writes—"'The Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally 'Langolee' to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance—
"'And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.'
In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and, in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Creative rural imagery is always comparatively flat."
Thirty years after its first appearance, Mr Tait published a new edition of the song in Mr Thomson's Collection, vol. iv., in which he has, by alterations on the first half stanza, acknowledged the justice of the strictures of the Ayrshire bard. The stanza is altered thus:
"'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the wood-pigeon coo'd from the tree; At the foot of a rock, where the wild rose was growing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee."
The song, it may be added, has in several collections been erroneously attributed to John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas."
THE BANKS OF THE DEE.
'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree, At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river, Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever, For there first I gain'd the affection and favour Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee. But now he 's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, To quell the proud rebels—for valiant is he; And, ah! there 's no hope of his speedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee. He 's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows, The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows, And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee. But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he returns, with such care I 'll watch o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying, The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing, While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.
HECTOR MACNEILL.
Hector Macneill was born on the 22d of October 1746, in the villa of Rosebank, near Roslin; and, to to use his own words, "amidst the murmur of streams and the shades of Hawthornden, may be said to have inhaled with life the atmosphere of a poet."[10] Descended from an old family, who possessed a small estate in the southern district of Argyllshire, his father, after various changes of fortune, had obtained a company in the 42d Regiment, with which he served during several campaigns in Flanders. From continued indisposition, and consequent inability to undergo the fatigues of military life, he disposed of his commission, and retired, with his wife and two children, to the villa of Rosebank, of which he became the owner. A few years after the birth of his son Hector, he felt necessitated, from straitened circumstances, to quit this beautiful residence; and he afterwards occupied a farm on the banks of Loch Lomond. Such a region of the picturesque was highly suitable for the development of those poetical talents which had already appeared in young Hector, amidst the rural amenities of Roslin. In his eleventh year, he wrote a drama, after the manner of Gay; and the respectable execution of his juvenile attempts in versification gained him the approbation of Dr Doig, the learned rector of the grammar-school of Stirling, who strongly urged his father to afford him sufficient instruction, to enable him to enter upon one of the liberal professions. Had Captain Macneill's circumstances been prosperous, this counsel might have been adopted, for the son's promising talents were not unnoticed by his father; but pecuniary difficulties opposed an unsurmountable obstacle.
An opulent relative, a West India trader, resident in Bristol, had paid the captain a visit; and, attracted by the shrewdness of the son Hector, who was his namesake, offered to retain him in his employment, and to provide for him in life. After two years' preparatory education, he was accordingly sent to Bristol, in his fourteenth year. He was destined to an adventurous career, singularly at variance with his early predilections and pursuits. By his relative he was designed to sail in a slave ship to the coast of Guinea; but the intercession of some female friends prevented his being connected with an expedition so uncongenial to his feelings. He was now despatched on board a vessel to the island of St Christopher's, with the view of his making trial of a seafaring life, but was provided with recommendatory letters, in the event of his preferring employment on land. With a son of the Bristol trader he remained twelvemonths; and, having no desire to resume his labours as a seaman, he afterwards sailed for Guadaloupe, where he continued in the employment of a merchant for three years, till 1763, when the island was ceded to the French. Dismissed by his employer, with a scanty balance of salary, he had some difficulty in obtaining the means of transport to Antigua; and there, finding himself reduced to entire dependence, he was content, without any pecuniary recompense, to become assistant to his relative, who had come to the town of St John's. From this unhappy condition he was rescued, after a short interval. He was possessed of a knowledge of the French language; a qualification which, together with his general abilities, recommended him to fill the office of assistant to the Provost-Marshal of Grenada. This appointment he held for three years, when, hearing of the death of his mother and sister, he returned to Britain. On the death of his father, eighteen months after his arrival, he succeeded to a small patrimony, which he proceeded to invest in the purchase of an annuity of £80 per annum. With this limited income, he seems to have planned a permanent settlement in his native country; but the unexpected embarrassment of the party from whom he had purchased the annuity, and an attachment of an unfortunate nature, compelled him to re-embark on the ocean of adventure. He accepted the office of assistant-secretary on board Admiral Geary's flag-ship, and made two cruises with the grand fleet. Proposing again to return to Scotland, he afterwards resigned his appointment; but he was induced, by the remonstrances of his friends, Dr Currie, and Mr Roscoe, of Liverpool, to accept a similar situation on board the flag-ship of Sir Richard Bickerton, who had been appointed to take the chief command of the naval power in India. In this post, many of the hardships incident to a seafaring life fell to his share; and being present at the last indecisive action with "Suffrein," he had likewise to encounter the perils of war. His present connexion subsisted three years; but Macneill sickened in the discharge of duties wholly unsuitable for him, and longed for the comforts of home. His resources were still limited, but he flattered himself in the expectation that he might earn a subsistence as a man of letters. He fixed his residence at a farm-house in the vicinity of Stirling; and, amidst the pursuits of literature, the composition of verses, and the cultivation of friendship, he contrived, for a time, to enjoy a considerable share of happiness. But he speedily discovered the delusion of supposing that an individual, entirely unknown in the literary world, could at once be able to establish his reputation, and inspire confidence in the bookselling trade, whose favour is so essential to men of letters. Discouraged in longer persevering in the attempt of procuring a livelihood at home, Macneill, for the fourth time, took his departure from Britain. Provided with letters of introduction to influential and wealthy persons in Jamaica, he sailed for that island on a voyage of adventure; being now in his thirty-eighth year, and nearly as unprovided for as when he had first left his native shores, twenty-four years before. On his arrival at Kingston, he was employed by the collector of customs, whose acquaintance he had formed on the voyage; but this official soon found he could dispense with his services, which he did, without aiding him in obtaining another situation. The individuals to whom he had brought letters were unable or unwilling to render him assistance, and the unfortunate adventurer was constrained, in his emergency, to accept the kind invitation of a medical friend, to make his quarters with him till some satisfactory employment might occur. He now discovered two intimate companions of his boyhood settled in the island, in very prosperous circumstances, and from these he received both pecuniary aid and the promise of future support. Through their friendly offices, his two sons, who had been sent out by a generous friend, were placed in situations of respectability and emolument. But the thoughts of the poet himself were directed towards Britain. He sailed from Jamaica, with a thousand plans and schemes hovering in his mind, equally vague and indefinite as had been his aims and designs during the past chapter of his history. A small sum given him as the pay of an inland ensigncy, now conferred on him, but antedated, sufficed to defray the expenses of the voyage.
Before leaving Scotland for Jamaica, Macneill had commenced a poem, founded on a Highland tradition; and to the completion of this production he assiduously devoted himself during his homeward voyage. It was published at Edinburgh in 1789, under the title of "The Harp, a Legendary Tale." In the previous year, he published a pamphlet in vindication of slavery, entitled, "On the Treatment of the Negroes in Jamaica." This pamphlet, written to gratify the wishes of an interested friend, rather than as the result of his own convictions, he subsequently endeavoured to suppress. For several years, Macneill persevered in his unsettled mode of life. On his return from Jamaica, he resided in the mansion of his friend, Mr Graham of Gartmore, himself a writer of verses, as well as a patron of letters; but a difference with the family caused him to quit this hospitable residence. After passing some time with his relatives in Argyllshire, he entertained a proposal of establishing himself in Glasgow, as partner of a mercantile house, but this was terminated by the dissolution of the firm; and a second attempt to succeed in the republic of letters had an equally unsuccessful issue. In Edinburgh, whither he had removed, he was seized with a severe nervous illness, which, during the six following years, rendered him incapable of sustained physical exertion. With a little money, which he contrived to raise on his annuity, he retired to a small cottage at St Ninians; but his finances again becoming reduced, he accepted of the hospitable invitation of his friends, Major Spark and his lady, to become the inmate of their residence of Viewforth House, Stirling. At this period, Macneill composed the greater number of his best songs, and produced his poem of "Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean," which was published in 1795, and speedily gained him a wide reputation. Before the close of twelvemonths, it passed through no fewer than fourteen editions. A sequel, entitled "The Waes o' War," which appeared in 1796, attained nearly an equal popularity. The original ballad was composed during the author's solitary walks along the promenades of the King's Park, Stirling, while he was still suffering mental depression. It was completed in his own mind before any of the stanzas were committed to paper.
The hope of benefiting his enfeebled constitution in a warm climate induced him to revisit Jamaica. As a parting tribute to his friends at Stirling, he published, in 1799, immediately before his departure, a descriptive poem, entitled "The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling," which, regarded as the last effort of a dying poet, obtained a reception fully equal to its merits.
On the oft-disappointed and long unfortunate poet the sun of prosperity at length arose. On his arrival in Jamaica, one of his early friends, Mr John Graham, of Three-Mile-River, settled on him an annuity of £100 a-year; and, in a few months afterwards, they sailed together for Britain, the poet's health being essentially improved. Macneill now fixed his permanent residence in Edinburgh, and, with the proceeds of several legacies bequeathed to him, together with his annuity, was enabled to live in comparative affluence. The narrative of his early adventures and hardships is supposed to form the basis of a novel, entitled "The Memoirs of Charles Macpherson, Esq.," which proceeded from his pen in 1800. In the following year, he published a complete edition of his poetical works, in two duodecimo volumes. In 1809, he published "The Pastoral, or Lyric Muse of Scotland," in a thin quarto volume; and about the same time, anonymously, two other works in verse, entitled "Town Fashions, or Modern Manners Delineated," and "Bygone Times and Late-come Changes." His last work, "The Scottish Adventurers," a novel, appeared in 1812, in two octavo volumes.
The latter productions of Hector Macneill, both in prose and verse, tended rather to diminish than increase his fame. They exhibit the sentiments of a querulous old man, inclined to cling to the habits of his youth, and to regard any improvement as an act of ruthless innovation. As the author of some excellent songs, and one of the most popular ballads in the Scottish language, his name will continue to be remembered. His songs, "Mary of Castlecary," "My boy, Tammie," "Come under my plaidie," "I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane," "Donald and Flora," and "Dinna think, bonnie lassie," will retain a firm hold of the popular mind. His characteristic is tenderness and pathos, combined with unity of feeling, and a simplicity always genuine and true to nature. Allan Cunningham, who forms only a humble estimate of his genius, remarks that his songs "have much softness and truth, an insinuating grace of manners, and a decorum of expression, with no small skill in the dramatic management of the stories."[11] The ballad of "Scotland's Skaith" ranks among the happiest conceptions of the Scottish Doric muse; rural life is depicted with singular force and accuracy, and the debasing consequences of the inordinate use of ardent spirits among the peasantry, are delineated with a vigour and power, admirably adapted to suit the author's benevolent intention in the suppression of intemperance.
During his latter years, Macneill was much cherished among the fashionables of the capital. He was a tall, venerable-looking old man; and although his complexion was sallow, and his countenance somewhat austere, his agreeable and fascinating conversation, full of humour and replete with anecdote, rendered him an acceptable guest in many social circles. He displayed a lively, but not a vigorous intellect, and his literary attainments were inconsiderable. Of his own character as a man of letters, he had evidently formed a high estimate. He was prone to satire, but did not unduly indulge in it. He was especially impatient of indifferent versification; and, among his friends, rather discouraged than commended poetical composition. Though long unsettled himself, he was loud in his commendations of industry; and, from the gay man of the world, he became earnest on the subject of religion. For several years, his health seems to have been unsatisfactory. In a letter to a friend, dated Edinburgh, January 30, 1813, he writes:—"Accumulating years and infirmities are beginning to operate very sensibly upon me now, and yearly do I experience their increasing influence. Both my hearing and my sight are considerably weakened, and, should I live a few years longer, I look forward to a state which, with all our love for life, is certainly not to be envied.... My pen is my chief amusement. Reading soon fatigues, and loses its zest; composition never, till over-exertion reminds me of my imprudence, by sensations which too frequently render me unpleasant during the rest of the day." On the 15th of March 1818, in his seventy-second year, the poet breathed his last, in entire composure, and full of hope.
MARY OF CASTLECARY.[12]
Tune—"Bonnie Dundee."
"Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'? Sought she the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree? Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white; Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e; Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?" "I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin', Down by the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree. Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white; Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!" "It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true love, ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart—modest her nature; She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;— Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee." "It was, then, your Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree;— Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew; Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e— "Ye 's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning; Defend, ye fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie." "Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling;— Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing— Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? Is it my true love here that I see?" "Oh, Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart 's constant to me; I 'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"
MY BOY, TAMMY.[13]
"Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy? Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy?" "I 've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green, and mountain gray, Courting o' this young thing, Just come frae her mammy." "And whare got ye that young thing, My boy, Tammy?" "I gat her down in yonder howe, Smiling on a broomy knowe, Herding a wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy." "What said ye to the bonnie bairn, My boy, Tammy?" "I praised her een, sae bonny blue, Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou'; I pree'd it aft, as ye may true;— She said she 'd tell her mammy. "I held her to my beating heart, My young, my smiling lammie! 'I hae a house, it cost me dear; I 've wealth o' plenishin' and gear;— Ye 'se get it a', were 't ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy.' "The smile gaed aff her bonnie face— 'I maunna leave my mammy; She 's gi'en me meat, she 's gi'en me claise, She 's been my comfort a' my days; My father's death brought mony waes— I canna leave my mammy.'" "We 'll tak her hame, and mak her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie; We 'll gi'e her meat, we 'll gi'e her claise, We 'll be her comfort a' her days." The wee thing gi'es her hand and says— "There! gang and ask my mammy." "Has she been to kirk wi' thee, My boy, Tammy?" "She has been to kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e; But, oh! she 's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy."
OH, TELL ME HOW FOR TO WOO![14]
Tune—"Bonnie Dundee."
"Oh, tell me, bonnie young lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! Oh, tell me, bonnie sweet lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning? Lips, like the roses, fresh moisten'd wi' dew; Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning? Oh, tell me how for to woo! "Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie! Far hae I ventured across the saut sea; Far hae I travell'd ower moorland and mountain, Houseless and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea. Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak love to onie, For ne'er lo'ed I onie till ance I lo'ed you; Now we 're alane in the green-wood sae bonnie— Oh, tell me how for to woo!" "What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie? What care I for your crossing the sea? It was na for naething ye left poor young Peggie; It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me. Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie? Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew? A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie? Without this ye never need try for to woo." "I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie; I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew; I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty, I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true. I cam' na for tocher—I ne'er heard o' onie; I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow: I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie: I little thocht this was the way for to woo." "Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see. The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer, And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me. Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses! And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow, He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses, And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo." "Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller, His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree; His speeches for true love may drap sweet as honey, But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like me. The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion— The faster they fa' as the heart is least true; The dumb look o' love 's aft the best proof o' passion; The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo." "Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning? Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'? Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain? What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo? Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie; Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue; Wi' health we 'll hae plenty—I 'll never gang gaudie; I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true." She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom, The saft tear o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree. He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny; And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou'; And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie, "Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."
LASSIE WI' THE GOWDEN HAIR.
Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Silken snood, and face sae fair; Lassie wi' the yellow hair, Thinkna to deceive me. Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Flattering smile, and face sae fair, Fare ye weel! for never mair Johnnie will believe ye. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn, ye 'll nae mair deceive me. Smiling, twice ye made me troo, Twice, poor fool! I turn'd to woo; Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Now I 've sworn to leave ye. Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Twice, poor fool! I 've learn'd to rue; Come ye yet to mak me troo? Thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me. No, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn; thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me. Mary saw him turn to part; Deep his words sank in her heart; Soon the tears began to start— "Johnnie, will ye leave me?" Soon the tears began to start, Grit and gritter grew his heart; "Yet a word before we part, Love could ne'er deceive ye. Oh, no! Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo; Oh, no! Johnnie doo—love could ne'er deceive ye." Johnnie took a parting keek; Saw the tears drap owre her cheek; Pale she stood, but couldna speak— Mary 's cured o' smiling. Johnnie took anither keek— Beauty's rose has left her cheek; Pale she stands, and canna speak. This is nae beguiling. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, dear Mary Bawn; Oh, no; Mary Bawn—love has nae beguiling.
COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.
Tune—"Johnnie M'Gill."
"Come under my plaidie, the night 's gaun to fa'; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw; Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, I 'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me! There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa." "Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa, I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw; Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, I 'll no sit beside ye; Ye may be my gutcher;—auld Donald, gae 'wa. I 'm gaun to meet Johnnie, he 's young and he 's bonnie; He 's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw; Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly! His cheek 's like the new rose, his brow 's like the snaw." "Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa'; Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava; The hale o' his pack he has now on his back— He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly; I 'll busk ye aye finely; To kirk or to market they 'll few gang sae braw; A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'." "My father 's aye tauld me, my mither and a', Ye 'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw; It 's true I lo'e Johnnie, he 's gude and he 's bonnie; But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava. I hae little tocher; you 've made a gude offer; I 'm now mair than twenty—my time is but sma'; Sae gi'e me your plaidie, I 'll creep in beside ye— I thocht ye 'd been aulder than threescore and twa." She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a'; The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary; And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw; The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women Wad marry Auld Nick if he 'd keep them aye braw."
I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.[15]
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; He 's willing to mak' me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens o' green; The price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid him the debt yestreen. Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, Their land and their lordly degree; I carena for aught but my dear, For he 's ilka thing lordly to me: His words are sae sugar'd and sweet! His sense drives ilk fear far awa'! I listen, poor fool! and I greet; Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'! "Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer, "Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we 've little to brag o', near fear— What 's gowd to a heart that is wae? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care; Now we, though we 've naething but health, Are cantie and leal evermair. "O Marion! the heart that is true, Has something mair costly than gear! Ilk e'en it has naething to rue, Ilk morn it has naething to fear. Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store, And tremble for fear aught ye tyne; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine!" He ends wi' a kiss and a smile— Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss? My laddie 's unpractised in guile, He 's free aye to daut and to kiss! Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks—I hae gi'en my consent, And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!
DONALD AND FLORA.[16]
I.
When merry hearts were gay, Careless of aught but play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sadd'ning to Mora;[17] Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As to the troubled air She vented her sorrow.
II.
"Loud howls the stormy wist, Cold, cold is winter's blast; Haste, then, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora."
III.
"'Where now is Donald dear?' Maids cry with taunting sneer; 'Say, is he still sincere To his loved Flora?' Parents upbraid my moan, Each heart is turn'd to stone: 'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone, Friendless in Mora!'
IV.
"Come, then, O come away! Donald, no longer stay; Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora! Ah! sure he ne'er can be False to his vows and me; Oh, Heaven!—is not yonder he, Bounding o'er Mora!"
V.
"Never, ah! wretched fair!" Sigh'd the sad messenger, "Never shall Donald mair Meet his loved Flora! Cold as yon mountain snow Donald thy love lies low; He sent me to soothe thy woe, Weeping in Mora.
VI.
"Well fought our gallant men On Saratoga's plain; Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, ah! though our foes did flee, Sad was such victory— Truth, love, and loyalty Fell far from Mora.
VII.
"'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,' Donald, expiring, said; 'Give it to yon dear maid Drooping in Mora. Tell her, O Allan! tell Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora.'"
VIII.
Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair; Then, striking her bosom bare, Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!" Was all the fond heart could say: At length the sound died away Feebly in Mora.
MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY.[18]
Tune—"Ye Jacobites by name."
My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, Fighting brave for royalty: He may ne'er his Jeanie see— Send him hame. He 's as brave as brave can be—send him hame, send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be—send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be, He wad rather fa' than flee; His life is dear to me— Send him hame. Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame, Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Germanie, In the cause of royalty, Bonnie dame. He 'll ne'er come ower the sea—Willie 's slain, Willie 's slain; He 'll ne'er come ower the sea—Willie 's gane! He 'll ne'er come ower the sea, To his love and ain countrie: This warld 's nae mair for me— Willie 's gane!
DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.[19]
Tune—"Clunie's Reel."
"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee." "Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me." "It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I 'll come again and see thee." "Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie; And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie." "Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I 'll come again and see thee." "Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie; And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me." "Oh, never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee! Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee; E'en let the world gang as it will, I 'll stay at hame and cheer ye." Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;" Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;" Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie; I 'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie."