Volume 6 / Part 2 — JOHN HAMILTON.
Reading edition
Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils—a young lady of birth and fortune—whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations. He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song entitle his name to an honourable place.
THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN.
Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb, I met, as skiffin' ower the green, A jolly, rantin' Highlandman. His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet, And ilka smile my favour wan; I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad As this young rantin' Highlandman. He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer; Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang? Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me, And wed a rantin' Highlandman? In summer days, on flow'ry braes, When frisky are the ewe and lamb, I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid, And be your rantin' Highlandman. "Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell, I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang, If ye 'll consent to scour the bent Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman. We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock, Syne do the best that e'er we can; Then come, my dear, ye needna fear To trust a rantin' Highlandman." His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart, And fain I wad hae gi'en my han'; Yet durstna, lest my mither should Dislike a rantin' Highlandman. But I expect he will come back; Then, though my kin should scauld and ban, I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will, Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.
UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY.[25]
Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south; The drift is drifting sairly; The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch; Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly! Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed Than rise in the mornin' early. Loud roars the blast amang the woods, And tirls the branches barely; On hill and house hear how it thuds! The frost is nippin' sairly. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; To sit a' nicht wad better agree Than rise in the mornin' early. The sun peeps ower yon southland hills, Like ony timorous carlie; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again; And that we find severely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek, Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early? Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush: Poor things! they suffer sairly; In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht, A' day they feed but sparely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; A pennyless purse I wad rather dree, Than rise in the mornin' early. A cosie house and canty wife Aye keep a body cheerly; And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink, They answer unco rarely. But up in the mornin'—na, na, na! Up in the mornin' early! The gowans maun glint on bank and brae When I rise in the mornin' early.
GO TO BERWICK, JOHNNIE.[26]
Go to Berwick, Johnnie; Bring her frae the Border; Yon sweet bonnie lassie, Let her gae nae farther. English loons will twine ye O' the lovely treasure; But we 'll let them ken A sword wi' them we 'll measure. Go to Berwick, Johnnie, And regain your honour; Drive them ower the Tweed, And show our Scottish banner. I am Rob, the King, And ye are Jock, my brither; But, before we lose her, We 'll a' there thegither.
MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF.
Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green! The blest retreats of peace an' love; Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence, With my young swain a while to rove. Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk, Among the beauties of the spring; An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank, To hear the feather'd warblers sing. The azure sky, the hills around, Gave double beauty to the scene; The lofty spires of Banff in view— On every side the waving grain. The tales of love my Jamie told, In such a saft an' moving strain, Have so engaged my tender heart, I 'm loth to leave the place again. But if the Fates will be sae kind As favour my return once more, For to enjoy the peace of mind In those retreats I had before: Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds Do bear me hence—I must away; Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back, To part nae mair from scenes so gay.
TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?
Tell me, Jessie, tell me why My fond suit you still deny? Is your bosom cold as snow? Did you never feel for woe? Can you hear, without a sigh, Him complain who for you could die? If you ever shed a tear, Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear! Life to me is not more dear Than the hour brings Jessie here; Death so much I do not fear As the parting moment near. Summer smiles are not so sweet As the bloom upon your cheek; Nor the crystal dew so clear As your eyes to me appear. These are part of Jessie's charms, Which the bosom ever warms; But the charms by which I 'm stung, Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue! Jessie, be no longer coy; Let me taste a lover's joy; With your hand remove the dart, And heal the wound that 's in my heart.
THE HAWTHORN.
Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air; He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale. He said he had loved me both long and sincere, That none on the green was so gentle and fair; I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c. "Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove, How charming their song, and enticing to love! The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale, And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"— That blooms in the valley, &c. His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind, Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind; My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c. Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay, But leave me he would not, nor let me away; Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, &c. Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse? His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows! We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still, And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale— That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.
OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN' WINDS![27]
Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees! Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me, That 's aye sae neat and clean; Ae blink of her wad banish care, Sae lovely is my Jean. What sighs and vows, amang the knowes, Hae pass'd atween us twa! How fain to meet, how wae to part, That day she gaed awa'! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet, lovely Jean.