Part 3

The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide, And o’er the Lowlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green.

[Illustration:

She trippèd by the banks of Earn As light’s a bird upon a thorn.]

HIGHLAND MARY

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp’d her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, Our parting was fu’ tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death’s untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft have kiss’d sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould’ring now in silent dust, That heart that lo’ed me dearly! But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary.

AFTON WATER

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among 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 stock-dove 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.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

DAINTY DAVIE

Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi’ my Davie.

Meet me on the warlock knowe, Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, There I’ll spend the day wi’ you, My ain dear dainty Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa’, The merry birds are lovers a’, The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi’ my Davie.

When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then through the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu’ Davie.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, I flee to his arms I lo’e best, And that’s my ain dear Davie.

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 farewell, 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, Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from 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 boune to sleep, I think on him that’s far awa’, The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.

WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS

When I think on the happy days I spent wi’ you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi’ my dearie.

THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears down came— ‘There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

‘Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moment my words are the same— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.’

KENMURE’S ON AND AWA

O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie! O Kenmure’s on and awa! And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! Success to Kenmure’s band; There’s no a heart that fears a Whig That rides by Kenmure’s hand.

Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine; There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.

O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie! O Kenmure’s lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true— And that their faes shall ken.

They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie! They’ll live or die wi’ fame; But soon, wi’ sounding victorie, May Kenmure’s lord come hame!

Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! Here’s him that’s far awa; And here’s the flower that I love best— The rose that’s like the snaw!

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, Thou lov’st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow’d grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace— Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev’ry spray, Till too too soon, the glowing west Proclaim’d the speed of wingèd day.

Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

[Illustration:

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green.]

LOGAN BRAES

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie’s bride; And years sinsyne hae o’er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow’ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan Braes.

Again the merry month o’ May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, And evening’s tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a’ surveys, While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil, Or wi’ his song her cares beguile: But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow’d nights and joyless days, While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes.

O wae upon you, men o’ state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry? But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan Braes!

ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR

‘O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? Or were you at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?’ I saw the battle, sair and teugh, And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh; My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush’d and push’d, and blude out-gush’d, And mony a bouk did fa’, man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glancèd twenty miles: They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack’d and hash’d, while broadswords clash’d, And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar’d our whigs, And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When baig’nets overpower’d the targe, And thousands hasten’d to the charge, Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o’ death, till, out of breath, They fled like frighted doos, man.

‘O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man: I saw mysel, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; But, cursèd lot! the gates were shut, And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man.’

My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae guid-will, That day their neibors’ blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o’ brose, they scared at blows, And hameward fast did flee, man.

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen Amang the Highland clans, man; I fear my lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; But mony bade the world guid-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets’ knell, Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man.

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Gray came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh, Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’, Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Meg grew sick as he grew haill, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan was a lad o’ grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Maggie’s was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; Now they’re crouse and cantie baith! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

MY NANNIE O

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, ’Mang moors an’ mosses many O, The wintry sun the day has clos’d, And I’ll awa’ to Nannie O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shill, The night’s baith mirk and rainy O; But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll steal, An’ owre the hill to Nannie O.

My Nannie’s charming, sweet, and young: Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye O: May ill befa’ the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she’s bonnie O: The opening gowan, wat wi’ dew, Nae purer is than Nannie O.

A country lad is my degree, An’ few there be that ken me O; But what care I how few they be, I’m welcome aye to Nannie O.

My riches a’s my penny-fee, An’ I maun guide it cannie O; But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me, My thoughts are a’ my Nannie O.

Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie O: But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh, An’ has nae care but Nannie O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I’ll tak what Heav’n will send me O; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an’ love my Nannie O.

THE RIGS O’ BARLEY

It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light I held awa to Annie: The time flew by wi’ tentless heed, Till ’tween the late and early, Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed To see me thro’ the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down wi’ right good will Amang the rigs o’ barley; I kent her heart was a’ my ain; I loved her most sincerely; I kissed her owre and owre again Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I locked her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely; My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o’ barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly, She aye shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu’ gatherin’ gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a’, Amang the rigs o’ barley.

Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, An’ corn rigs are bonnie: I’ll ne’er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’, In ev’ry hour that passes O; What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere na for the lasses O.

Green grow the rashes O, Green grow the rashes O; The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses O!

The warly race may riches chase, An’ riches still may fly them O; An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them O.

But gie me a canny hour at e’en, My arms about my dearie O; An’ warly cares, an’ warly men, May a’ gae tapsalteerie O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye’re nought but senseless asses O: The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw, He dearly lov’d the lasses O.

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes O; Her prentice han’ she tried on man, An’ then she made the lasses O.

A WINTER NIGHT

When biting Boreas, fell and dour, Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, Far south the lift, Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r Or whirling drift;

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl;

List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O’ winter war, And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! That, in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee? Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, An’ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d, Lone from your savage homes exil’d,— The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoil’d My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats.

Now Phœbe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffl’d, view’d the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole:—

‘Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heav’n-illumin’d man on brother man bestows! See stern Oppression’s iron grip, Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o’er a land!

Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o’er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin’d, Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour’s lofty brow, The pow’rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim To bless himself alone? Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares; This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity’s rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray’rs! Perhaps this hour, in mis’ry’s squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call, Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushèd low, By cruel fortune’s undeservèd blow? Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!’

I heard nae mair; for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail’d the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress’d my mind— Thro’ all His works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.

[Illustration:

When biting Boreas, fell and dour, Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r.]

THE RICHES OF THE POOR

(TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET)

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down, to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, In hamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift, That live sae bien an’ snug; I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursèd pride.

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar’d; How best o’ chiels are whyles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair’t: But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head, Tho’ we hae little gear, We’re fit to win our daily bread, As lang’s we’re hale and fier: ‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’ Auld age ne’er mind a feg; The last o’t, the warst o’t, Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en, When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could mak us blest; Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that’s free frae a’ Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba’, Has aye some cause to smile: And mind still, you’ll find still, A comfort this nae sma’; Nae mair then, we’ll care then, Nae farther can we fa’.

What tho’, like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal’? Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We’ll sit and sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t, And sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank; It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It’s no in making muckle, mair: It’s no in books, it’s no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart aye’s the part aye That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry, Wi’ never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while? Alas! how oft in haughty mood, God’s creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless, and fearless, Of either heav’n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It’s a’ an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce; Nor make our scanty pleasures less By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some, An’s thankfu’ for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel; They mak us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho’ losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There’s wit there, ye’ll get there, Ye’ll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt’ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne’er could buy; And joys the very best. There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart, The lover an’ the frien’; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a’ on flame!