Part 4

O all ye pow’rs who rule above! O Thou, whose very self art love! Thou know’st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray’r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since this world’s thorny ways Had number’d out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean.

O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin’, rank and file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phœbus and the famous Nine Were glowrin’ owre my pen. My spavied Pegasus will limp, Till ance he’s fairly het; And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An’ rin an unco fit: But lest then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I’ll light now, and dight now His sweaty wizen’d hide.

THO’ CRUEL FATE

Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, Wide as the pole and line; Her dear idea round my heart Should tenderly entwine.

Tho’ mountains rise and deserts howl And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean.

TAM GLEN

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity; But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?

I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen’; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller, ‘Guid-day to you, brute!’ he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o’ his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o’ young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him, He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten: For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin’ My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness came up the house stalkin’— And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen!

Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry; I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake o’ somebody! Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o’ somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o’ somebody!

O, FOR ANE AN’ TWENTY, TAM!

An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! An’ hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam.

They snool me sair, and haud me down, An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam! But three short years will soon wheel roun’, An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam.

A gleib o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; But hear’st thou, laddie? there’s my loof, I’m thine at ane and twenty, Tam!

O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN?

O, wat ye wha’s in yon town, Ye see the e’enin sun upon? The dearest maid’s in yon town, That e’enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree: How blest ye flow’rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Jeanie dear!

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes sae green; But my delight in yon town, And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.

Without my love, not a’ the charms O’ Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Jeanie in my arms, And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky!

My cave wad be a lover’s bower, Tho’ raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun’s gane down upon; A fairer than’s in yon town, His setting beam ne’er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom’d to bear; I careless quit all else below, But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear.

For while life’s dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart, And she—as fairest is her form, She has the truest, kindest heart.

O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE

I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place: It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that’s in her e’e.

O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho’ the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e’e.

She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that’s in her e’e.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a’ unseen; But gleg as light are lovers’ e’en, When kind love is in the e’e.

It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learnèd clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that’s in her e’e.

I’LL AYE CA’ IN BY YON TOWN

I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, And by yon garden green again; I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again.

There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess, What brings me back the gate again, But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass, And stownlins we sall meet again.

She’ll wander by the aiken tree When trystin-time draws near again; And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she’s doubly dear again!

THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie: Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie, I’ve seen the day, Thou could hae gane like ony staggie Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, An’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie, I’ve seen thee dappled, sleek an’ glaizie, A bonnie gray: He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank, An’ set weel down a shapely shank, As e’er tread yird; An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year, Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere; He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, An’ fifty mark; Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear, An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin’ wi’ your minnie: Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, Ye ne’er was donsie; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, An’ unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, Wi’ maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, An’ wintle like a saumont-coble, That day ye was a jinker noble For heels an’ win’! An’ ran them till they a’ did wobble Far, far behin’.

When thou an’ I were young and skeigh, An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh An’ tak the road! Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow: At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow For pith an’ speed; But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, Where’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpled, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle, An’ gart them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O’ saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours’ gaun, On guid March-weather, Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’, For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, Wi’ pith an’ pow’r, Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit, An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep, An’ threaten’d labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer; I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; But, just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa That thou hast nurst; They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, The very warst.

Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought, An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! An’ mony an anxious day I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, Wi’ something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan’, That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’, An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’; For my last fou, A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether To some hain’d rig, Where ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

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 lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?

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.

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.

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.

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest; Enclaspèd to my faithfu’ breast, I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O.

THE POSIE

O Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear, For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view, For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonny mou; The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day, But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near, And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear: The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove, And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.

MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T

My lord a-hunting he is gane, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane, By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame.

My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.

My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude, But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed.

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Where gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns: The diamond dew in her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims.

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie that a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to make him blest.

My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786

Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet Wi’ spreckl’d breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade, By love’s simplicity betray’d, And guileless trust, Till she like thee, all soil’d, is laid Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d: Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n To mis’ry’s brink, Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight Shall be thy doom!

[Illustration:

Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour.]

THOUGHTS IN WINTER

The wintry wast extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae: And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

‘The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,’ The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest,—they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE

Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang, Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, 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.

A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’, A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’; When at the blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past?

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae: Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain, My warst word is—‘Welcome, and welcome again!’

JOHN BARLEYCORN

A BALLAD

There was three Kings into the east, Three Kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu’ Spring came kindly on, And show’rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To shew their deadly rage.

They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell’d him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They fillèd up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heavèd in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe, And still, as signs of life appear’d, They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us’d him worst of all, For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, ’Twill make your courage rise;

’Twill make a man forget his woe; ’Twill heighten all his joy: ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, Tho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

WILLIE BREWED

O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, And Rob and Allan cam to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wad na found in Christendie.

We are na fou’, we’re no that fou, But just a drappie in our e’e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree!

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we’ve merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth! she’ll wait a wee.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa’, He is the King among us three!

COUNT THE LAWIN

Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light, For ale and brandy’s stars and moon, And bluid-red wine’s the risin sun.

Then guidwife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then guidwife, count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair.

There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, And semple-folk maun fecht and fen’, But here we’re a’ in ae accord, For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.

My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An’ ye drink it a’ ye’ll find him out.

RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE

O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie O, he held to the fair, An’ for to sell his fiddle, And buy some other ware; But parting wi’ his fiddle, The saut tear blin’t his e’e; And rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, Ye’re welcome hame to me!

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine; O Willie, come sell your fiddle, And buy a pint o’ wine! If I should sell my fiddle, The warl’ would think I was mad; For mony a rantin’ day My fiddle and I hae had.

As I cam by Crochallan, I cannily keekit ben— Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie Was sitting at yon board en’; Sitting at yon board en’, And amang guid companie; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, Ye’re welcome hame to me!

AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP

(TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD)

While briers an’ woodbines budding green, An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en, An’ morning poussie whiddin’ seen, Inspire my Muse, This freedom, in an unknown frien’, I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin’, To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’; And there was muckle fun and jokin’, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin’ At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife: It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel, What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie’s wark!’ They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin’ fain to hear’t, And sae about him there I spier’d; Then a’ that kenn’d him round declar’d He had ingine, That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, It was sae fine.