Part 7

But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care, I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock. I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet— But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’.

He beggèd for Gudesake I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow: So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET

I am my mammie’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir; And lying in a man’s bed, I’m fley’d wad mak me eerie, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.

My mammie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t.

Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an’ I in ae bed, In troth I dare na venture, Sir.

Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir; But if ye come this gate again, I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’!

He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a’ that I can; He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I’ll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO

My heart was ance as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o’t Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi’ a net, In every knot and thrum.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca’d it roun’; But every shot and every knock, My heart it gae a stoun.

The moon was sinking in the west Wi’ visage pale and wan As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy’d me through the glen.

But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa’ me gin I tell; But oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel’s mysel.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

_My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither: The rigid righteous is a fool, The rigid wise anither: The cleanest corn that e’er was dight, May hae some pyles o’ caff in; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin._ SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16).

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour’s fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi’ store o’ water: The heaped happer’s ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter:

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door, For glaikit Folly’s portals; I, for their thoughtless careless sakes, Would here propone defences,— Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment’s fair regard— What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) Your better art o’ hidin’.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, It maks an unco leeway.

See Social life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias. Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.

CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES

Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang, Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.

We’ll gae down by Clouden side, Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide, O’er the waves that sweetly glide, To the moon sae clearly.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Yonder’s Clouden’s silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O’er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou’rt to love and Heav’n sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.

[Illustration:

Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang, Sounding Clouden’s woods amang.]

AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK

There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen; When a’ the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, And aye she sang sae merrily: The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad. The flower and pride of a’ the glen; And he had owsen, sheep and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst, He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o’ the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie’s wark, And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her e’e, As Robie tauld a tale o’ love, Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:

‘O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot, And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?

‘At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi’ me.’

Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na: At length she blush’d a sweet consent, And love was aye between them twa.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

‘Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, oh! Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, oh!

‘Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh!

‘The wan moon is setting ayont the white wave, And time is setting with me, oh! False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh!’

She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh! ‘My true love!’ she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh!

WANDERING WILLIE

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears to my e’e; Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, The Simmer to nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain!

OUT OVER THE FORTH

Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I lo’e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow’d that death Only should us sever; Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I’ll see thee never!

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is breaking; Soon my weary e’en I’ll close— Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne’er mair to waken!

ROWTH O’ RHYMES THE POET’S RICHES

(EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH, 1786)

Dear Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief That e’er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, And ev’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon Just gaun to see you; And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

That auld capricious carlin’, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature, She’s wrote ‘The Man.’

Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the country clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random shot O’ country wit.

This while my notion’s taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I’m that way bent, Something cries ‘Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye’ll shaw your folly.

‘There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors A’ future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters Their unknown pages.’

Then fareweel hopes o’ laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes My rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead, Forgot and gone!

But why o’ death begin a tale? Just now we’re living sound and hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave Care o’er side! And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand, Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu’ light.

The magic wand then let us wield: For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, Wi’ wrinkled face, Comes hoastin’, hirplin’ owre the field, Wi’ creepin’ pace.

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’ Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’; An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’, An’ social noise; An’ fareweel dear deluding woman, The joy of joys!

O life, how pleasant is thy morning, Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like schoolboys, at th’ expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves: And tho’ the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, For which they never toil’d nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey; Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan’, Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’, To right or left, eternal swervin’, They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’, They often groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— But truce wi’ peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel ‘Ye Pow’rs!’ and warm implore, ‘Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes.

‘Gie dreeping roasts to country lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour; And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner.

‘A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, In cent per cent; But gie me real, sterling wit, And I’m content.

‘While ye are pleased to keep me hale, I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi’ cheerfu’ face, As lang’s the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.’

An anxious e’e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath misfortune’s blows As weel’s I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke!

Nae hare-brain’d sentimental traces, In your unletter’d, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses, Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin’ squad: I see you upward cast your eyes— Ye ken the road.

Whilst I—but I shall haud me there— Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content with You to mak a pair, Where’er I gang.

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON

As cauld a wind as ever blew, A cauld kirk, and in’t but few; As cauld a minister’s ever spak— Ye’se a’ be het or I come back!

YE BANKS AND BRAES

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?

Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o’ its love, And fondly sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause lover stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

NOW WESTLIN WINDS

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn’s pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells; The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; The soaring hern the fountains: Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander; Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man’s dominion; The sportsman’s joy, the murdering cry, The fluttering, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!

AULD ROB MORRIS

There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me; O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

POORTITH CAULD

O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie.

O why should fate sic pleasure have Life’s dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune’s shining?

This warld’s wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,— O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am?

How blest the simple cotter’s fate! He woos his artless dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make him eerie.

O why should fate, etc.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day Ye would na been sae shy; For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure: Ye geck at me because I’m poor, But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o’ clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene’er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye’ll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu’ dry.

But if he hae the name o’ gear, Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark, For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark; Ye need na look sae high.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, Clos’d under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An’ let poor damnèd bodies be; I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, Ev’n to a deil, To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, An’ hear us squeal!