Part 26

Dearly bought the hidden treasure Finer feelings can bestow: Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

The Toadeater

Of Lordly acquaintance you boast, And the Dukes that you dined wi’ yestreen, Yet an insect’s an insect at most, Tho’ it crawl on the curl of a Queen!

Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington

As cauld a wind as ever blew, A cauld kirk, an in’t but few: As cauld a minister’s e’er spak; Ye’se a’ be het e’er I come back.

The Keekin’-Glass

How daur ye ca’ me howlet-face, Ye blear-e’ed, withered spectre? Ye only spied the keekin’-glass, An’ there ye saw your picture.

A Grace Before Dinner, Extempore

O thou who kindly dost provide For every creature’s want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, For all Thy goodness lent: And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted, or denied, Lord, bless us with content. Amen!

A Grace After Dinner, Extempore

O thou, in whom we live and move— Who made the sea and shore; Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore; And, if it please Thee, Power above! Still grant us, with such store, The friend we trust, the fair we love— And we desire no more. Amen!

O May, Thy Morn

O may, thy morn was ne’er so sweet As the mirk night o’ December! For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will aye remember: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will aye remember.

And here’s to them that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum! And here’s to them that wish us weel, May a’ that’s guid watch o’er ’em! And here’s to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum! And here’s to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum.

Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever

Tune—“Rory Dall’s Port.”

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweeli alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive

Behold the hour, the boat, arrive! My dearest Nancy, O fareweel! Severed frae thee, can I survive, Frae thee whom I hae lov’d sae weel?

Endless and deep shall be my grief; LNae ray of comfort shall I see, But this most precious, dear belief, That thou wilt still remember me!

Alang the solitary shore Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I’ll westward turn my wishful eye.

“Happy thou Indian grove,” I’ll say, “Where now my Nancy’s path shall be! While thro’ your sweets she holds her way, O tell me, does she muse on me?”

Thou Gloomy December

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember— Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair!

Fond lovers’ parting is sweet, painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure!

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown; Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Till my last hope and last comfort is gone.

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair.

My Native Land Sae Far Awa

O sad and heavy, should I part, But for her sake, sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa.

Thou that of a’ things Maker art, That formed this Fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start At this my way sae far awa.

How true is love to pure desert! Like mine for her sae far awa; And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, While, oh, she is sae far awa!

Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but her’s sae far awa; But fairer never touch’d a heart Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa.

1792

I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair

Alteration of an Old Poem.

I Do confess thou art sae fair, I was been o’er the lugs in luve, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art so thriftless o’ thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue, When pu’d and worn a common toy.

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile; And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, Like ony common weed and vile.

Lines On Fergusson, The Poet

Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun To shed its influence on thy bright career.

O why should truest Worth and Genius pine Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

The Weary Pund O’ Tow

Chorus.—The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o’ tow; I think my wife will end her life, Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o’ lint, As gude as e’er did grow, And a’ that she has made o’ that Is ae puir pund o’ tow. The weary pund, &c.

There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low; And aye she took the tither souk, To drouk the stourie tow. The weary pund, &c.

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o’ tow! She took the rock, and wi’ a knock, She brak it o’er my pow. The weary pund, &c.

At last her feet—I sang to see’t! Gaed foremost o’er the knowe, And or I wad anither jad, I’ll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, &c.

When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed

O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, And when she cam’ ben, she kiss’d Cockpen, And syne denied she did it at a’.

And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? In leaving the daughter of a lord, And kissin’ a collier lassie an’ a’!

O never look down, my lassie, at a’, O never look down, my lassie, at a’, Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, As the finest dame in castle or ha’.

Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark, And lady Jean was never sae braw.

Scroggam, My Dearie

There was a wife wonn’d in Cockpen, Scroggam; She brew’d gude ale for gentlemen; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

The gudewife’s dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam; The priest o’ the parish he fell in anither; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

They laid the twa i’ the bed thegither, Scroggam; That the heat o’ the tane might cool the tither; Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

My Collier Laddie

“Whare live ye, my bonie lass? And tell me what they ca’ ye;” “My name,” she says, “is mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier laddie.” “My name, she says, &c.

“See you not yon hills and dales The sun shines on sae brawlie; They a’ are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” “They a’ are mine, &c.

“Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel buskit up sae gaudy; And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” “And ane to wait, &c.

“Tho’ ye had a’ the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly, I wad turn my back on you and it a’, And embrace my Collier laddie.” “I wad turn my back, &c.

“I can win my five pennies in a day, An’ spen’t at night fu’ brawlie: And make my bed in the collier’s neuk, And lie down wi’ my Collier laddie.” “And make my bed, &c.

“Love for love is the bargain for me, Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud me; and the warld before me to win my bread, And fair fa’ my Collier laddie!” “And the warld before me, &c.

Sic A Wife As Willie Had

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie; Willie was a wabster gude, Could stown a clue wi’ ony body: He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e’e, she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller: A whiskin beard about her mou’, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shin’d, Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: She has a lump upon her breast, The twin o’ that upon her shouther; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin; But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

Lady Mary Ann

O lady Mary Ann looks o’er the Castle wa’, She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’, The youngest he was the flower amang them a’, My bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.

O father, O father, an ye think it fit, We’ll send him a year to the college yet, We’ll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue, And the longer it blossom’d the sweeter it grew, For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik, Bonie and bloomin’ and straught was its make, The sun took delight to shine for its sake, And it will be the brag o’ the forest yet.

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, And the days are awa’ that we hae seen, But far better days I trust will come again; For my bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.

Kellyburn Braes

There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; And he had a wife was the plague of his days, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; He met with the Devil, says, “How do you fen?” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

I’ve got a bad wife, sir, that’s a’ my complaint, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; “For, savin your presence, to her ye’re a saint,” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; “But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

“O welcome most kindly!” the blythe carl said, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; “But if ye can match her ye’re waur than ye’re ca’d,” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; And, like a poor pedlar, he’s carried his pack, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan door, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch, and a whore, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o’ his band, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme: Turn out on her guard in the clap o’ a hand, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

The carlin gaed thro’ them like ony wud bear, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; Whae’er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa’, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; “O help, maister, help, or she’ll ruin us a’!” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the edge o’ his knife, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; He pitied the man that was tied to a wife, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; He was not in wedlock, thank Heav’n, but in hell, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

Then Satan has travell’d again wi’ his pack, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; And to her auld husband he’s carried her back, And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

I hae been a Devil the feck o’ my life, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; “But ne’er was in hell till I met wi’ a wife,” And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.

The Slave’s Lament

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, For the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O.

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O:

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, In the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O; And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O:

O Can Ye Labour Lea?

Chorus—O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea? It fee nor bountith shall us twine Gin ye can labour lea.

I fee’d a man at Michaelmas, Wi’ airle pennies three; But a’ the faut I had to him, He could na labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O clappin’s gude in Febarwar, An’ kissin’s sweet in May; But my delight’s the ploughman lad, That weel can labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O kissin is the key o’ luve, And clappin’ is the lock; An’ makin’ o’s the best thing yet, That e’er a young thing gat. O can ye labour lea, &c.

The Deuks Dang O’er My Daddie

The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout, The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O! The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin’ body, O! He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn’ he paidles late and early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O.

O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O: I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O. I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose, And cuddl’d me late and early, O; But downa-do’s come o’er me now, And oh, I find it sairly, O!

The Deil’s Awa Wi’ The Exciseman

The deil cam fiddlin’ thro’ the town, And danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman, And ilka wife cries, “Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o’ the prize, man.”

Chorus—The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa, The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman, He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa, He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.

We’ll mak our maut, and we’ll brew our drink, We’ll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man, And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, That danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman. The deil’s awa, &c.

There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels, There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man, But the ae best dance ere came to the land Was—the deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman. The deil’s awa, &c.

The Country Lass

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav’d green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o’er the lea And roses blaw in ilka beild! Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says—“I’ll be wed, come o’t what will”: Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild; “O’ gude advisement comes nae ill.

“It’s ye hae wooers mony ane, And lassie, ye’re but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale A routhie butt, a routhie ben; There’s Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen, Fu’ is his barn, fu’ is his byre; Take this frae me, my bonie hen, It’s plenty beets the luver’s fire.”

“For Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie; He lo’es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae love to spare for me; But blythe’s the blink o’ Robie’s e’e, And weel I wat he lo’es me dear: Ae blink o’ him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.”

“O thoughtless lassie, life’s a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But aye fu’—han’t is fechtin’ best, A hungry care’s an unco care: But some will spend and some will spare, An’ wilfu’ folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.”

“O gear will buy me rigs o’ land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o’ leesome love, The gowd and siller canna buy; We may be poor—Robie and I— Light is the burden love lays on; Content and love brings peace and joy— What mair hae Queens upon a throne?”

Bessy And Her Spinnin’ Wheel

O Leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel, And leeze me on my rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me biel and warm at e’en; I’ll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal, O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie’s nest, And little fishes’ caller rest; The sun blinks kindly in the beil’, Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu’ tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither’s lays; The craik amang the claver hay, The pairtrick whirring o’er the ley, The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel.

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a’ the pride of a’ the great? Amid their flairing, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel?