Part 27

Love For Love

Ithers seek they ken na what, Features, carriage, and a’ that; Gie me love in her I court, Love to love maks a’ the sport.

Let love sparkle in her e’e; Let her lo’e nae man but me; That’s the tocher-gude I prize, There the luver’s treasure lies.

Saw Ye Bonie Lesley

O saw ye bonie Lesley, As she gaed o’er the Border? She’s gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects, we before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o’ men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He’d look into thy bonie face, And say—“I canna wrang thee!”

The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha’na steer thee; Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There’s nane again sae bonie.

Fragment Of Song

No cold approach, no altered mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest—and broke my heart.

I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig

When o’er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow’d field Return sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where birken buds Wi’ dew are hangin clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie, O, If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind Dearie O; Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, And I were ne’er sae weary O, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo’es the morning sun; To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen Adown the burn to steer, my jo: Gie me the hour o’ gloamin’ grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.

My Wife’s A Winsome Wee Thing

Air—“My Wife’s a Wanton Wee Thing.”

Chorus.—She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo’esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o’ mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo’ed a dearer, And neist my heart I’ll wear her, For fear my jewel tine, She is a winsome, &c.

The warld’s wrack we share o’t; The warstle and the care o’t; Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. She is a winsome, &c.

Highland Mary

Tune—“Katherine Ogie.”

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 Farewell 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 hae kiss’d sae fondly! And clos’d for aye, the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo’ed me dearly! But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Auld Rob Morris

There’s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He’s the King o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie lass, his dautie 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 lambs 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 hop’d she wad smil’d upon me! O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction nae words can express.

The Rights Of Woman

An Occasional Address.

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.

While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things, The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the Sexes’ intermix’d connection, One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.— The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion; Each man of sense has it so full before him, He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.— There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay even thus invade a Lady’s quiet.

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred— Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest; Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, Most humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life—immortal love. Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs; ’Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares, When awful Beauty joins with all her charms— Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions; Let Majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!

Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character

Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning Nature, torturing art; Loves and Graces all rejected, Then indeed thou’d’st act a part.

Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson

Dost thou not rise, indignant shade, And smile wi’ spurning scorn, When they wha wad hae starved thy life, Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae, Wi’ meikle honest toil, And claught th’ unfading garland there— Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.

And wear it thou! and call aloud This axiom undoubted— Would thou hae Nobles’ patronage? First learn to live without it!

To whom hae much, more shall be given, Is every Great man’s faith; But he, the helpless, needful wretch, Shall lose the mite he hath.

Duncan Gray

Duncan Gray cam’ 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 e’en baith blear’t an’ 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 hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And oh! 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 could na be her death, Swelling Pity smoor’d his wrath; Now they’re crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Here’s A Health To Them That’s Awa

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never gude luck be their fa’! It’s gude to be merry and wise, It’s gude to be honest and true; It’s gude to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to Charlie1 the chief o’ the clan, Altho’ that his band be but sma’! May Liberty meet wi’ success! May Prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine i’ the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s a health to Tammie,2 the Norlan’ laddie, That lives at the lug o’ the law! Here’s freedom to them that wad read, Here’s freedom to them that wad write,

There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, But they whom the truth would indite.

Here’s a Health to them that’s awa, An’ here’s to them that’s awa! Here’s to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like ’em Be built in a hole in the wa’; Here’s timmer that’s red at the heart Here’s fruit that is sound at the core; And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn’d to the back o’ the door.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s chieftain M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho’ bred amang mountains o’ snaw; Here’s friends on baith sides o’ the firth, And friends on baith sides o’ the Tweed; And wha wad betray old Albion’s right, May they never eat of her bread!

A Tippling Ballad

On the Duke of Brunswick’s Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.

When Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots, A’Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down, Nor envies a crown, And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow, And comforts himself as he dow.

The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle, He hunted o’er height and o’er howe, In the braes o’ Gemappe, He fell in a trap, E’en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow, E’en let him come out as he dow.

But truce with commotions, And new-fangled notions, A bumper, I trust you’ll allow; Here’s George our good king, And Charlotte his queen, And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow, And lang may they ring as they dow.

1793

Poortith Cauld And Restless Love

Tune—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”

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

Chorus—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?

The warld’s wealth, when I think on, It’s pride and a’ the lave o’t; O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t! O why, &c.

Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword aye, She talks o’ rank and fashion. O why, &c.

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? O why, &c.

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, &c.

On Politics

In Politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see.

Braw Lads O’ Galla Water

Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amang the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o’ Galla Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a’ I loe him better; And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine, The bonie lad o’ Galla Water.

Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure.

Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday,

On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.

Wandering Willie—First Version

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e: Now welcome the Simmer, and welcome my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me.

Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o’your slumbers, O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he’s forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, O still flow 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!

Wandering Willie—Revised Version

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 in my e’e, Welcome now the 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!

Lord Gregory

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar; A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father’s ha’, And a’ for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side, Where first I own’d that virgin love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true, It ne’er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, O, wilt thou bring me rest! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see; But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me.

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 beyond 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 the pale corse on the plain, oh: “My true love!” she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh.

Lovely Young Jessie

True hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr; But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily, at evening close; But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law: And still to her charms she alone is a stranger; Her modest demeanour’s the jewel of a’.

Meg O’ The Mill

O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten, An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten? She gotten a coof wi’ a claut o’ siller, And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; The laird was a widdifu’, bleerit knurl; She’s left the gude fellow, and taen the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving, The lair did address her wi’ matter mair moving, A fine pacing-horse wi’ a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin’, And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl’!

Meg O’ The Mill—Another Version

O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten, An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten? A braw new naig wi’ the tail o’ a rottan, And that’s what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten.

O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly, An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly? A dram o’ gude strunt in the morning early, And that’s what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly.

O ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was married, An’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was married? The priest he was oxter’d, the clark he was carried, And that’s how Meg o’ the Mill was married.

O ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded, An’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded? The groom gat sae fou’, he fell awald beside it, And that’s how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded.

The Soldier’s Return

Air—“The Mill, mill, O.”

When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I’d been a lodger, My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder; And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander: I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy.