If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca' the, &c.
While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
TUNE "Neil Gow's Lament."
THERE'S a youth in this city,
It were a great pity,
That he frae our lasses should wander awa';
For he's bonnie an' braw,
Weel-favoured with a',
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.
His coat is the hue
Of his bonnet sae blue;
His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,
And his shoon like the slae,
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.
For beauty and fortune
The laddie's been courtin';
Weel featured, weel tocher'd, weel mounted, and braw
But chiefly the siller,
That gars him gang
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'.
There's Meg wi' the mailen
That fain wad a haen him;
And Susie, whose daddie was laird o' the ha';
There's lang-tochered Nancy
Maist fetters his fancy;
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.
JOHN Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
Yet blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we mann totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
WILLIE BREWED A PECK O' MAUT,
[These verses were composed to celebrate a visit which the Poet and Allan Masterton made to William Nichol, of the High-school, Edinburgh, who happened to be at Moffat during the autumn vacation. The air is by Masterton.]
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 find in Christendie.
We are na' fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw',
But ay 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 loon is he!
Who last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three !
We are na' fou, were nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw',
But ay we'll taste the barley-bree.
TUNE-" Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."
THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray,
That lovest to greet the early mʊrn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed 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, thick'ning, green;
The fragraut birch and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry 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?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF MUIR,
BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF LAR.
"O CAM' ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?"
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin' 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 thre,e man.
The red-coat lads wi' black cockades
To meet them were na slaw, man,
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
And mony a bouk did fa', man.
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles :
They hack'd and hash'd while broadswords clash'd,
And through 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 dared our whigs.
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When hayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.
"O how de'il, 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, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And monie 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 good will
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,
And so it goes you see, 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 monie 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.
I GAED A WAEFU' GATE, YESTREEN.
TUNE " Blathrie o't"
I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
"Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips, like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white;-
It was her een sae bonnie blue.
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