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Part IPart I
Part I
Song - Handsome Nell^1
Tune - "I am a man unmarried."
[Footnote 1: The first of my performances. - R. B.]
Once I lov`d a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I`ll love my handsome Nell.
As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu` mein,
The like I never saw.
A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e`e;
But, without some better qualities,
She`s no a lass for me.
But Nelly`s looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a`,
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there`s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it`s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
`Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
`Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
Song - O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day
Tune - "Invercauld`s Reel, or Strathspey."
Choir. - O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna 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 stour;
Ye geck at me because I`m poor,
But fient a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
When coming hame on Sunday last,
Upon the road as I cam past,
Ye snufft and ga`e your head a cast-
But trowth I care`t na by.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak` my advice:
Your daddie`s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
There lives a lass beside yon park,
I`d rather hae her in her sark,
Than you wi` a` your thousand mark;
That gars you look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
Song - I Dream`d I Lay
I dream`d I lay where flowers were springing
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List`ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro` the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O`er the swelling drumlie wave.
Such was my life`s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A` my flowery bliss destroy`d.
Tho` fickle fortune has deceiv`d me-
She promis`d fair, and perform`d but ill,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav`d me-
I bear a heart shall support me still.
Song - In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
Tune - "Go from my window, Love, do."
The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retired to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;
But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lies the dear partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment at rest:
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low!
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
I once was by Fortune carest:
I once could relieve the distrest:
Now life`s poor support, hardly earn`d
My fate will scarce bestow:
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!
But then my wife and children dear-
O, wither would they go!
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
O whither, O whither shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!
For, in this world, Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it`s O, fickle Fortune, O!
Tragic Fragment
All devil as I am-a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere but unavailing sighs
I view the helpless children of distress:
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man`s destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. -
Ev`n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn`d o`er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow`d me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused-
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
Tarbolton Lasses, The
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye`ll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth`s a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin`.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o` Mysie;
She`s dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye`ll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye`ll dispense wi` want o` sense-
She kens hersel she`s bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She`ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.
There`s few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
In a` King George` dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o` this-
It`s Bessy`s ain opinion!
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.
Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!
A man of strife ye`ve born me:
For sair contention I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and scorn me.
I ne`er could lend on bill or band,
That five per cent. might blest me;
And borrowing, on the tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust me.
Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!
Montgomerie`s Peggy
Tune - "Galla Water."
Altho` my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie;
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomerie`s Peggy.
When o`er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I`d seek some dell, and in my arms
I`d shelter dear Montgomerie`s Peggy.
Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready;
Then a` `twad gie o` joy to me, -
The sharin`t with Montgomerie`s Peggy.
Ploughman`s Life, The
As I was a-wand`ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin`, thir words he did say, -
There`s nae life like the ploughman`s in the month o` sweet May.
The lav`rock in the morning she`ll rise frae her nest,
And mount i` the air wi` the dew on her breast,
And wi` the merry ploughman she`ll whistle and sing,
And at night she`ll return to her nest back again.
Ronalds Of The Bennals, The
In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a`, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a`, man.
Their father`s laird, and weel he can spare`t,
Braid money to tocher them a`, man;
To proper young men, he`ll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.
There`s ane they ca` Jean, I`ll warrant ye`ve seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she`ll vie wi` the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a`, man.
The charms o` the min`, the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien`,
A hint o` a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o` Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.
The Laird o` Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o` the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a`, man.
Then Anna comes in, the pride o` her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a`, man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
If I should detail the pick and the wale
O` lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau`t wad be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o` them a`, man.
I lo`e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o` rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a`, man.
Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
Nor hae`t in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach`s as proud as them a`, man.
Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o`er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi` the best o` the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o` the best,
O`pairs o` guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne`er a wrang steek in them a`, man.
My sarks they are few, but five o` them new,
Twal` hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man.
I never had frien`s weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher`d aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a`, man.
I never was cannie for hoarding o` money,
Or claughtin`t together at a`, man;
I`ve little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.
Song - Here`s To Thy Health
Tune - "Laggan Burn."
Here`s to thy health, my bonie lass,
Gude nicht and joy be wi` thee;
I`ll come nae mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo`e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care,
How lang ye look about ye.
Thou`rt aye sae free informing me,
Thou hast nae mind to marry;
I`ll be as free informing thee,
Nae time hae I to tarry:
I ken thy frien`s try ilka means
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance,
But fortune may betray thee.
I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
For I`m as free as any he;
Sma` siller will relieve me.
I`ll count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I`ll enjoy it;
I`ll fear nae scant, I`ll bode nae want,
As lang`s I get employment.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And, aye until ye try them,
Tho` they seem fair, still have a care;
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal` at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I`ll come and see thee;
For the man that loves his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.
Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1
[Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant wench,
daughter of a "Farmer Lang".]
A Song of Similes
Tune - "If he be a Butcher neat and trim."
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
Could I describe her shape and mein;
Our lasses a` she far excels,
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She`s sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o`er the lawn;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She`s stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She`s spotless like the flow`ring thorn,
With flow`rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev`ning Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e`en,
When flow`r-reviving rains are past;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her forehead`s like the show`ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene
And gild the distant mountain`s brow;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her bosom`s like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm`ring streamlets flow;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen;
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom`d bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her voice is like the ev`ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An` she has twa sparkling roguish een.
But it`s not her air, her form, her face,
Tho` matching beauty`s fabled queen;
`Tis the mind that shines in ev`ry grace,
An` chiefly in her roguish een.
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