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Part XXVIPart XXVI
Part XXVI
Blythe Was She^1
tune-"Andro and his Cutty Gun."
Chorus.-Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.
By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o` Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flow`r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o` Earn,
As light`s a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her bonie face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne`er sae sweet,
As was the blink o` Phemie`s e`e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
[Footnote 1: Written at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray, a cousin
of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.-Lang.]
The Highland hills I`ve wander`d wide,
And o`er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A Rose-bud by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o` dawn are fled,
In a` its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o` the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew`d,
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent`s evening ray
That watch`d thy early morning.
Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruikshank^1
Honest Will to Heaven`s away
And mony shall lament him;
His fau`ts they a` in Latin lay,
In English nane e`er kent them.
song-The Banks Of The Devon
tune-"Bhanarach dhonn a` chruidh."
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flow`rs blooming fair!
But the boniest flow`r on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn;
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud rose:
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
Braving Angry Winter`s Storms
tune-"Neil Gow`s Lament for Abercairny."
Where, braving angry winter`s storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy`s charms
First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who by some savage stream
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish`d, doubly marks it beam
With art`s most polish`d blaze.
[Footnote 1: Of the Edinburgh High School.]
Blest be the wild, sequester`d shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy`s charms I first survey`d,
When first I felt their pow`r!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.
song-My Peggy`s Charms
tune-"Tha a` chailleach ir mo dheigh."
My Peggy`s face, my Peggy`s form,
The frost of hermit Age might warm;
My Peggy`s worth, my Peggy`s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy`s angel air,
Her face so truly heavenly fair,
Her native grace, so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy`s heart.
The lily`s hue, the rose`s dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose nobly dear,
The gentle look that rage disarms-
These are all Immortal charms.
The Young Highland Rover
tune-"Morag."
Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where`er he go, where`er he stray,
May heaven be his warden;
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonie Castle-Gordon!
The trees, now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi` leaves be hinging,
The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a` be blythely singing,
And every flower be springing;
Sae I`ll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty Warden
My youth`s return`d to fair Strathspey,
And bonie Castle-Gordon.
Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787^1
Afar the illustrious Exile roams,
Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;
An inmate in the casual shed,
On transient pity`s bounty fed,
Haunted by busy memory`s bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
But He, who should imperial purple wear,
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!
His wretched refuge, dark despair,
While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,
And distant far the faithful few
Who would his sorrows share.
False flatterer, Hope, away!
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,
And owning Heaven`s mysterious sway,
Submissive, low adore.
Ye honored, mighty Dead,
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your King, your Country, and her laws,
[Footnote 1: The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.]
From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led,
And fell a Martyr in her arms,
(What breast of northern ice but warms!)
To bold Balmerino`s undying name,
Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven`s high flame,
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:
Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie,
It only lags, the fatal hour,
Your blood shall, with incessant cry,
Awake at last, th` unsparing Power;
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along
With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale;
So Vengeance` arm, ensanguin`d, strong,
Shall with resistless might assail,
Usurping Brunswick`s pride shall lay,
And Stewart`s wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.
Perdition, baleful child of night!
Rise and revenge the injured right
Of Stewart`s royal race:
Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,
Till all the frighted echoes tell
The blood-notes of the chase!
Full on the quarry point their view,
Full on the base usurping crew,
The tools of faction, and the nation`s curse!
Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
They leave the lagging gale behind,
Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;
With murdering eyes already they devour;
See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
His life one poor despairing day,
Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
Such havock, howling all abroad,
Their utter ruin bring,
The base apostates to their God,
Or rebels to their King.
On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston,
Late Lord President of the Court of Session.
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o`er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a hollow moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly;
Where, to the whistling blast and water`s roar,
Pale Scotia`s recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne`er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway`d her rod:
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,
She sank, abandon`d to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times,
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation`s pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur`d Want recounts th` unlisten`d tale,
And much-wrong`d Mis`ry pours the unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains,
Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life`s social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure-
That would degenerate ages cannot cure.
Sylvander To Clarinda^1
Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the
signature of "Clarinda" and entitled, On Burns saying he `had nothing else to
do.`
When dear Clarinda, matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander`s raptur`d view,
He gaz`d, he listened to despair,
Alas! `twas all he dared to do.
Love, from Clarinda`s heavenly eyes,
Transfixed his bosom thro` and thro`;
But still in Friendships` guarded guise,
For more the demon fear`d to do.
That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer`d all perdue;
For frowning Honour kept his post-
To meet that frown, he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused to own,
Tho` half he wish`d Clarinda knew;
But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan-
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?
That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honour true:
To prove Clarinda`s fondest friend,
Was what a lover sure might do.
[Footnote 1: A grass-widow, Mrs. M`Lehose.]
The Muse his ready quill employed,
No nearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny`d-
"Send word by Charles how you do!"
The chill behest disarm`d his muse,
Till passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
`Twas, `cause "he`d nothing else to do."
But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee that deed I dare uo do!
O could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy I`d pay it thrice,
If human art and power could do!
Then take, Clarinda, friendship`s hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
And lay no more your chill command, -
I`ll write whatever I`ve to do.
Sylvander.
Love In The Guise Of Friendship
Your friendship much can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only, one request
You know I will deny!
Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.
Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care
For thee is laughing Nature gay,
For thee she pours the vernal day;
For me in vain is Nature drest,
While Joy`s a stranger to my breast.
Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul
Clarinda, mistres of my soul,
The measur`d time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv`d of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?
We part-but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes,
No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise!
She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?
I`m O`er Young To Marry Yet
Chorus.-I`m o`er young, I`m o`er young,
I`m o`er young to marry yet;
I`m o`er young, `twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy yet.
I am my mammny`s ae bairn,
Wi` unco folk I weary, sir;
And lying in a man`s bed,
I`m fley`d it mak me eerie, sir.
I`m o`er young, &c.
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 feared ye`d spoil the lacing o`t.
I`m o`er young, &c.
Hallowmass is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, sir,
And you an` I in ae bed,
In trowth, I dare na venture, sir.
I`m o`er young, &c.
Fu` loud an` shill 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 o`er young, &c.
To The Weavers Gin Ye Go
My heart was ance as blithe and free
As simmer days were lang;
But a bonie, westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.
Chorus.-To the weaver`s gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weaver`s gin ye go;
I rede you right, gang ne`er at night,
To the weaver`s 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.
To the weaver`s, &c.
A bonie, westlin weaver lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi` a net,
In every knot and thrum.
To the weaver`s, &c.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca`d it roun`;
But every shot and evey knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
To the weaver`s, &c.
The moon was sinking in the west,
Wi` visage pale and wan,
As my bonie, westlin weaver lad
Convoy`d me thro` the glen.
To the weaver`s, &c.
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 myself!
To the weaver`s, &c.
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