The Robert Tannahill Federation

Songs by Robert Tannahill

The Braes o' Gleniffer

Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer
The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the brume bushes by Stanley green shaw

The wild flowers o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie
The Mavis sang sweet frae the green birkin tree
But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear Johnnie
And now it is winter wi' nature and me

Then ilk thing aroun' us was blythsome and cheery
Then ilk thing aroun' us was bonnie and braw
Now naething is heard but the win' whistlin' dreary
And naething is seen by the wide spreadin' snaw

The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie
'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me

Yon caul sleety could skiffs alang the bleak mountain
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae
While doun the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie an' me

'Tis no' its loud roar, on the wintry win' swellin'
'Tis no' the caul' blast brings the tear to my e'e
For, oh, gin I saw my bonnie Scots callan
The dark days o' winter war simmer tae me

Gloomy winter's noo awa

Gloomy winter's noo awa', saft the westlin' breezes blaw
Amang the birks o' Stanley Shaw, the mavis sings fu' cheery o
Sweet the crawflower's early bell, decks Gleniffer's dewy dell
Bloomin' like your bonnie sel', my ain my darlin' dearie o
Come my lassie let us stray o'er Gleniffer's sunny brae
And blythely spend the gowden day 'midst joys that never weary o

Towerin' o'er the Newton woods, lavrocks fan the snaw white clouds
And siller saughs wi' downy buds, adorn the banks sae briery o
Round the sylvan fairy nooks, feathery brackens fringe the rocks
And 'neath the brae the burnie jouks, and ilka thing is cheery o
O trees my bud and birds may sing, flowers may bloom and verdure spring
But joy tae me they cannae bring, unless wi' you my dearie o

Are ye sleeping Maggie?

Mirk and rainy is the nicht,
There's no' a staum in a' the carry
Lichtnin's gleam athwart the lift,
And cauld winds drive wi' winters fury


Oh, are ye sleeping Maggie?
Oh, are ye sleeping Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn is howling
Ower the warlock Craigie

Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank,
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary
Loud the iron yett does clank,
The cry of hoolits mak's me eerie


Abune ma breath, I daurnae speak,
For fear I rouse your waukrife Daddy
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek,
O rise, O rise my bonnie lady


She's ope'd the door, she's let him in,
She's cuist aside his dreepin plaidie
Blaw yer warst ye rain and wind,
For Maggie noo I'm an aside ye


Jessie the flower of Dunblane

The sun has gane down o’er the lofty Ben Lomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o’er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin’
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flooer o’ Dunblane

How sweet is the brier, wi’ its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi’ its mantle o’ green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane.
Is lovely young Jessie, is lovely young Jessie,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane

She’s modest as ony, and blythe as she’s bonny
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested o’ feeling,
Wha’d blight, in its bloom, the sweet flooer o’ Dunblane

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the evenin’,
Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi’ my Jessie,
The sports o’ the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne’er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear lassie,
Till charm’d wi’ sweet Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane

Though mine were the station o’ loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I’d languish in pain;
And reckon as naething the height o’ its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flooer o’ Dunblane.
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane.
Is lovely young Jessie, is lovely young Jessie,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane

The Braes o' Balquidder


Let us go, lassie, go
Tae the braes o' Balquhidder
Whar the blueberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Hielan' heather
Whar the deer and the rae
Lichtly bounding thegither
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhidder

I will twin thee a bow'r
By the clear silver fountain
And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flooers o' the mountain
I will range through the wilds
And the deep glens sae dreary
And return wi' their spoils
Tae the bow'r o' my dearie


When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves roun' oor dwellin'
And the roar o' the linn
On the nicht breeze is swellin'
So merrily we'll sing
As the storm rattles o'er us
Till the dear shielin' ring
Wi' the licht liltin' chorus


Noo the summers in prime
Wi' the flooers richly bloomin'
Wi' the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlan's perfumin'
Tae oor dear native scenes
Let us journey thegither
Whar glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhidder


Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea

Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea!
Thou bonnie wood o' Craigielea!
Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
And won my Mary's heart in thee

The brume, the brier, the birken bush,
Blume bonnie o'er thy flowery lee,
An a the sweets that ane can wish
Frae nature's han, are strewed on thee

Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,
The cushat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, doon thy bughted glade,
Gars echo ring frae ev'ry tree

Awa, ye thochtless, murd'rin gang
Wha tear the nestlins ere they flee!
They'll sing you yet a cantie sang,
Then, oh! in pity let them be!

Whan Winter blaws, in sleety showers,
Frae aff the Norlan hills sae hie,
He lichtly skiffs thy bonnie bow'rs,
As laith tae harm a flow'r in thee

Though fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea,
The happy hours I'll ever mind
That I, in youth, hae spent in thee

The Dusky Glen

We’ll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,
And there we may be seen,
Yet we’ll meet-we’ll meet at e’en, down by yon burn side

I’ll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
Sae sweetly wove wi’ woodbine flower, on yon burn side;
There the busy prying eye,
Ne’er disturbs the lovers’ joy,
While in ither’s arms they lie, down by yon burn side

Awa’, ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,-
Those fairy-scenes are no’ for you, by yon burn side;
There fancy smooths her theme,
By the sweetly murm’ring stream,
And the rocklodg’d echoes skim, down by yon burn side

Now the planting taps are ting’d wi’ goud, on yon burnside,
And gloaming draws her foggy shroud o’er yon burn side;-
Far frae the noisy scene,
I’ll through the fields alane,
There we’ll meet-my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn side


Will ye go to Sherrifmuir,
Bauld John o' Innisture,
There to see the noble Mar
And his Highland laddies;
A' the true men o' the north,
Angus, Huntly, and Seaforth
Scouring on to cross the Forth,
Wi' their white cockadies?

There you'll see the banners flare,
There you'll hear the bagpipes' rair,
And the trumpets' deadly blare,
Wi' the cannon's rattle.
There you'll see the bault M'Craws,
Cameron's and Clanronald's raws,
And a' the clans, wi' loud huzzas,
Rushing to the battle

There you'll see the noble Whigs,
A' the heroes o' the brigs,
Raw hides and wither'd wigs,
Riding in array, man.
Ri'en hose and raggit hools,
Sour milk and girnin gools,
Psalm-beuks and cutty-stools,
We'll see never mair, man

Will ye go to Sherrifmuir,
Bauld John o' Innisture?
Sic a day, and sic an hour,
Ne'er was in the north, man.
Siccan sights will there be seen;
And, gin some be nae mista'en,
Fragrant gales will come bedeen,
Frae the water o' Forth, man

Fly we to some desert isle

Fly we to some desert isle,
There we'll pass our days together,
Shun the world's derisive smile,
Wand'ring tenants of the heather:
Shelter'd in some lonely glen,
Far remov'd from mortal ken,
Forget the selfish ways o' men,
Nor feel a wish beyond each other

Though my friends deride me still,
Jamie, I'll disown thee never;
Let them scorn me as they will,
I'll be thine--and thine for ever.
What are a' my kin to me,
A' their pride o' pedigree?
What were life, if wanting thee,
And what were death, if we maun sever!

Winter wi' his cloudy brow

Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
Is far ayont yon mountains,
And spring beholds her azure sky
Reflected in the fountains.
Now on the budding slaethorn bank
She spreads her early blossom,
And woes the mirly-breasted birds
To nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,
Sae darksome, dull, and dreary,
Now lavrocks sing to hail the spring,
And nature all is cheery

Then let us leave the town my love,
And seek our country dwelling,
Where waving woods and spreading flowers
On ev'ry side are smiling.
We'll tread again the daisied green,
Where first your beauty moved me
We'll trace again the woodland scene
Where first ye own'd ye loved me.
We soon will view the roses blaw
In a' the charms o' fancy,
For doubly dear these pleasures a'
When shared wi' you, my Nancy

The lass o' Arranteenie

Far lone amang the Highland hills,
Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens and woody glens,
with weary steps I wander,
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,
Just opening fresh and bonny,
It blinks beneath the hazle bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony ;
Sae sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie

Now from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean,
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow—
Ambition courts promotion ;
Let fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurled favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass o' Arranteenie

Ye echoes that ring

Ye echoes that ring roun' the woods o' Bowgreen,
Sae did ye e'er listen sae meltin' a strain,
When lovely young Jessie gaed wand'ring unseen,
And sung o'er her laddie, the pride o' the plain

Ay she sung Willie, my bonnie young Willie !
There's no a sweet flower on the mountain or valley,
Mild, blue sprittl'd crowflower, nor mild woodland lily,
But tines a' its sweets in my bonny young swain ;

Thou goddess o' love, keep him constant to me,
Else with'ring in sorrow poor Jessie shall die.
Her laddie had stray'd through the dark leafy wood,
His thoughts were a' fixt on his dear lassie's charms,
He heard her sweet voice, all transported he stood,
'Twas the soul of his wishes—he flew to her arms

" No, my dear Jessie, my lovely young Jessie,
Thro' simmer, thro' winter, I'll daut and caress thee,
Thou'rt dearer than life, thou'rt my ae only lassie,
Then, banish thy bosom these needless alarms,
Yon red setting sun sooner changeful shall be,
Ere wavering in falsehood I wander frae thee."

The Coggie

When poortith cauld and sour disdain,
Hang o'er life's vale sae foggy,
The sun that brightens up the scene
Is friendship's kindly coggie ;

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs !
The friendly, social coggie !
It gars the wheels o' life run light,
Though e'er sae doilt and cloggy

Let pride in fortune's chariot fly,
Sae empty, vain, and vogie ;
The source of wit, the spring of joy,
Lies in the social coggie ;

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
The independent coggie,
And never snool beneath the frown
Of ony selfish rogie

Poor modest Worth, wi' cheerless e'e,
Sits hurklin' in the boggie,
Till she asserts her dignity,
By virtue o' the coggie ;

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
The poor man's patron's coggie,
It warsels care, it fechts life's faughts,
And lifts him frae the boggie

Gie feckless Spain her weak snail-broo,
Gie France her weel spik't frogie,
Gie brither John his luncheon too,
But gie to us our coggie

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
Our souls warm kindred coggie,
Hearts doubly knit in social tie,
When just a wee thought groggie

In days of yore our sturdy sires,
Upon their hill sae scroggie,
Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,
And faught to save their coggie

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
Our brave forefathers' coggie,
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er whilk we'll lang be vogie.

Then, here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down
A cringin', coward doggie,
But bauldly stan' and bang the loon ;
Wha'd reave her o' her coggie.

Then, O protect the coggie, sirs,
Our gude auld mithers' coggie ;
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign rogie

The defeat

From hill to hill the bugles sound
The soul-arousing strain ;
The war-bred coursers paw the ground,
And foaming champ the rein ;
Their steel-clad riders bound on high,
A bold defensive host,
With valour fired, away they fly,
Like lightening to the coast

And now they view the wide-spread lines
Of the invading foe :
Now skill with British brav'ry joins,
To strike one final blow ;
Now on they rush with giant stroke—
Ten thousand victims bleed—
They trample on the iron yoke
Which France for us decreed

Now view the trembling vanquished crew,
Kneel o'er their prostrate arms,
Implore respite of vengeance, due
For all these dire alarms.
Now, while humanity's warm glow,
Half-weeps the guilty slain.
Let conquest gladden every brow,
And god-like mercy reign

Thus fancy paints that awful day,—
Yes, dreadful should it come !
But Britain's sons in stern array,
Shall brave its darkest gloom.
Who fights, his native rights to save,
His worth shall have its claim,
The bard will consecrate his grave,
And give his name to fame

My Mary

My Mary is a bonny lassie,
Sweet as dewy morn,
When fancy tunes her rural reed,
Beside the upland thorn ;
She lives ahint yon sunny knowe,
Where flowers in wild profusion grow,
Where spreading birks and hazles throw
Their shadows o'er the burn

It's no' the streamlet-skirted wood,
Wi' a' its leafy bowers,
That gars me wade in solitude
Amang the wild-sprung flowers ;
But aft I cast a langin' e'e,
Down frae the bank out owre the lee,
There haply I my lass may see,
As through the broom she scours

Yestreen I met my bonny lassie
Coming frae the town,
We 'raptur'd sunk in ither's arms,
An' pressed the breckans down ;
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note,
The rye-craik rispt his clam'rous throat,
While there the heav'nly vow I got
That erl'd her my own

Responsive, ye woods

Responsive ye woods wing your echoes along,
Till nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song,
Till flocks cease their bleating, and herds cease to low,
And the clear winding rivulet scarce seems to flow.
For fair was the flower that once gladdened our plains,
Sweet rose-bud of virtue, adored by our swains,
But fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave,
Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave

Her warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow,
In innocence pure as the new mountain snow ;
Her face was more fair than the mild apple-bloom ;
Her voice sweet as hope whisp'ring pleasures to come.
O Mary, my love ! wilt thou never return !
'Tis thy William who calls—burst the bands of thy urn !
Together we'll wander—poor wretch how I rave !
My Mary lies low in the lone silent grave

You tall leafy plains throw a deep solemn shade
O'er the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid,
Lest the light wanton sun-beams obtrude on the gloom
That lorn-love and friendship have wove round her tomb ;
Still there let the mild tears of nature remain,
Till calm dewy evening weep o'er her again :
There oft I will wander—no boon now I crave,
But to weep life away o'er her dark silent grave

Fragment of a Scottish ballad

"Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crisping snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa' :
I'll tak you to my father's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye'll sink to rise nae mair

"Ah ! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart,
Now waits me on the western shore ;
With morn he spreads his outward sail,
This night I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak aye secret, fond fareweel,
We may-be part to meet nae mair.

"Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your dead !
The dreary waste lies far and wide ;
Abide till morn, and then ye'll hae
My father's herd-boy for your guide."
"No, Lady, no !—I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, with kindly beam,
Will light me on my weary way

Ah ! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart ?
Why beams with joy thy wistful e'e ?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see ;
Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee

The Negro girl

Yon poor Negro girl, an exotic plant,
Was torn from her dear native soil,
Reluctantly borne o'er the raging Atlant.
Then brought to Britannia's isle.
Though Fatima's mistress be loving and kind,
Poor Fatima still must deplore ;
She thinks on her parents left weeping behind,
And sighs for her dear native shore

She thinks on her Zadi, the youth of her heart,
Who from childhood was loving and true,
How he cried on the beach, when the ship did depart !
'Twas a sad everlasting adieu :
The shell-woven gift which he bound round her arm,
The rude seamen unfeelingly tore,
Nor left one sad relic her sorrows to charm,
When far from her dear native shore

And now, all dejected, she wanders apart,
No friend, save retirement, she seeks ;
The sigh of despondency bursts from her heart,
And tears dew her thin sable cheeks ;
Poor hard-fated girl, long, long may she mourn,
Life's pleasures to her are all o'er,
Far fled every hope that she e'er shall return
To visit her dear native shore

The harper of Mull

When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I,
Still gladsome as simmer the time glided by,
I play'd my harp cheery, while fondly I sang,
Of the charms o' my Rosie the winter nights lang.
But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer come winter, 'tis a' ane to me,
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull

I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I mak' my sad mane.
My harp's mournfu' melody joins in the strains,
While sadly I sing o' the days that are gane ;
Though Rosie is faithless she's nae the less fair,
And the thought o' her beauty but feeds my despair ;
Wi' painfu' remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary o' life is the Harper of Mull

As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain-stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream ;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I claspt the dear Nymph to my breast.
Thou fause fleeting vision too soon thou wert o'er !
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequal'd before ;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull ;
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull

The lament of Wallace

Thou dark winding Carron once pleasing to see,
To me thou can'st never give pleasure again,
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lee,
And thy streams are deep-ting'd with the blood of the slain.
Ah ! base-hearted treach'ry has doomed our undoing,
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do ?
Even valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin,
And freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.

Farewell ye dear partners of peril ; farewell !
Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell,
And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave.
But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander,
Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die !
On thy wrongs, O my country ! indignant I ponder.—
Ah ! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly !

Mine ain dear somebody

When gloamin' treads the heels o' day,
And birds sit cowrin' on the spray,
Alang the flowery hedge I stray
To meet mine ain dear somebody

The scented brier, the fragrant bean,
The clover bloom, the dewy green
A' charm me, as I rove at e'en,
To meet mine ain dear somebody

Let warriors prize the hero's name,
Let mad ambition tower for fame,
I'm happier in my lowly hame,
Obscurely blessed wi' somebody

Tho' humble my lot

Where primroses spring on the green tufted brae,
And the riv'let runs murmuring below,
O fortune, at morning, or noon, let me stray !
And thy wealth on thy vot'ries bestow ;
For, O how enraptured my bosom does glow !
As calmly I wander alane,
Where wild woods, and bushes and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene

Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state,
Let me still be contented, though poor ;
What destiny brings, be resign'd to my fate,
Though misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blythely I roam, in the hey-day of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields

Marjory Miller

Louder than the trump of fame,
Is the voice of Marjory Miller,
Time the wildest beast can tame,
She's eternally the same :
Loud the mill's incessant clack,
Loud the clink of Vulcan's hammer,
But louder far her dinsome clamour !
Nought on earth can equal be
To the noise of Marjory

Calm succeeds the tempest's roar,
Peace does follow war's confusion,
Dogs do bark and soon give o'er,
But she barks for evermore

Loud's the sounding bleachfield horn,
But her voice is ten times louder !
Red's the sun on winter morn,
But her face is ten times redder !
She delights in endless strife,
Lord preserve's from such a wife

O row thee In my Highland plaid

Loland lassie wilt thou go,
Whare the hills are clad wi' snow :
Whare beneath the icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep ;
Ill nor wae shall thee betide,
When row'd within my Highland Plaid
Soon the voice, o' cheering spring,
Will gar a' our plantins ring ;
Soon our bonny heather braes,
Will put on their summer claise ;
On the mountain's sunny side,
We'll lean us on my Highland Plaid
When the simmer spreads the flowers,
Rusks the glens in leafy bowers,
Then we'll seek the calour shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed,
While the burning hours preside,
I'll screen thee wi' my Highland Plaid
Then we'll leave the sheep and goat,
I will launch the bonny boat,
Skim the loch in canty glee,
Rest the oars to pleasure thee
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I'll hap thee wi' my Highland Plaid,
Lowland lads may dress mair fine,
Woo in words mair saft than mine !
Lowland lads hae mair o' art,
A' my boast's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride !
O row thee in my Highland Plaid

"Bonny lad, ye've been sae leal,
My heart would break at our fareweel,
Lang your love has made me fain,
Tak' me—tak' me for your ain !"
Cross the firth, awa' they glide,
Young Donald and his Lowland bride

The fareweel

Accuse me not, inconstant fair,
Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so,
Had'st thou been true to me ;
But when I knew thy plighted lips,
Once to a rival's prest,
Love-smother'd, independence 'rose,
And spurn'd thee from my breast
The fairest flower in nature's field,
Conceals the rankling thorn,
So thou, sweet flower ! as false as fair,
This once kind heart hath torn ;
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs,
That slighted love can feel :
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
Which bids this long fareweel

Wi' waefu' heart

Wi' waefu' heart, and sorrowing e'e,
I saw my Jamie sail awa',
O 'twas a fatal day to me,
That day he past the Berwick law,
How joyless now seem'd all behind !
I ling'ring stray'd alang the shore ;
Dark boding fears hung on my mind
That I might never see him more
The night came on wi' heavy rain,
Loud, fierce, and wild, the tempest blew
In mountain's roll'd the awful main—
Ah, hapless maid ! my fears how true !
The landsmen heard their drowning cries :
The wreck was seen with dawning day ;
My love was found, and now he lies
Low in the isle of gloomy May
O boatman kindly waft me o'er !
The cavern'd rock shall be my home ;
'Twill ease my burdened heart, to pour
Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb :
With sweetest flowers I'll deck his grave,
And tend them through the langsome year :
I'll water them, ilk morn and eve,
With deepest sorrow's warmest tear

Weep not, my love

O weep not, my love though I go to the war,
For soon I'll return, rich with honours to thee ;
The soul rousing pibroch is sounding afar,
And the clans are assembling in Morar-craiglee ;
Our flocks are all plunder'd our herdsmen are murder'd,
And, fir'd with oppression, aveng'd we shall be ;
To-morrow we'll vanquish these ravaging English,
And then I'll return to thy baby and thee

Slow rose the morn on Dunscarron's dark brow,
Firm rose our youths in their fighting array,
Powerful as Morven they rush'd on the foe,
And the din of the battlefield deafened the day ;
The conflict was glorious, our clans were victorious,
Yet sad was the Bard the dark herald to be,—
Ah ! poor weeping Flora, thy dear promised Morar
Will never return to thy baby and thee

I'll lay me on the wintry lea

I'll lay me on the wintry lea,
An sleep amidst the wind an weet,
An ere anither's bride I be,
O bring tae me my windin sheet !

What can a hapless lassie dae,
Whan ilka frien wad prove her fae,
Wad gar her break her dearest vow,
Tae wed wi ane she canna loe ?

Adieu, sweet Erin

Adieu, ye cheerful native plains,
Dungeon glooms receive me,
Nought, alas, for me remains,
Of all the joys ye gave me—
All are flown !
Banished from thy shores, sweet Erin,
I, through life, must toil, despairing,
Lost and unknown

Howl, ye winds ! around my cell,
Nothing now can wound me ;
Mingling with your dreary swell,
Prison groans surround me :
Bodings wild !
Treachery, thy ruthless doing,
Long I'll mourn in hopeless ruin,
Lost and exiled !

Fairy Woodside and sweet Ferguslie, or the Grey pinioned lark

While the grey pinioned lark early mounts to the skies,
And cheerily hails the sweet dawn,
And the sun, newly risen, sheds the mists from his eyes,
And smiles over mountain and lawn,

Delighted I stray by the FAIRY WOODSIDE,
Where the dewdrops the crowflowers adorn,
And Nature, array'd in her midsummer's pride,
Sweetly smiles to the smile of the morn

Ye dark waving plantings, ye green shady bowers,
Your charms ever varying I view ;
My soul's dearest transports, my happiest hours,
Have owed half their pleasures to you

SWEET FERGUSLIE, hail ! thou'rt the dear sacred grove,
Where first my young Muse spread her wing ;
Here Nature first waked me to rapture and love,
And taught me her beauties to sing

The midges dance aboon the burn

The midges dance aboon the burn,
The dews begin to faw,
The pairtricks doun the rushy holm,
Set up their e'ening caw.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings thro the briery shaw,
While flitting gay, the swallows play
Aroun the castle wa

Beneath the gouden gloamin sky,
The mavis mends her lay,
The redbreast pours her sweetest strains,
To charm the lingerin day ;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking thro the thorn

The roses faul their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance thro the dell.
Let ithers crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yiel's
Are dearer far to me

Amang the Lomond Braes

“Oh! lassie, wilt thou gang
Tae the Lomond wi me,
The wild thyme's in bloom,
An the flower's on the lea ?
Wilt thou gang, my dearest love ?
I will ever constant prove ;
I'll range each hill an grove
On the Lomond wi' thee.”

“Oh ! young men are fickle,
Nor trusted to be,
An many a native gem
Shines fair on the lea :
Thou may see some lovely flower
Of a more attractive power,
An may tak her tae thy bower,
On the Lomond wi thee.”

“The hynd shall forsake,
On the mountain, the doe ;
The stream o the fountain
Shall cease for tae flow ;
Benlomond shall bend
His high brow tae the sea,
Ere I tak tae my bower
Any flower, love, but thee.”

She's taken her mantle ;
He's taken his plaid ;
He's caft her a ring,
An he's made her his bride:
They're far o'er the hills
Tae spend their happy days,
An range the woody glens
Amang the Lomond braes

The Banks of Spey

Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you,
Wing'd with rude storm, though the winter assails you,
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet have charms to cheer me,
For here, amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me

Tis sad to see the wither'd lea, the drumly flooded fountain,
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moor and mountain ;
But from the surly swelling blast, dear lassie,I'll defend her,
And from the bonnie banks of Spey I never more shall wander

Winter is gane

Ye mind whan the snaw lay sae deep on the hill,
Whan cauld icy cranreuch hung white on the tree,
Whan bushes war leafless, an mournfully still
War the wee birds o sweet Woodhouselee :
Whan snaw show'rs were fa'ing,
An wintry win's blawing,

Loud whistling o'er mountain an meadow sae chill,
We mark'd it wi sorrowin ee ;
But now since the flowers
Again busk the bowers,
0 come, my dear lassie, wi smilin goodwill,
An wander around Woodhouselee

The Soldier's funeral

Now, let the procession move solemn and slow,
While the soft mournful music accords with our woe,
While Friendship's warm tears round his ashes are shed,
And soul-melting memory weeps for the dead
Kind, good-hearted fellow as ever was known,
So kind and so good, every heart was his own ;
Now, alas ! low in death are his virtues all o'er
How painful the thought, we will see him no more ?
In camp or in quarters he still was the same,
Each countenance brighten'd wherever he came ;
When the wars of his country impelld him to roam
He cheerful would say all the world was his home ;

And when the fierce conflict of armies began,
He fought like a lion, yet felt as a man ;
For when British bravery had vanquish'd the foe,
He'd weep o'er the dead by his valour laid low
Ye time-fretted mansions ! ye mouldering piles !
Loud echo his praise through your long vaulted isles ;
If haply his shade, nightly glide through your gloom,
O tell him, our hearts lie with him in the tomb !
And say, though he's gone, long his worth shall remain,
Remembered, beloved, by the whole of the men ;
Who e'er acts like him, with a warm feeling heart,
Friendship's tears drop applause at the close of his part

Rab Roryson's bonnet

Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
Ye'll a ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet;
'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it,
Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet

This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head,
Was his shelter in winter, in simmer his shade;
And at kirk, or at market, or bridals, I ween,
A braw gawcier bonnet there never was seen

Wi' a round rosy tap, like a meikle blackboyd,
It was slouched just a kenning on either hand side;
Some maintained it was black, some maintained it was blue,
It had something o' baith, as a body may trow

But, in sooth, I assure you, for ought that I saw,
Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava';
Though the whole parish talked o' Rab Roryson's bonnet,
'Twas a' for the marvellous head that was in it

That head, let it rest—it is now in the mools,—
Though in life a' the warld beside it were fools;
Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possessed,
Nane e'er kenned but himsel', sae there 's nane that will miss't

There are some still in life wha eternally blame,
Wha on buts and on ifs rear their fabric o' fame;
Unto such I inscribe this most elegant sonnet,
Sae let them be crooned wi' Rab Roryson's bonnet!

Awake, my harp, the cheerful strain

Awake, my harp, the cheerful strain !
Shall I, the first of Erin's warrior band,
In wasting sorrow still complain ?
The first to dare stern danger's bloody field,
Shall I to silly, changeful woman yield?
No—raise, my harp, the cheerful strain,
What is a rosy cheek, or lily hand !
Since thus she scorns, I'll scorn again

Loudon's bonnie woods and braes

Loudon's bonnie woods and braes,
I maun lea' them a', lassie;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes
Would gi'e Britons law, lassie?
Wha would shun the field of danger?
Wha frae Fame would live a stranger?
Now, when Freedom bids avenge her,
Wha would shun her ca', lassie?
Loudon's bonnie woods and braes
Ha'e seen our happy bridal days,
And gentle hope shall soothe thy waes
When I am far awa', lassie

Hark! the swelling bugle sings,
Yielding joy to thee, laddie;
But the dolefu' bugle brings
Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie.
Lanely I may climb the mountain,
Lanely stray beside the fountain,
Still the weary moments countin',
Far frae love and thee, laddie.
O'er the gory fields of war,
When Vengeance drives his crimson car,
Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar,
And nane to close thy e'e, laddie

O resume thy wonted smile!
O suppress thy fears, lassie!
Glorious honour crowns the toil
That the soldier shares, lassie.
Heav'n will shield thy faithful lover
Till the vengeful strife is over,
Then we 'll meet, nae mair to sever
Till the day we dee, lassie;
'Midst our bonnie woods and braes
We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays
On Loudon's flowery lea, lassie

Kitty O'Carrol

Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud, to be sure,
As if there was never such beauty before;
But ere I got wedded to old Thady More,
I had dozens of wooers each night at my door,
With their “Och dear! O will you marry me,
Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul!”

Ye Friendly stars

Ye friendly stars that rule the night,
And hail my glad returning,
Ye never shone so sweetly bright
Since gay St. Patrick's morning.
My life hung heavy on my mind,
Despair sat brooding o'er me;
Now all my cares are far behind,
And joy is full before me.
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
How my heart approves me!
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
Kathleen owns she loves me!

Were all the flow'ry pastures mine
That deck fair Limerick county,
That wealth, dear Kathleen, should be thine,
And all should share our bounty.
But fortune's gifts I value not,
Nor grandeur's highest station;
I would not change my happy lot
For all the Irish nation.
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
How my heart approves me!
Gamby ora! Gamby ora!
Kathleen owns she loves me!

Green Inismore

How light is my heart as I journey along,
Now my perilous service is o'er!
I think on sweet home, and I carol a song
In remembrance of her I adore

How sad was the hour when I bade her adieu!
Her tears spoke her grief, though her words were but few;
She hung on my bosom, and sighed, O be true,
When you're far from the green Inismore

Ah! Eveleen, my love! hadst thou seen this fond breast,
How, at parting, it bled to its core,
Thou hadst there seen thine image so deeply imprest,
That thou ne'er couldst have doubted me more.
For my king and my country undaunted I fought,
And braved all the hardships of war as I ought,
But the day never rose saw thee strange to my thought,
Since I left thee in green Inismore

Ye dear native mountains that tower on my view,
What joys to my mind ye restore!
The past happy scenes of my life ye renew,
And ye ne'er seemed so charming before.
In the rapture of fancy already I spy
My kindred and friends crowding round me with joy;
But my Eveleen, sweet girl, there 's a far dearer tie
Binds this heart to the green Inismore

I'll hie me to the shieling hill

I'll hie me to the shieling hill,
And bide amang the braes, Callum,
Ere I gang to Crochan mill,
I 'll live on hips and slaes, Callum.
Wealthy pride but ill can hide
Your runkl'd measled shins, Callum;
Lyart pow, as white's the tow,
And beard as rough's the whins, Callum

Wily woman aft deceives,
Sae ye 'll think, I ween, Callum;
Trees may keep their wither'd leaves
Till ance they get the green, Callum.
Blithe young Donald's won my heart,
Has my willing vow, Callum;
Now, for a' your couthy art,
I winna marry you, Callum

The wandering bard

Chill the wintry winds were blowing,
Foul the mirky night was snowing,
Through the storm, the minstrel, bowing,
Sought the inn on yonder moor.
All within was warm and cheery,
All without was cold and dreary,
There the wand'rer, old and weary,
Thought to pass the night secure

Softly rose his mournful ditty,
Suiting to his tale of pity ;
But the master, scoffing, witty,
Checked his strain with scornful jeer:
“Hoary vagrant, frequent comer,
Canst thou guide thy gains of summer ?
No, thou old intruding thrummer,
Thou canst have no lodging here.”

Slow the bard departed, sighing,
Wounded worth forbade replying;
One last feeble effort trying,
Faint, he sunk no more to rise.
Through his harp, the breeze sharp ringing,
Wild his dying dirge was singing,
While his soul, from insult springing,
Sought its mansion in the skies

Now, though wintry winds be blowing,
Night be foul with raining, snowing,
Still the trav'ller, that way going,
Shuns the inn upon the moor.
Though within 'tis warm and cheery,
Though without 'tis cold and dreary,
Still he minds the minstrel weary,
Spurn'd from that unfriendly door

Unrequited love

Lone in yon dark sequester'd grove,
Poor hapless Lubin strays ;
A prey to ill-requited love,
He spends his joyless days :
Ah ! cruel Jessie, couldst thou know
What worthy heart was thine,
Thou ne'er hadst wrong'd poor Lubin so,
Nor left that heart to pine.

Come hame to your lingels

“Come hame to your lingels, you ne'er-do-weel loon,
You're the king of the dyvours, the talk of the town;
Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in,
Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin.”
“Gudewife, ye 're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell,
To the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell;
But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill,
The souter shall aye ha'e his Munonday's yill.”

“Come hame to your lapstane, come hame to your last,
It 's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast,
While you and your crew here a-drinking maun sit,
Ye dazed, drunken, guid-for-nocht heir o' the pit:
Just look, how I 'm gaun without stocking or shoe,
Your bairns a' in tatters, and faitherless too,
And yet, quite content, like a sot, ye 'll sit still,
Till your kyte 's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill.”

“I tell you, guidwife, gin ye haudna your clack,
I 'll lend you a reistle wi' this owre your back;
Maun we be abused and affronted by you
Wi' siccan foul names as loon, dyvour, and crew?”
“Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame,
Or I 'll redden your face, gin ye 've yet ony shame;
For I 'll bring a' the bairns, and we 'll just ha'e our fill,
As weel as yoursel', o' your Munonday's yill.”

“Gin that be the gait o't, sirs, come let us stir,
What need we sit here to be pestered by her?
For she 'll plague and affront us as far as she can:
Did ever a woman sae bother a man?

Och, hey! Johnny lad

Och hey Johnny lad!
Ye’er no sae kind’s ye soud, hae been;
Och hey, Johnny lad!
Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen;
I waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae an’ weary lane;
Och hey, Johnny lad!
It was a waefu nght yestreen

I looked by the whinny knowe,
I looked by the firs sae green
I looked o’er the spunkie howe,
An, ay I thought ye wad ha‘e been,
The ne’er a supper crost my craig,
The ne’er a sleep his clos’t my een,
Och hey, Johnny lad!
Ye’re no sae kind’s ye soud hae been

“Gin ye war waitin by the wood,
Its I was waitin by the thorn;
I thought it was the place we set,
An, waited maist till dawning morn
But be au vext, my bonnie lass,
Let my waiting stan,for thine;
We’ll awa to Birkton shaw,
And seek the joys we tint yestreen.”

The Five friends

Weel, wha's in the bouroch, and what is your cheer?
The best that ye 'll find in a thousand year.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en

There 's our ain Jamie Clark, frae the hall of Argyle,
Wi' his leal Scottish heart, and his kind open smile.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en.

There is Will, the gude fallow, wha kills a' our care
Wi' his sang an' his joke—and a mutchkin mair.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en

There is blithe Jamie Barr, frae St. Barchan's toun,
When wit gets a kingdom, he 's sure o' the croun.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en

There is Rab, frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute,
I could list to his strains till the starns fa' out.
And we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en

Apollo, for our comfort, has furnished the bowl,
And here is my bardship as blind as an owl.
For we 're a' noddin', nid, nid, noddin',
We 're a' noddin' fu' at e'en

Meg o' the glen

Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair,
Wi' ruffles an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare;
Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht,
For a' the lang way, for a wooer she sicht.
She spak' to the lads, but the lads slippet by;
She spak' to the lasses, the lasses were shy;
She thocht she might do, but she didna weel ken,
For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o' the Glen

Fill, fill the merry bowl

Fill, fill the merry bowl,
Drown corrosive care and sorrow,
Why, why clog the soul
By caring for to-morrow?
Fill your glasses, toast your lasses,
Blithe Anacreon bids you live;
Love with friendship far surpasses
All the pleasures life can give.
Ring, ring th' enlivening bell,
The merry dirge of care and sorrow,
Why leave them life to tell
Their heavy tales to-morrow?

Come, join the social glee,
Give the reins to festive pleasure;
While fancy, light and free,
Dances to the measure.
Love and wit, with all the graces,
Revel round in fairy ring;
Smiling joy adorns our faces,
While with jocund hearts we sing.
Now, since our cares are drowned,
Spite of what the sages tell us,
Hoary Time, in all his round,
Ne'er saw such happy fellows

Crookston Castle's lanely wa's

Through Crookston Castle's lanely wa's
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary

Ah! Mary, though the winds should rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I 'd brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure,
But I will ford the whirling deep
That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie,
But when the lonesome way is past,
I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary.
Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave,
Wi' a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I 'd brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee

The Kebbuckston weddin'

Auld Watty o' Kebbuckston brae,
Wi' lear and readin' beuks auld-farren,
What think ye ! the body cam' owre the day,
And tauld us he's gaun to be married to Mirren ;
We a' gat a biddin'
To gang to the waddin',
Baith Johnnie and Sawney, and Nelly and Nanny,
And Tam o' the knowes,
He swears and he vows,
At the dancin' he'll face to the bride wi' his grannie
A' the lads hae trysted their joes,
Slee William cam' up and ca'd on Nelly,
Although she was hecht to Geordie Bowse,
She's gi'en him the gunk and she's gaun wi' Willy—
Wee collier Johnnie
Has yocket his ponney,
And's aff to the town for a' laden' o' nappy
Wi' fouth o' gude meat,
To ser' us to eat,
Sae wi' fiddlin' and feastin' we'll a' be fu' happy.
Wee Patie Brydie's to say the grace,
The body's aye ready at dredges and weddin's,
And flunky M'Fee, o' the Skiverton place,
Is chosen to scuttle the pies and the puddin's ;
For there'll be plenty
O' ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail and haggies, and every thing fitting,
Wi' luggies o' bear,
Our wizzens to clear,
Sae the deil fill his kyte wha gangs clung frae the meeting
Jamie and Johnnie maun ride the brouse,
For few like them can sit i' the saddle ;
And Willie Colbreath, the best o' the bows,
Is trysted to jig i' the barn wi' his fiddle ;
Wi' whiskin', an fliskin',
And reelin' and wheelin',
The young anes a' like to loup out o' the body,
And Neilie M'Nairn,
Though sair forfairn,
He vows that he'll wallop twa sets wi' the howdie

Sauney M'Nab, wi' his tartan trews,
Has hecht to come down in the midst o' the caper,
And gie us three wallops o' merry-shantrews
Wi' the true highland-fling o' Macrimmon the piper ;
Sic hippin' and skippin',
And springin' and flingin',
I's wad that there's nane i' the Lallands can waff it !
Feth ! Willy maun fiddle,
And jirgum and diddle,
And screed till the sweat fa' in beads frae his haffet
Then gie me your han', my trusty gude frien' !
And gie me your word, my worthy auld kimmer !
Ye'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen,
And join us in rantin' and toomin' the kimmer,
Wi' fouth o' gude liquor,
We'll haud at the bicker,
And lang may the mailin o' Kebbuckston flourish,
For Watty's sae free,
Between you and me,
I'se warren't he's bidden the ha'f o' the parish

Kitty Tyrell

The breeze of the night fans the dark mountain's breast,
And the light bounding deer have all sunk to their rest;
The big sullen waves lash the lough's rocky shore,
And the lone drowsy fisherman nods o'er his oar.
Though pathless the moor, and though starless the skies,
The star of my heart is my Kitty's bright eyes;
And joyful I hie over glen, brake, and fell,
In secret to meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell

Ah! long have we loved in her father's despite,
And oft we have met at the dead hour of night,
When hard-hearted Vigilance, sunk in repose,
Gave Love one sweet hour its fond tale to disclose.
These moments of transport, to me, oh how dear!
And the fate that would part us, alas, how severe!
Although the rude storm rise with merciless swell,
This night I shall meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell

“Ah! turn, hapless youth! see the dark cloud of death
Comes rolling in gloom o'er the wild haunted heath;
Deep groans the scathed oak on the glen's cliffy brow,
And the sound of the torrent seems heavy with woe.”
Away, foolish seer, with thy fancies so wild,
Go, tell thy weak dreams to some credulous child;
Love guides my light steps through the lone dreary dell,
And I fly to the arms of sweet Kitty Tyrell

A gem of pearly dew

I marked a gem of pearly dew,
While wandering near yon misty mountain,
Which bore the tender blade so low,
It dropped it off into the fountain.
So thou hast wrung this gentle heart,
Which in its core was proud to wear thee,
Till, drooping sick beneath thy art,
It, sighing, found it could not bear thee

Adieu, thou faithless fair! unkind!
Thy falsehood dooms that we must sever;
Thy vows were as the passing wind,
That fans the flower, then dies for ever.
And think not that this gentle heart,
Though in its core 'twas proud to wear thee,
Shall longer droop beneath thy art;
No, cruel fair! it cannot bear thee

The Snowstorm

“Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa':
I 'll tak you to my faither's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye 'll sink to rise nae mair.”

“Ah! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart
Now waits me on the western shore;
Wi' morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”

“Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your deid!
The dreary waste lies far and wide;
Abide till morn, and then ye 'll ha'e
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady,—na! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”

Ah! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart?
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see;
Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee

“Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa':
I 'll tak you to my faither's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye 'll sink to rise nae mair.”

“Ah! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart
Now waits me on the western shore;
Wi' morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”

“Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your deid!
The dreary waste lies far and wide;
Abide till morn, and then ye 'll ha'e
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady,—na! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”

Ah! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart?
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see;
Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee

The Flower o' Levern side

Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde,
Wi' simmer flowers sae braw,
There 's ae sweet flower on Levern side
That 's fairer than them a':
Yet aye it droops its head in wae,
Regardless o' the sunny ray,
And wastes its sweets frae day to day,
Beside the lonely shaw.
Wi' leaves a' steeped in sorrow's dew,
False, cruel man it seems to rue,
Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu',
Then rend its heart in twa

Thou bonnie flower on Levern side,
Oh, gin thoul't be but mine,
I 'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride,
Wi' love that ne'er shall tine.
I 'll take thee to my sheltering bower,
And shield thee frae the beating shower;
Unharmed by aught, thou l't bloom secure
Frae a' the blasts that blaw.
Thy charms surpass the crimson dye
That streaks the glowing western sky;
But, here, unshaded, soon thou l't die,
And lone will be thy fa'

Peggy O'Rafferty

O could I fly like the green-coated fairy,
I 'd skip o'er the ocean to dear Tipperary,
Where all the young fellows are blithesome and merry,
While here I lament my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty

How could I bear in my bosom to leave her,
In absence I think her more lovely than ever;
With thoughts of her beauty I 'm all in a fever,
Since others may woo my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty

Scotland, thy lasses are modest and bonny,
But here every Jenny has got her own Johnny,
And though I might call them my jewel and honey,
My heart is at home with sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.
Wistful I think on my dear native mountains,
Their green shady glens, and their crystalline fountains,
And ceaseless I heave the deep sigh of repentance,
That ever I left my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty

Fortune, 'twas thine all the light foolish notion
That led me to rove o'er the wild-rolling ocean;
But what now to me all my hopes of promotion,
Since I am so far from sweet Peggy O'Rafferty.
Grant me as many thirteens as will carry me
Down through the country, and over the ferry,
I 'll hie me straight home into dear Tipperary,
And never more leave my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty

Companion of my youthful sports

Companion of my youthful sports,
From love and friendship torn,
A victim to the pride of courts,
Thy early death I mourn.
Unshrouded on a foreign shore,
Thou 'rt mould'ring in the clay,
While here thy weeping friends deplore
Corunna's fatal day

How glows the youthful warrior's mind
With thoughts of laurels won!
But ruthless ruin lurks behind,
“And marks him for her own.”
How soon the meteor ray is shed,
“That lures him to his doom,”
And dark oblivion veils his head
In everlasting gloom!

Ah! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling

Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
The golden image of my heart;
How cheerless seems this morning,
It brings the hour when we must part.
Though doomed to cross the ocean,
And face the proud insulting foe,
Thou hast my soul's devotion,
My heart is thine where'er I go!
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
My heart is thine where'er I go!

When tossed upon the billow,
And angry tempests round me blow,
Let not the gloomy willow
O'ershade thy lovely lily brow;
But mind the seaman's story,
Sweet William and his charming Sue;
I 'll soon return with glory,
And, like sweet William, wed thee too.
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
My heart is thine where 'er I go!

Think on our days of pleasure,
While wand'ring by the Shannon side,
When summer days gave leisure
To stray amidst their flow'ry pride;
And while thy faithful lover
Is far upon the stormy main,
Think, when the wars are over,
These golden days shall come again.
Ah! Sheelah thou 'rt my darling,
These golden days shall come again!

Farewell, ye lofty mountains,
Your flow'ry wilds we wont to rove;
Ye woody glens and fountains,
The dear retreats of mutual love.
Alas! we now must sever:
O Sheelah, to thy vows be true!
My heart is thine for ever;
One fond embrace, and then adieu!
Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling,
One fond embrace, and then adieu!

Sing on, thou sweet warbler

Sing on, thou sweet warbler, thy glad evening song,
And charm the lone echoes the green woods among;
As dear unto thee is the sun's setting beam,
So dear unto me is the soul's melting dream.
The dark winter frowning, all pleasure disowning,
Shall strip thy green woods and be deaf to thy moaning;
But dark stormy winter is yet far away,
Then let us be glad, when all Nature is gay

Kiss'd yestreen

The lasses a' laughed, an' the carlin flate,
But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie an' blate;
The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen,
Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen:
She blether'd it round to her fae an' her frien',
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen

She loosed the white napkin frae 'bout her dun neck,
And cried—“The big sorrow tak' lang Geordie Fleck!
D'ye see what a scart I gat frae a preen,
By his touslin' and kissin' at me yestreen,
At me yestreen, at me yestreen,
By his touslin' and kissin' at me yestreen:
I canna conceive what the fallow could mean
By kissin' sae meikle at me yestreen.”

Then she pu'd up her sleeve, and showed a blae mark,
Quoth she—“I gat that frae young Davie, our clerk;
But the creature had surely forgat himsel' clean,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen,
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen:
I wonder what keepit my nails frae his een,
When he nipped me sae hard for a kiss yestreen.”

Then she held up her cheek, and cried—“Foul fa' the laird,
Just look what I gat wi' his black birsie beard!
The vile filthy body! was e'er the like seen?
Tae rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen,
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen:
I 'm sure that nae woman o' judgment need grien
To be rubbed, like me, for a kiss yestreen.”

Syne she told what grand offers she aften had had,
But, wad she tak' a man? na, she wasna sae mad!
For the whole o' the sex she cared no a preen,
And she hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen,
She was kiss'd yestreen, she was kiss'd yestreen,
And she hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen:
'Twas a mercy that naething mair serious had been,
For it 's dangerous, whiles, to be kiss'd at e'en

Langsyne, beside the woodlan burn

Langsyne beside the woodlan burn
Amang the brume sae yellow,
I leant me neath the milk white thorn,
On Nature's mossy pillow ;
A roun my seat the flowers were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel a simmer snood,
Tae pleasure my dear fellow

I twin'd the woodbine roun the rose,
Its richer hues tae mellow,
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
Tae busk the segg' sae yellow.
The crawflow'r blue, an meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose braided link ;
But little, little did I think
I shoud hae wove the willow

My bonnie lad was forc'd away,
Tost on the raging billow ;
Perhaps he's faun in bludie war,
Or wreck't on rocky shallow :
Yet, ay I hope for his return,
As roun our wonted haunts I mourn,
And aften by the woodlan burn,
I pu the weepin willow


Where primroses spring on the green tufted brae,
And the riv'let runs murm'ring below,
Oh, Fortune ! at morning, or noon, let me stray,
And thy wealth on thy vot'ries bestow.
For, oh ! how enraptured my bosom does glow
As calmly I wander alone,
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow,
And a streamlet enlivens the scene

Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state,
Let me still be contented, though poor
What destiny brings, be resigned to my fate,
Though misfortune should knock at my door.
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth,
Nor the titles that affluence yields,
While blythely I roam, in the heyday of health,
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields

Ye dear romantic shades

Far from the giddy court of mirth,
Where sick'ning follies reign,
By Levern-banks I wander forth
To hail each silvan scene,
All hail, ye dear romantic shades !
Ye banks, ye woods, and sunny glades !
Here oft, the musing poet treads,
In nature's riches great ;
Contrasts the country with the town,
Makes nature's beauties all his own,
And borne on fancy's wing looks down
On empty pride and state
By dewy dawn, or sultry noon,
Or sober evening gray,
I'll often quit the dinsome town,
By Levern banks to stray ;
Or from the upland's mossy brow,
Enjoy the fancy-pleasing view,
Of streamlets, woods, and fields below,
A sweetly varied scene !
Give riches to the miser's care,
Let folly shine in fashion's glare,
Give me the wealth of peace and health,
With all their happy train

Barochan Jean

'Tis ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
And ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een

The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzens,
The tane killed wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,—
A' wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing, or hoping for Barochan Jean

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They got naething for crowdy but runts boiled to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barochan Jean

The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barochan Jean

The burns on roadsides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, “Sweet Barochan Jean!”

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barochan Jean

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glenbrodie,
The grass owre their graves is now bonnie and green:
He stole the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoiled a' the charms o' her twa pawky een

Faithful Ellen More

The sun had kissed green Erin's waves,
The dark blue mountains towered between,
Mild evening's dews refreshed the leaves,
The moon unclouded rose serene,
When Ellen wandered forth unseen,
All lone her sorrows to deplore;
False was her lover, false her friend,
And false was hope to Ellen More

Young Henry was fair Ellen's love,
Young Emma to her heart was dear;
Nor weal nor woe did Ellen prove,
But Emma ever seemed to share.
Yet envious still, she spread the wile
That sullied Ellen's virtues o'er;
Her faithless Henry spurned the while,
His fair, his faithful Ellen More

She wandered down Loch-Mary side,
Where oft at evening hour she stole,
To meet her love with secret pride;
Now deepest anguish wrung her soul.
O'ercome with grief, she sought the steep
Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar;
Oh, Pity! veil thine eyes and weep!
A bleeding corpse lies Ellen More

The sun may shine on Yarrow braes,
And woo the mountain flowers to bloom,
But never can his golden rays
Awake the flower in yonder tomb.
There oft young Henry strays forlorn,
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower;
There oft, from eve till breezy morn,
He weeps his faithful Ellen More

We'll o'er the Braes o' Yarrow

The sun, just glancing through the trees,
Gave light and joy to ilka grove,
And pleasure in each southern breeze
Awakened hope and slumbering love,

When Jenny sung wi' hearty glee,
To charm her winsome marrow,—
“My bonnie laddie, gang wi' me,
We 'll o'er the braes o' Yarrow.”

Young Sandy was the blithest swain
That ever piped on broomy brae,
Nae lass could ken him free frae pain,
Sae gracefu', kind, sae fair and gay;

When Jenny sung wi' hearty glee, etc.

He kiss'd and lov'd the bonnie maid,
Her sparkling een had won his heart;
Nae lass the youth had e'er betrayed,
Nae fear had she, the lad nae art

And Jenny sung wi' hearty glee, etc.

Sweet Kitty More

One night in my youth as I rov'd with my merry pipe,
List'ning the echoes that rang to the tune,
I met Kitty More, with her two lips so cherry-ripe,
“Phelim,” says she, “give us ‘Elleen Aroon!’”

Dear Kitty, says I, thou 'rt so charmingly free!
Now, if you wilt deign thy sweet voice to the measure,
'Twill make all the echoes run giddy with pleasure,
For none in fair Erin can sing it like thee

My chanter I plied, with my heart beating gaily,
I pip'd up the strain, while so sweetly she sang;
The soft melting melody filled all the valley,
The green woods around us in harmony rang.
Methought that she verily charmed up the moon!
And now, as I wander in village or city,
When good people call for some favourite ditty,
I give them sweet Kitty, and “Elleen Aroon.”

My days ha'e flown wi' gleesome speed

My days ha'e flown wi' gleesome speed,
Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind,
Sae happy wi' my rural reed,
I lilted every care behind.
I 've been vext and sair perplext
When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy;
But, like good John o' Badenyon,
I croon'd my lilt and car'd na by

Away, gloomy care

Away, gloomy care, there 's no place for thee here,
Where so many good fellows are met;
Thou wouldst dun the poor bard every day in the year,
Yet I 'm sure I am none in thy debt

Go, soak thy old skin in the miser's small beer,
And keep watch in his cell all the night;
And if in the morning thou dar'st to appear,
By Jove, I shall drown thee outright

The witless wish

O sair I rue the witless wish,
That gar'd me gang wi' you at e'en,
And sair I rue the birken bush,
That screen'd us wi' its leaves sae green.
And though ye vow'd ye wad be mine,
The tear o' grief aye dims my e'e;
For O! I 'm fear'd that I may tine
The love that ye ha'e promised me!

While ithers seek their e'ening sports,
I wander, dowie, a' my lane,
For when I join their glad resorts,
Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain.
Alas! it wasna sae shortsyne,
When a' my nights were spent wi' glee;
But, O! I 'm fear'd that I may tine
The love that ye ha'e promised me

Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon,
For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee,
I 've coft a bonnie silken gown,
To be a bridal gift for thee.
And sooner shall the hills fa' down,
And mountain-high shall stand the sea,
Ere I 'd accept a gowden crown,
To change that love I bear for thee

And were ye at Duntocher burn?

And were ye at Duntocher burn?
And did ye see them a', man?
And how's my wifie and the bairns?
I ha'e been lang awa', man.
This hedger wark's a weary trade,
It doesna suit ava, man;
Wi' lanely house and lanely bed
My comforts are but sma', man

And how's wee Sandy, Pate, and Tam?
Sit down and tak' your blaw, man;
Fey, lassie, rin, fetch in a dram,
To treat my friend, John Lamon.
For ilka plack ye 've gi'en to mine,
Your callans shall get twa, man;
O were my heels as light's my heart,
I soon wad see them a', man

My blessing on her kindly heart,
She likes to see me braw, man;
She 's darned my hose, and bleached my sarks
As white's the driven snaw, man.
And ere the winds o' Martinmas
Sough through the scroggie shaw, man,
I'll lift my weel-hain'd penny fee,
And gang and see them a', man

Molly, my dear

The harvest is o'er, and the lads are so funny,
Their hearts lined with love, and their pockets with money;
From morning till night 'tis, “My jewel, my honey,
Och, go to the north with me, Molly, my dear!”

Young Dermot holds on with his sweet botheration,
And swears there is only one flower in the nation;
“Thou rose of the Shannon, thou pink of creation,
Och, go to the north with me, Molly, my dear!”

“The sun courts thy smiles as he sinks in the ocean,
The moon to thy charms veils her face in devotion;
And I, my poor self, och! so rich is my notion,
Would pay down the world for sweet Molly, my dear!”

Though Thady can match all the lads with his blarney,
And sings me love-songs of the lakes of Killarney,
In worth from my Dermot he 's twenty miles journey:
My heart bids me tell him I 'll ne'er be his dear

Brave Lewie Roy

Brave Lewie Roy was the flower of our Highlandmen,
Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlich,
Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of Fillan glen,
Dearer than life to his lovely nighean choidheach.
Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding,
When forced to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie;
Though manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless,
Away from the lady he aye loved so dearly

But woe on the bloodthirsty mandates of Cumberland,
Woe on the bloodthirsty gang that fulfilled them;
Poor Caledonia! bleeding and plunder'd land,
Where shall thy children now shelter and shield them?
Keen prowl the cravens like merciless ravens,
Their prey the devoted adherents of Charlie;
Brave Lewie is taken, cowardly hacked and slain,
Ah! his nighean choidheach will mourn for him sairly

Coggie, thou heals me

Dorothy sits i the caul ingle neuk,
Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae,
Wi girnin, her mou's like the gab o the fleuk,
Wi smokin, her teeth's like the jet o the slae.
An aye she sings “Weel's me,” aye she sings "Weel's me,
Coggie, thou heals me ! coggie, thou heals me !
Aye my best frien whan there's onything ails me,
Ne'er shall we pairt till the day that I dee.”

Dorothy ance was a weel-tocher'd lass,
Had charms like her neebours, and lovers enou,
But she spited them sae, wi her pride an her sauce,
They left her for thretty lang simmers to rue.
Then aye she sang “Wae's me!” aye she sang “Wae's me!
Oh, I'll turn crazy, oh, I'll turn crazy !
Naething in a the wide warl can ease me,
Deil tak the wooers,—Oh, what shall I dae ?”

Dorothy, dozen't wi leevin her lane,
Pu'd at her rock, wi the tear in her ee
She thocht on the braw merry days that war gane,
And caft a wee coggie for companie.
Now aye she sings “Weel's me!” aye she sings “Weel's me !
Coggie, thou heals me ! coggie, thou heals me
Aye my best frien whan there's onything ails me,
Ne'er shall we pairt till the day that I dee.”

Caller Herrin'.

“Ah, feechanie! they 're no' for me!
Guidwife, your herrin 's stinkin';
O sic a smell! just fin' yoursel',
I weel could ken them winkin'.”
“The deevil dance your lady gab!
Gae doun the close, ye dirty drab!
They 're caller fish, as ane can wish;
She needna miss a dainty dish,—
But, barmy jade! she 's winkin'.”

“How daur you trow that I am fou,
Ye flounder-gabbit gipsy!
Set doun your creel, I 'll gar you feel
I 'm neither fou nor tipsy.”
“Gude trouth! if I my creel set doun,
I 'll wad my life to hauf-a-croun
I 'll gar ye yelp, like ony whelp,
And cry for help, wi' skelp on skelp,—
I 'll gi'e her hipsey-dixey!”

“Ye 'd talk to me like that, ye drab,
And glare wi' sic an e'e;]
To fyle my han's wi' sic as ye,—
Gude feth! I 'll ne'er bemean me.”
“Weel, honest folks, a' this ye hear?
It 's mair than flesh an' blood can bear.
I 'll tell you what, ye birsie cat!
Tak' that, an' that, for a' your chat;
Now, tell what I ha'e gi'en ye!”

From the rude bustling camp

From the rude bustling camp to the calm rural plain,
I've come, my dear Jeanie, to bless thee again ;
Still burning for honour our warriors may roam,
But the laurel I wished for, I've won it at home :
All the glories of conquest no joy could impart,
When far from the kind little girl of my heart ;
Now, safely returned, I will leave thee no more,
But love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour

The sweets of retirement, how pleasing to me ;
Possessing all worth, my dear Jeanie, in thee !
Our flocks' early bleating will wake us to joy,
And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky !
In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide,
Till Time, looking back, will admire at his speed,
Still blooming in virtue, tho' youth then be o'er,
I'll love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour

The lassie o' merry eighteen

My father would ha'e me to marry the miller,
My mither would ha'e me to marry the laird,
But brawly I ken it 's the love o' the siller
That brightens their fancy to ony regard.
The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit,
The laird, though he 's wealthy, he 's lyart and lean;
He 's auld, and he 's cauld, an' he 's blin' an' he 's bald,
An' he 's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen

Wreck on gloomy Isle of May

Wi waefu heart and sorrowing e'e
I saw my Jamie sail awa ;
Oh ! twas a fatal day to me,
That day he pass'd the Berwick Law ;
How joyless now seem'd a behind !
I ling'rin, stray'd alang the shore ;
Dark boding fears hung on my mind
That I micht never see him more

The nicht came on wi heavy rain,
Loud, fierce, and wild the tempest blew;
In mountains roll'd the awful main :
Ah, hapless maid ! my fears how true !
The landsmen heard their drownin cries,
The wreck was seen with dawnin day ;
My love was found, an now he lies
Low in the isle o gloomy May

O boatman, kindly waft me o'er !
The cavern'd rock shall be my home ;
Twill ease my burdened heart, to pour
Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb ;
With sweetest flowers I'll deck his grave,
An tend them thro the langsome year ;
I'll water them, ilk morn and eve,
Wi deepest sorrow's warmest tear

When John and I were married

When John and I were married,
Our hauding was but sma',
For my minnie, cankered carline,
Would gi'e us nocht ava.
I wair't my fee wi' canny care,
As far as it would gae,
But weel I wat our bridal bed
Was clean pea-strae

Wi' working late and early,
We 're come to what you see,
For fortune thrave aneath our hands,
Sae eident aye were we

The lowe of love made labour light,
I 'm sure ye 'll find it sae,
When kind ye cuddle down, at e'en,
'Mang clean pea-strae

The rose blooms gay on cairny brae,
As weel's in birken shaw,
And love will lowe in cottage low,
As weel's in lofty ha':
Sae, lassie, tak' the lad ye like,
Whate'er your minnie say,
Tho' ye should mak' your bridal bed
Of clean pea-strae

The Bard of Glenullin

Tho my eyes are grown dim, and my locks are turn'd gray,
I feel not the storms of life's bleak wintry day,
For my cot is well thatch'd, and my barns are full stor'd,
And cheerful Content still presides at my board :
Warm-hearted Benevolence stands at my door,
Dispensing her gifts to the wandering poor,
The glow of the heart does my bounty repay,
And lightens the cares of life's bleak wintry day

From the summit of years I look down on the vale,
Where age pines in sorrow, neglected and pale;
There the sunshine of fortune scarce deigns to bestow
One heart-cheering smile to the wand'rers below.
From the sad dreary prospect this lesson I drew,
That those who are helpless are friended by few ;
So, with vigorous industry, I smooth'd the rough way
That leads through the vale of life's bleak wintry day

Then, my son, let the Bard of Glenullin advise
(For years can give counsel, experience makes wise) ;
Midst thy wand'rings let honour for aye be thy guide,
O'er thy actions let honesty ever preside.
Then, though hardships assail thee, in virtue thou'lt smile,
For light is the heart that's untainted with guile ;
And, if fortune attend thee, my counsels obey,
Prepare for the storms of life's bleak wintry day

Hey, Donald! how, Donald!

Though simmer smiles on bank and brae,
And nature bids the heart be gay,
Yet a' the joys o' flowery May
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me

Hey, Donald! how, Donald!
Think upon your vow, Donald!
Mind the heathery knowe, Donald!
Where ye vowed to lo'e me

The budding rose and scented brier,
The siller fountain skinkling clear,
The merry lav'rock whistling near,
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me

Hey, Donald! etc.

I downa look on bank and brae,
I downa greet where a' are gay,
But O! my heart will break wi' wae,
Gin Donald cease to lo'e me

Hey, Donald! etc.

Why unite to banish care?

Why unite to banish care?
Let him come our joys to share;
Doubly blest our cup shall flow
When it soothes a brother's woe;
'Twas for this the powers divine
Crowned our board with generous wine

Far be hence the sordid elf
Who'd claim enjoyment for himself;
Come, the hardy seaman, lame,
The gallant soldier, robbed of fame;
Welcome all who bear the woes
Of various kind that merit knows

Patriot heroes, doomed to sigh,
Idle 'neath corruption's eye;
Honest tradesmen, credit-worn,
Pining under fortune's scorn;
Wanting wealth, or lacking fame,
Welcome all that worth can claim

Come, the hoary-headed sage,
Suffering more from want than age;
Come, the proud, though needy bard,
Starving midst a world's regard:
Welcome, welcome, one and all
That feel on this unfeeling ball

The Lad I lo'e sae dear

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
Oh gin thou wert awa;
I'm wae tae hear thy sughin winds,
I'm wae tae see thy snaw :
For my bonnie brave young Hielander,
The lad I lo'e sae dear,
Has vow'd tae come an see me
In the spring o the year

Addition by Patrick Buchan :—

A silken ban he gaed me
To bin my gouden hair,
A siller brooch and tartan plaid,—
A for his sake to wear ;
And oh ! my heart was like to break
(For partin sorrow's sair),
As he vowed to come and see me
In the spring o the year

Aft, aft as gloamin dims the sky,
I wander out alane
Whar buds the bonnie yellow whins
Around the trystin stane :
Twas there he pressed me to his heart,
And kissed away the tear,
As he vowed to come and see me
In the springo the year

Ye gentle breezes saftly blaw,
And deed anew the wuds ;
Ye lav'rocks lilt your cheery sangs amang the fleecy clods ;
Till Feberwar and a his train
Affrighted disappear,
I'll hail wi you the blythesome change,
The spring time o the year

Ye wooer lads wha greet and grane

Ye wooer lads wha greet and grane,
Wha preach and fleech, and mak' a mane,
An' pine yoursel's to skin and bane,
Come a' to Callum Brogach

I 'll learn you here the only art
To win a bonnie lassie's heart—
Just tip wi' gowd Love's siller dart,
Like dainty Callum Brogach

I ca'd her aye my sonsie doo,
The fairest flower that e'er I knew;
Yet, like a souple spankie grew,
She fled frae Callum Brogach.
But soon's she heard the guinea ring,
She turn'd as I had been a king,
Wi'—“Tak' my hand or ony thing,
Dear, dainty Callum Brogach!”

It 's gowd can mak' the blind to see,
Can bring respect where nane wad be,
And Cupid ne'er shall want his fee
Frae dainty Callum Brogach.
Nae mair wi' greetin' blin' your een,
Nae mair wi' sighin' warm the win',
But hire the gettlin for your frien',
Like dainty Callum Brogach

The Maniac's Song

Hark! 'tis the poor maniac's song—
She sits on yon wild craggy steep,
And while the winds mournfully whistle along,
She wistfully looks o'er the deep ;
And aye she sings "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby !"
To hush the rude billows asleep
She looks to yon rock far at sea,
And thinks it her lover's white sail,
The warm tear of joy glads her wild glist'ning eye,
As she beckons his vessel to hail ;
And aye she sings "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby !"
And frets at the boisterous gale
Poor Susan was gentle and fair,
Till the seas robb'd her heart of its joy,
Then her reason was lost in the gloom of despair,
And her charms then did wither and die ;
And now her sad "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby !"

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Kate

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie,
Davie's bonnie blithesome Katie,
Tam the laird cam' down yestreen,
He sought her love, but gat her pity

Wi' trembling grip he squeezed her hand,
While his auld heart gaed pitty-patty;
Aye he thought his gear and land
Wad win the love o' bonnie Katie

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie,
Davie's bonnie blithesome Katie,
Aye she smiled as Tammie wiled:
Her smile was scorn, yet mixed wi' pity

Bonny winsome Mary

Fortune, frowning most severe,
Forc'd me from my native dwelling,
Parting with my friends so dear,
Cost me many a bitter tear :
But, like the clouds of early day,
Soon my sorrows fled away,
When blooming sweet, and smiling gay,
I met my winsome Mary
Wha can sit wi' gloomy brow,
Blest wi' sic a charming lassie ?
Native scenes I think on you,
Yet the change I canna rue ;
Wandering many a weary mile,
Fortune seem'd to lower the while,
But now she's gien me for the toil,
My bonny winsome Mary
Though our riches are but few,
Faithfu' love is aye a treasure,
Ever cheery, kind and true,
Nane but her I e'er can lo'e.
Hear me, a' ye powers above,
Powers of sacred truth and love,
While I live I'll constant prove,
To my dear winsome Mary

Disabled Seaman

Mongst Life's many cares there is none so provoking,
As when a brave seaman, disabled and old,
Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking
Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold;
Poor Tom, once so high on the list of deserving,
By captain and crew none so dearly was prized,
At home now laid up, worn with many years' serving,
Poor Tom takes his sup, and poor Tom is despised

Yet, Care thrown a-lee, see old Tom in his glory,
Placed snug with a shipmate, whose life once he saved,
Recounting the feats of some bold naval story,
The battles they fought, and the storms they had braved.
In his country's defence he has dared every danger,
His valorous deeds he might boast undisguised ;
Yet home-hearted landsmen hold Tom as a stranger,
Poor Tom loves his sup, and poor Tom is despised

Myself, too, am old, rather rusty for duty,
Yet still I'll prefer the wide ocean to roam ;
I'd join some bold corsair, and live upon booty,
Before I'd be gibed by these sucklings at home.
Poor Tom, fare-thee-well ! for, by heaven, tis provoking,
When thus a brave seaman, disabled and old,
Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking
Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold

Bonnie Heilan' laddie

Will ye gang to Inverness,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie?
There ye 'll see the Hielan' dress,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Philabeg and bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
For the lad that wears the trew,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Geordie sits in Charlie's chair,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie;
Had I my will he 'd no' sit there,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Ne'er reflect on sorrows past,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
Charlie will be king at last,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

An' tho' now our sky may lower,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
It 's only like an April shower,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Time an' tide come roun' to a',
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie,
An' upstart pride will get a fa',
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Keep up your heart for Charlie's fight,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie;
An' come what may, ye 've done what 's right,
Bonnie laddie, Hielan' laddie

Despairing Mary

“Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?
See a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;
Blithe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,
Blithe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw!”
“How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure?
Simmer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane;
Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,
Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane

“This kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token;
Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken;
Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break.
Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening,
Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;
Spent are my days a' in secret repining,
Peace to this bosom can never return

“Oft have we wandered in sweetest retirement,
Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam;
Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment,
But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream.
Cruel remembrance, ah! why wilt thou wreck me?
Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown;
Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me,
Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown!”

Irish Teaching

Dear Judy, I 've taken a-thinking,
The children their letters must learn,
And we 'll send for old Father O'Jenkin
To teach them three months in the barn;
For learning's the way to promotion,
'Tis culture brings food from the sod,
And books give a fellow a notion
How matters are doing abroad

Though father neglected my reading,
Kind soul! sure his spirit 's in rest!
For the very first part of his breeding
Was still to relieve the distrest:
And late, when the trav'ller benighted
Besought hospitality's claim,
He lodged him till morning, delighted,
Because 'twas a lesson to them

The man that won't feel for another
Is just like a colt on the moor,
He lives without knowing a brother,
To frighten bad luck from his door.
But he that 's kind-hearted and steady,
Though wintry misfortune should come,
He 'll still find some friend who is ready
To scare the old witch from his home

Success to Ould Ireland for ever!
'Tis just the dear land to my mind;
Her lads are warm-hearted and clever,
Her girls are all handsome and kind;

And he that her name would bespatter,
By wishing the French safely o'er,
May the de'il blow him over the water,
And make him cook frogs for the core!

Lassie, will ye tak' a man?

O lassie, will ye tak' a man,
Rich in housin', gear, and lan'?
De'il tak' the cash! that I should ban,—
Nae mair I 'll be the slave o't

I'll buy you claes to busk you braw,
A riding pony, pad, and a';
On fashion's tap we 'll drive awa',
Whip, spur, and a' the lave o't

Oh, poortith is a wintry day,
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, and blae;
But basking under Fortune's ray,
There 's joy whate'er ye 'd have o't

Then gie 's your han', ye 'll be my wife,
I 'll mak' you happy a' your life;
We 'll row in love and siller rife,
Till death wind up the lave o't

Now, Marion, dry your tearfu' e'e,
Gae break ye're rock in twa,
For soon ye're gallant sons ye'll see,
Return'd in safety a'.

O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain!
An' shall I see my bairns again,
A' seated roun' our ain hearth-stane,
Mae mair tae gang awa'?

Our Bonnie Scots Lads

Our bonnie Scots lads in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, an feathers sae braw,
Rankt up on the green war fair tae be seen,
But my bonnie young laddie was fairest o a ;
His cheeks war as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western dud lookin doun on the snaw;
His lang yellow hair owre his braid shouthers fell,
An the een o the lasses war fix't on him a.

My heart sank wi was on the wearifu day,
When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa,
He bade me fareweel, he cried—"Oh, be leel !"
An his red cheeks war wet wi the tears that did fa.
Ah ! Harry, my love, tho' thou ne'er shou'dst return,
Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn :
An memory shall fade like the leaf on the tree,
E'er my heart spare ae thocht on anither but thee. 

The Soldier's Aieu

The weary sun's gane doun the west,
The birds sit nodding on the tree,
All Nature now inclines for rest,
But rest allow'd there's nane for me :
The trumpet calls to War's alarms,
The rattling drum forbids my stay ;
Ah ! Nancy, bless thy soldier's arms,
For ere morn I will be far away.

I grieve to leave my comrades dear,
I mourn to leave my native shore,
To leave my aged parents here,
And the bonnie lass whom I adore.
But tender thoughts must now be hushed,
When duty calls, I must obey ;
Fate wills it so that part we must,
And the morn I will be far away.

Adieu! dear Scotland's sea-beat coast !
Ye misty vales and mountains blue !
When on the heaving ocean tost,
I'll cast a wishful look to you.
And now, dear Nancy, fare-thee-weel !
May Providence thy guardian be !
And in the camp, or in the fiel,
My constant thoughts shall turn to thee. 

One night in my youth

One night in my youth as I rov'd with my merry pipe,
List'ning the echoes that rung to the tune,
I met with Kitty More, with her two lips so cherry-ripe,
Phelim, says she, give us Ellen Aroon.
Dear Kitty, says I, thou'rt so charmingly free!
Now, if you wilt deign thy sweet voice to the measure,
'Twill make all the echoes run giddy with pleasure,
For none in fair Erin can sing it like thee.

My chanter I plied, with me heart beating gaily,
I pip'd up the strain, while so sweetly she sung,
The soft melting melody fill'd all the valley,
The green woods around us in harmony rung,
Methought that she verily charm'd up the moon!
And now as I wander in village or city,
When good people call for some favourite ditty,
I cheer my old heart with sweet Ellen Aroon.

The Soldier's Widow

The cold wind blows
O'er the drifted snows,
Loud howls tine rain-lash'd naked wood
Weary I stray,
On my lonesome way,
And my heart is hurt for want of food;
Pity a wretch left all forlorn,
On life's wide wintry waste to mourn;
The gloom of night fast veils the sky,
And pleads for your humanity.

On valour's bed
My Henry died,
In the cheerless desert is his tomb;
Now lost to joy
With my little boy,
In woe and want I wander home.
O never, never will you miss
The boon bestow'd on deep distress,
For dear to Heav'n is the glist'ning eye,
That beams benign humanity.

More to follow...