When the fair one and the dear one—Her lover by her side—Strays or sits as fancy flits,Where yellow streamlets glide;Gleams illuming—flowers perfumingWhere'er her footsteps rove;Time beguiling with her smiling,Oh! that 's the hour of love.When the fair one and the dear one,Amid a moonlight scene,Where grove and glade, and light and shade,Are all around serene;Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy,While coos the turtle-dove,And in soft strains appeals—complains,Oh! that 's the hour of love.Should the fair one and the dear oneThe sigh of pity lendFor human woe, that presses lowA stranger, or a friend,Tears descending, sweetly blending,As down her cheeks they rove;Beauty's charms in pity's arms—Oh! that 's the hour of love.When the fair one and the dear oneAppears in morning dreams,In flowing vest by fancy drest,And all the angel beams;The heavenly mien, and look serene,Confess her from above;While rising sighs and dewy eyesSay, that 's the hour of love!
When the fair one and the dear one—Her lover by her side—Strays or sits as fancy flits,Where yellow streamlets glide;Gleams illuming—flowers perfumingWhere'er her footsteps rove;Time beguiling with her smiling,Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear one,Amid a moonlight scene,Where grove and glade, and light and shade,Are all around serene;Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy,While coos the turtle-dove,And in soft strains appeals—complains,Oh! that 's the hour of love.
Should the fair one and the dear oneThe sigh of pity lendFor human woe, that presses lowA stranger, or a friend,Tears descending, sweetly blending,As down her cheeks they rove;Beauty's charms in pity's arms—Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear oneAppears in morning dreams,In flowing vest by fancy drest,And all the angel beams;The heavenly mien, and look serene,Confess her from above;While rising sighs and dewy eyesSay, that 's the hour of love!
John Leyden was born on the 8th September 1775, at Denholm, a hamlet in the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest. About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a solitary cottage,[94]about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of the heath stretching down from the "stormy Ruberslaw." He received the rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother; and discovering a remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutorship of a Cameronian clergyman, in Denholm, reputed as a classical scholar. In 1790, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction for his classical attainments and devotedness to general learning. His last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his licence, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar had secured him many friends.He now accepted the editorship of theScots Magazine, to which he had formerly been a contributor, and otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published, in a duodecimo volume, "An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." "The Complaynt of Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century, next appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious introduction, and notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of "The Elf-king," to Lewis' "Tales of Wonder;" and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume, entitled, "Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of Wilson's "Clyde," and a reprint of "Albania,"—a curious poem, in blank verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth century.
A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African Association; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the medical classes; and he now resumed the study of medicine, with suchan amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was conferred on him by the University of St Andrews.
Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the "Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London, enjoying the society of many distinguished men of letters, to whom he was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for India[95]on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous friends. He was successively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo Sultan; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta; judge of the twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta; a commissioner of the Court of Requests in Calcutta; and assay-master of the mint. His literary services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.
In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance wasunited to remarkable native genius, and a memory of singular retentiveness. Eminent as a linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist; in a knowledge of the many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the East, he published a "Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the "Asiatic Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse; and, in youth, was familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in theEdinburgh Literary Magazineas author of an elegy "On the Death of a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions are the "Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the supernatural machinery is singularly striking; in the former poem, much smooth and elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness.
Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits. He affected to despise artificial manners; and, though frequenting polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, and afterwards in Madras and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly unconscious of the defect, he talked loud; and if engaged inargument, raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than the strength of his reasoning. He was dogmatical in maintaining his opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation; his gesticulations were awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to renounce his friendship.[96]In his domestic habits, he was temperate often to abstinence; he was frugal, but not mean—careful, but not penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents; was deeply imbued with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was of a slight figure, and of middle stature; his countenance was peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust, and took delight in practising gymnastics; he desired fame, not less for feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature. His premature death was the subject of general lamentation; in the "Lord of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his memory:—
"His bright and brief career is o'er,And mute his tuneful strain;Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,That loved the light of song to pour;A distant and a deadly shoreHas Leyden's cold remains."
"His bright and brief career is o'er,And mute his tuneful strain;Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,That loved the light of song to pour;A distant and a deadly shoreHas Leyden's cold remains."
How sweet thy modest light to view,Fair star! to love and lovers dear;While trembling on the falling dew,Like beauty shining through a tear.Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream,To mark that image trembling there,Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,To see thy lovely face so fair.Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,The moon thy timid beams outshineAs far as thine each starry light,Her rays can never vie with thine.Thine are the soft, enchanting hoursWhen twilight lingers on the plain,And whispers to the closing flowersThat soon the sun will rise again.Thine is the breeze that, murmuring blandAs music, wafts the lover's sigh,And bids the yielding heart expandIn love's delicious ecstasy.Fair star! though I be doom'd to proveThat rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love—But sweeter to be loved again.
How sweet thy modest light to view,Fair star! to love and lovers dear;While trembling on the falling dew,Like beauty shining through a tear.
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream,To mark that image trembling there,Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,To see thy lovely face so fair.
Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,The moon thy timid beams outshineAs far as thine each starry light,Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft, enchanting hoursWhen twilight lingers on the plain,And whispers to the closing flowersThat soon the sun will rise again.
Thine is the breeze that, murmuring blandAs music, wafts the lover's sigh,And bids the yielding heart expandIn love's delicious ecstasy.
Fair star! though I be doom'd to proveThat rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love—But sweeter to be loved again.
Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet,Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet;And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam,Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home;The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed,Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye!Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay.Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies,Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise—Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king,In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.
Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet,Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet;And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam,Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home;The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed,Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.
Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye!Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay.Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies,Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise—Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king,In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.
FROM THE BENGALI.
I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly;Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array,Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.All the people are flocking to see him pass by;They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye:From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves,And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.His fine locks are matted, no raiment has heFor the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree;And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold,Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal arrayBefore his proud squadrons his banners display,And the voice of the people exulting to ownTheir sovereign assuming the purple and crown;But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,—One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.Our light is departing, and darkness returns,Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns;Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain,And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.
I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly;Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array,Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.
All the people are flocking to see him pass by;They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye:From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves,And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.
His fine locks are matted, no raiment has heFor the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree;And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold,Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.
Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal arrayBefore his proud squadrons his banners display,And the voice of the people exulting to ownTheir sovereign assuming the purple and crown;But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,—One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.
Our light is departing, and darkness returns,Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns;Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain,And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.
James Scadlock, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of Tannahill, was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1775. His father, an operative weaver, was a person of considerable shrewdness; and the poet M'Laren, who became his biographer, was his uterine brother. Apprenticed to the loom, he renounced weaving in the course of a year, and thereafter was employed in the establishment of a bookbinder. At the age of nineteen he entered on an indenture of seven years to a firm of copperplate engravers at Ferenize. He had early been inclined to verse-making, and, having formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, he was led to cultivate with ardour his native predilection. He likewise stimulated his ingenious friend to higher and more ambitious efforts in poetry. Accomplished in the elegant arts of drawing and painting, Scadlock began the study of classical literature and the modern languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of employment, checked his aspirations in learning. After an interval attended with some privations, he heard of a professional opening at Perth, which he proceeded to occupy. He returned to Paisley, after the absence of one year; and having married in 1808, his attention became more concentrated in domestic concerns. He died of fever on the 4th July 1818, leaving a family of four children.
Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a benevolent neighbour, and an intelligent companion. In the performance of his religious duties he was regular and exemplary. Desirious of excelling in conversation, he was prone to evince an undue formality of expression. His poetry, occasionally deficient in power, is uniformly distinguished for smoothness of versification.
Along by Levern stream so clear,When Spring adorns the infant year,And music charms the list'ning ear,I 'll wander with my Mary,My bonny blooming Mary;Not Spring itself to me is dear,When absent from my Mary.When Summer's sun pours on my headHis sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade,Unseen upon a primrose bedI 'll sit with little Mary,My bonny blooming Mary,Where fragrant flowers around are spread,To charm my little Mary.She 's mild 's the sun through April showerThat glances on the leafy bower,She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower,My bonny little Mary,My blooming little Mary;Give me but her, no other dowerI 'll ask with little Mary.Should fickle fortune frown on me,And leave me bare 's the naked tree,Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be,My lovely little Mary,My bonny blooming Mary;From gloomy care and sorrow free,I 'd ever keep my Mary.
Along by Levern stream so clear,When Spring adorns the infant year,And music charms the list'ning ear,I 'll wander with my Mary,My bonny blooming Mary;Not Spring itself to me is dear,When absent from my Mary.
When Summer's sun pours on my headHis sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade,Unseen upon a primrose bedI 'll sit with little Mary,My bonny blooming Mary,Where fragrant flowers around are spread,To charm my little Mary.
She 's mild 's the sun through April showerThat glances on the leafy bower,She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower,My bonny little Mary,My blooming little Mary;Give me but her, no other dowerI 'll ask with little Mary.
Should fickle fortune frown on me,And leave me bare 's the naked tree,Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be,My lovely little Mary,My bonny blooming Mary;From gloomy care and sorrow free,I 'd ever keep my Mary.
Welsh Air—"The rising of the Lark."
Hark, hark the skylark singing,While the early clouds are bringingFragrance on their wings;Still, still on high he 's soaring,Through the liquid haze exploring,Fainter now he sings.Where the purple dawn is breaking,Fast approaches morning's ray,From his wings the dew he 's shaking,As he joyful hails the day,While echo, from his slumbers waking,Imitates his lay.See, see the ruddy morning,With his blushing locks adorningMountain, wood, and vale;Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing,As the rising sun 's advancingO'er the eastern hill;Now the distant summits clearing,As the vapours steal their way,And his heath-clad breast 's appearing,Tinged with Phœbus' golden ray,Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheeringMorning with her lay.Come, then, let us be straying,Where the hazel boughs are playing,O'er yon summits gray;Mild now the breeze is blowing,And the crystal streamlet 's flowingGently on its way.On its banks the wild rose springingWelcomes in the sunny ray,Wet with dew its head is hinging,Bending low the prickly spray;Then haste, my love, while birds are singing,To the newborn day.
Hark, hark the skylark singing,While the early clouds are bringingFragrance on their wings;Still, still on high he 's soaring,Through the liquid haze exploring,Fainter now he sings.Where the purple dawn is breaking,Fast approaches morning's ray,From his wings the dew he 's shaking,As he joyful hails the day,While echo, from his slumbers waking,Imitates his lay.
See, see the ruddy morning,With his blushing locks adorningMountain, wood, and vale;Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing,As the rising sun 's advancingO'er the eastern hill;Now the distant summits clearing,As the vapours steal their way,And his heath-clad breast 's appearing,Tinged with Phœbus' golden ray,Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheeringMorning with her lay.
Come, then, let us be straying,Where the hazel boughs are playing,O'er yon summits gray;Mild now the breeze is blowing,And the crystal streamlet 's flowingGently on its way.On its banks the wild rose springingWelcomes in the sunny ray,Wet with dew its head is hinging,Bending low the prickly spray;Then haste, my love, while birds are singing,To the newborn day.
Air—"Oh, my love's bonnie."
October winds, wi' biting breath,Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading;Nae gowans glint upon the green,Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.As through the woods I musing gang,Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,Save little robin's lanely sang,Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.The sun is jogging down the brae,Dimly through the mist he 's shining,And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,As Day resigns his throne to E'ening.Oft let me walk at twilight gray,To view the face of dying nature,Till Spring again, wi' mantle green,Delights the heart o' ilka creature.
October winds, wi' biting breath,Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading;Nae gowans glint upon the green,Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.As through the woods I musing gang,Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,Save little robin's lanely sang,Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.
The sun is jogging down the brae,Dimly through the mist he 's shining,And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,As Day resigns his throne to E'ening.Oft let me walk at twilight gray,To view the face of dying nature,Till Spring again, wi' mantle green,Delights the heart o' ilka creature.
Alexander Boswell was the eldest son of James Boswell, the celebrated biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, one of the senators of the College of Justice. He was born on the 9th October 1775. His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart., of Lainshaw, was a woman of superior intelligence, and of agreeable and dignified manners. Along with his only brother James, he received his education at Westminster School and the University of Oxford. In 1795, on the death of his father, he succeeded to the paternal estate of Auchinleck. He now made the tour of Europe, and on his return took up his residence in the family mansion.
Inheriting his father's love of literature, and deriving from his mother a taste for elegant accomplishments, Alexander Boswell diligently applied himself to the cultivation of his mind, by an examination of the stores of the famous "Auchinleck Library." From his youth he had been ardent in his admiration of Burns, and had written verses for the amusement of his friends. A wooer of the lyric Muse, many of his lays rapidly obtained circulation, and were sung with a gusto not inferior to that inspired by the songs of the Bard of Coila. In 1803 he published, without his name, in a thin octavo volume, "Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," and subsequently contributed a number of lyrics of various merit to the Musical Collection of Mr George Thomson, andCampbell's "Albyn's Anthology." Several other poetical works proceeded from his pen. In 1803, shortly after the appearance of his songs, he published a ballad entitled "The Spirit of Tintoc; or, Johnnie Bell and the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo: Mundell and Son, Edinburgh. This performance, in which are humorously related the adventures of a drunken tailor with the brownies and other denizens of the unseen world, on the summit of Tintoc Hill, was followed in 1810 by another amusing poem, bearing the title of "Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of Former Manners, with Notes by Simon Gray." In this poem, the changes which had occurred in the habits of the citizens of Edinburgh are pourtrayed in a colloquy between an old farmer and his city friend. In 1811 appeared "Clan-Alpin's Vow, a Fragment," with the author's name prefixed. This production, founded upon a horrible tragedy connected with the history of the Clan Macgregor, proved one of the most popular of the author's works; it was reprinted in 1817, by Bentley and Son, London. His future publications may be simply enumerated; they were generally issued from a printing press which he established in the mansion of Auchinleck. In 1812 he printed, for private circulation, a poetical fragment entitled "Sir Albon," intended to burlesque the peculiar style and rhythm of Sir Walter Scott; in 1815, "The Tyrant's Fall," a poem on the battle of Waterloo; in 1816, "Skeldon Haughs, or the Sow is Flitted," a tale in verse founded on an old Ayrshire tradition; and in the same year another poetical tale, after the manner of Allan Ramsay's "Monk and Miller's Wife," entitled, "The Woo'-creel, or the Bull o' Bashun." From his printing office at Auchinleck, besides his poetical tales and pasquinades, he issued many curious and interestingworks, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different subjects, preserved in the Auchinleck Library. Of these the most remarkable was the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562, of which the only copy then known to exist was deposited in his paternal library.[98]
Amidst his devotedness to the pursuits of elegant literature, Mr Boswell bestowed much attention on public affairs. He was M.P. for the county of Ayr; and though silent in the House of Commons, was otherwise indefatigable in maintaining his political sentiments. He supported strict conservative principles, and was not without the apprehension of civil disturbance through the impetuosity of the advocates of reform. As Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Cavalry, he was painstaking in the training of his troops; the corps afterwards acknowledging his services by the presentation of a testimonial. In 1821, his zeal for the public interest was rewarded by his receiving the honour of a Baronetcy.
One of the most substantial of Sir Alexander's patriotic achievements was the erection of an elegant monument to Robert Burns on the banks of the Doon. The mode in which the object was accomplished is sufficiently interesting. Along with a friend who warmly approved of the design, Sir Alexander advertised in the public prints that a meeting would be held at Ayr, on a particular day, to take into consideration the proposal of rearing a monument to the great national bard. The day and hour arrived, but, save the projectors, not a single individual attended. Nothing disheartened, Sir Alexander took the chair, and his friend proceeded to act as clerk; resolutions wereproposed, seconded, and recorded, thanks were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. These resolutions being printed and circulated, were the means of raising by public subscription the sum of nearly two thousand pounds for the erection of the monument. Sir Alexander laid the foundation stone on the 25th of January 1820.
The literary and patriotic career of Sir Alexander Boswell was brought to a sudden termination. Prone to indulge a strong natural tendency for sarcasm, especially against his political opponents, he published, in a Glasgow newspaper, a severe poetical pasquinade against Mr James Stuart, younger of Dunearn, a leading member of the Liberal party in Edinburgh. The discovery of the authorship was followed by a challenge from Mr Stuart, which being accepted, the hostile parties met near the village of Auchtertool, in Fife. Sir Alexander fell, the ball from the pistol of his antagonist having entered near the root of his neck on the right side. He was immediately carried to Balmuto, a seat of his ancestors in the vicinity, where he expired the following day. The duel took place on the 26th March 1822.
The remains of the deceased Baronet were solemnly deposited in the family vault of Auchinleck. In personal appearance, Sir Alexander presented a powerful muscular figure; in society, he was fond of anecdote and humour. In his youth he was keen on the turf and in field sports; he subsequently found his chief entertainment in literary avocations. As a poet, he had been better known if his efforts had been of a less fragmentary character. The general tendency of his Muse was drollery, but some of his lyrics are sufficiently touching.
I met four chaps yon birks amang,Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang;I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,Wha 's they I see?Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel'Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,And here they cam awa' to stealJenny's bawbee.The first, a Captain to his trade,Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade,March'd round the barn, and by the shed,And papped on his knee:Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen,Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en!Though ne'er a beauty he had seenBut Jenny's bawbee.A Norland Laird neist trotted up,Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup;Cried—There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup,Or tie it to a tree.What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan',Bestow on ane o' worth your han':He thought to pay what he was awnWi' Jenny's bawbee.A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab,Wha speeches wove like ony wab;O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,And a' for a fee;Accounts he owed through a' the toun,And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;But now he thought to clout his gounWi' Jenny's bawbee.Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,A fool came neist; but life has rubs;Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,And jaupit a' was he:He danced up, squintin' through a glass,And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass!He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,Jenny's bawbee.She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,The sodger not to strut sae big,The lawyer not to be a prig;The fool he cried, Te-hee!I kenn'd that I could never fail!But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail,And soused him frae the water-pail,And kept her bawbee.Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense,Although he had na mony pence;And took young Jenny to the spence,Wi' her to crack a wee.Now Johnnie was a clever chiel',And here his suit he press'd sae weelThat Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,And she birl'd her bawbee.[99]
I met four chaps yon birks amang,Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang;I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,Wha 's they I see?Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel'Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,And here they cam awa' to stealJenny's bawbee.
The first, a Captain to his trade,Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade,March'd round the barn, and by the shed,And papped on his knee:Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen,Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en!Though ne'er a beauty he had seenBut Jenny's bawbee.
A Norland Laird neist trotted up,Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup;Cried—There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup,Or tie it to a tree.What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan',Bestow on ane o' worth your han':He thought to pay what he was awnWi' Jenny's bawbee.
A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab,Wha speeches wove like ony wab;O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,And a' for a fee;Accounts he owed through a' the toun,And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;But now he thought to clout his gounWi' Jenny's bawbee.
Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,A fool came neist; but life has rubs;Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,And jaupit a' was he:He danced up, squintin' through a glass,And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass!He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,The sodger not to strut sae big,The lawyer not to be a prig;The fool he cried, Te-hee!I kenn'd that I could never fail!But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail,And soused him frae the water-pail,And kept her bawbee.
Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense,Although he had na mony pence;And took young Jenny to the spence,Wi' her to crack a wee.Now Johnnie was a clever chiel',And here his suit he press'd sae weelThat Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,And she birl'd her bawbee.[99]
At Willie's weddin' o' the green,The lasses, bonnie witches,Were busked out in aprons clean,And snaw-white Sunday mutches;Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent,But Jock wad na believe her;But soon the fool his folly kent,For Jenny dang the weaver.In ilka country dance and reelWi' her he wad be babbin';When she sat down, then he sat down,And till her wad be gabbin';Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben,The coof wad never leave her,Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen,But Jenny dang the weaver.Quoth he, My lass, to speak my mind,In troth I needna swither,Ye 've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye 're kind,I needna court anither!He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh,"And bade the coof no deave her,Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh,And dang the silly weaver.
At Willie's weddin' o' the green,The lasses, bonnie witches,Were busked out in aprons clean,And snaw-white Sunday mutches;Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent,But Jock wad na believe her;But soon the fool his folly kent,For Jenny dang the weaver.
In ilka country dance and reelWi' her he wad be babbin';When she sat down, then he sat down,And till her wad be gabbin';Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben,The coof wad never leave her,Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen,But Jenny dang the weaver.
Quoth he, My lass, to speak my mind,In troth I needna swither,Ye 've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye 're kind,I needna court anither!He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh,"And bade the coof no deave her,Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh,And dang the silly weaver.
"Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!My hopes are flown, for a 's to wreck;Heaven guard you, love, and heal your heart,Though mine, alas, alas! maun break.""Dearest lad, what ills betide?Is Willie to his love untrue?Engaged the morn to be his bride,Ah! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue?""Ye canna wear a ragged gown,Or beggar wed wi' nought ava;My kye are drown'd, my house is down,My last sheep lies aneath the snaw.""Tell na me o' storm or flood,Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill;For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed,Though poor, ye are my Willie still.""Ye canna thole the wind and rain,Or wander friendless far frae hame;Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swainWill soon blot out lost Willie's name.""I 'll tak my bundle in my hand,An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e;I 'll wander wi' ye ower the land;I 'll venture wi' ye ower the sea.""Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare,My flocks are safe, we needna part;I 'd forfeit them and ten times mairTo clasp thee, Mary, to my heart.""How could ye wi' my feelings sport,Or doubt a heart sae warm and true?I maist could wish ye mischief for 't,But canna wish ought ill to you."
"Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!My hopes are flown, for a 's to wreck;Heaven guard you, love, and heal your heart,Though mine, alas, alas! maun break."
"Dearest lad, what ills betide?Is Willie to his love untrue?Engaged the morn to be his bride,Ah! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue?"
"Ye canna wear a ragged gown,Or beggar wed wi' nought ava;My kye are drown'd, my house is down,My last sheep lies aneath the snaw."
"Tell na me o' storm or flood,Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill;For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed,Though poor, ye are my Willie still."
"Ye canna thole the wind and rain,Or wander friendless far frae hame;Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swainWill soon blot out lost Willie's name."
"I 'll tak my bundle in my hand,An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e;I 'll wander wi' ye ower the land;I 'll venture wi' ye ower the sea."
"Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare,My flocks are safe, we needna part;I 'd forfeit them and ten times mairTo clasp thee, Mary, to my heart."
"How could ye wi' my feelings sport,Or doubt a heart sae warm and true?I maist could wish ye mischief for 't,But canna wish ought ill to you."
Taste life's glad moments,Whilst the wasting taper glows;Pluck, ere it withers,The quickly-fading rose.Man blindly follows grief and care,He seeks for thorns, and finds his share,Whilst violets to the passing airUnheeded shed their blossoms.Taste life's, &c.When tim'rous Nature veils her form,And rolling thunder spreads alarm,Then, ah! how sweet, when lull'd the storm,The sun shines forth at even.Taste life's, &c.How spleen and envy anxious flies,And meek content, in humble guise,Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise,Which golden fruits shall yield him.Taste life's, &c.Who fosters faith in upright breast,And freely gives to the distress'd,There sweet contentment builds her nest,And flutters round his bosom.Taste life's, &c.And when life's path grows dark and strait,And pressing ills on ills await,Then friendship, sorrow to abate,The helping hand will offer.Taste life's, &c.She dries his tears, she strews his way,E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay,Turns night to morn, and morn to day,And pleasure still increases.Taste life's, &c.Of life she is the fairest band,Joins brothers truly hand in hand,Thus, onward to a better land,Man journeys light and cheerly.Taste life's, &c.
Taste life's glad moments,Whilst the wasting taper glows;Pluck, ere it withers,The quickly-fading rose.
Man blindly follows grief and care,He seeks for thorns, and finds his share,Whilst violets to the passing airUnheeded shed their blossoms.Taste life's, &c.
When tim'rous Nature veils her form,And rolling thunder spreads alarm,Then, ah! how sweet, when lull'd the storm,The sun shines forth at even.Taste life's, &c.
How spleen and envy anxious flies,And meek content, in humble guise,Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise,Which golden fruits shall yield him.Taste life's, &c.
Who fosters faith in upright breast,And freely gives to the distress'd,There sweet contentment builds her nest,And flutters round his bosom.Taste life's, &c.
And when life's path grows dark and strait,And pressing ills on ills await,Then friendship, sorrow to abate,The helping hand will offer.Taste life's, &c.
She dries his tears, she strews his way,E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay,Turns night to morn, and morn to day,And pleasure still increases.Taste life's, &c.
Of life she is the fairest band,Joins brothers truly hand in hand,Thus, onward to a better land,Man journeys light and cheerly.Taste life's, &c.
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a',Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart;May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw;In sorrow may ye never part!My spirit lives, but strength is gone,The mountain-fires now blaze in vain;Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done,And in your deeds I 'll live again!When on yon muir our gallant clan,Frae boasting foes their banners tore;Wha shew'd himself a better man,Or fiercer waved the red claymore?But when in peace—then mark me there—When through the glen the wand'rer came,I gave him of our lordly fare,I gave him here a welcome hame.The auld will speak, the young maun hear;Be cantie, but be gude and leal;Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,Anither's aye hae heart to feel.So, ere I set, I 'll see ye shine;I 'll see ye triumph ere I fa';My parting breath shall boast you mine—Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a',Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart;May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw;In sorrow may ye never part!My spirit lives, but strength is gone,The mountain-fires now blaze in vain;Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done,And in your deeds I 'll live again!
When on yon muir our gallant clan,Frae boasting foes their banners tore;Wha shew'd himself a better man,Or fiercer waved the red claymore?But when in peace—then mark me there—When through the glen the wand'rer came,I gave him of our lordly fare,I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear;Be cantie, but be gude and leal;Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,Anither's aye hae heart to feel.So, ere I set, I 'll see ye shine;I 'll see ye triumph ere I fa';My parting breath shall boast you mine—Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
Air—"Kellyburn Braes."
Hech! what a change hae we now in this town!The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin',Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun'For deil a haet 's done now but feastin' and dancin'.Gowd 's no that scanty in ilk siller pock,When ilka bit laddie maun hae his bit staigie;But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock,But trotted about upon honest shank's naigie.Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste,Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens;The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced,Her equipage a'—just a gude pair o' pattens.Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal,Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin';Right air we were tell 't by the housemaid or chiel',Sir, an' ye please, here 's your lass and a lantern.The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meetsA' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin';Brigs may be biggit ower lums and ower streets,The Nor' Loch itsel' heapêd heigh as the Calton.But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see,A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty?Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me,And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty.
Hech! what a change hae we now in this town!The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin',Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun'For deil a haet 's done now but feastin' and dancin'.
Gowd 's no that scanty in ilk siller pock,When ilka bit laddie maun hae his bit staigie;But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock,But trotted about upon honest shank's naigie.
Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste,Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens;The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced,Her equipage a'—just a gude pair o' pattens.
Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal,Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin';Right air we were tell 't by the housemaid or chiel',Sir, an' ye please, here 's your lass and a lantern.
The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meetsA' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin';Brigs may be biggit ower lums and ower streets,The Nor' Loch itsel' heapêd heigh as the Calton.
But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see,A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty?Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me,And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty.
Air—"Bannocks o' Barley Meal."