The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,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 flower o' Dumblane.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' Dumblane.She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny;For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;And far be the villain, divested of feeling,Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,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' Dumblane.How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.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 flower o' Dumblane.
The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,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 flower o' Dumblane.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' Dumblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny;For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;And far be the villain, divested of feeling,Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,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' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.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 flower o' Dumblane.
Air—"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,I maun lea' them a', lassie;Wha can thole when Britain's faesWald gi'e Britons law, lassie?Wha would shun the field of danger?Wha frae fame wad live a stranger?Now when Freedom bids avenge her,Wha would shun her ca', lassie?Loudoun's bonnie woods and braesHae 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 bringsWaefu' 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 toilThat the soldier shares, lassie;Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,Till the vengeful strife is over,Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever,Till the day we die, lassie;'Midst our bonnie woods and braes,We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that playsOn Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,I maun lea' them a', lassie;Wha can thole when Britain's faesWald gi'e Britons law, lassie?Wha would shun the field of danger?Wha frae fame wad live a stranger?Now when Freedom bids avenge her,Wha would shun her ca', lassie?Loudoun's bonnie woods and braesHae 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 bringsWaefu' 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 toilThat the soldier shares, lassie;Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,Till the vengeful strife is over,Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever,Till the day we die, lassie;'Midst our bonnie woods and braes,We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that playsOn Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.
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 rosebud down the howe,Just op'ning fresh and bonny,Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel 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 laurell'd favours many;Give me but this, my soul's first wish,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 rosebud down the howe,Just op'ning fresh and bonny,Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel 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 laurell'd favours many;Give me but this, my soul's first wish,The lass o' Arranteenie.
Air—"The Brier-bush."
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 smoothes her theme,By the sweetly murm'ring stream,And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side,And gloamin' 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.
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 smoothes her theme,By the sweetly murm'ring stream,And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.
Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side,And gloamin' 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.
Air—"Bonny Dundee."
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw:The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,And now it is winter wi' nature and me.Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,And naething is seen but the wide-spreading 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 cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae;While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin','Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan',The dark days o' winter were summer to me!
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw:The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,And now it is winter wi' nature and me.
Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,And naething is seen but the wide-spreading 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 cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae;While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin','Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan',The dark days o' winter were summer to me!
Air—"Crockston Castle."
Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa'sThe wintry wind howls wild and dreary;Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary.Yes, Mary, though the winds should raveWi' 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,With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,The wildest dreary night I 'd brave,For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa'sThe wintry wind howls wild and dreary;Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary.Yes, Mary, though the winds should raveWi' 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,With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,The wildest dreary night I 'd brave,For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Air—"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."
Let us go, lassie, goTo the braes o' Balquhither,Where the blaeberries grow'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;Where the deer and the rae,Lightly bounding together,Sport the lang summer dayOn the braes o' Balquhither.I will twine thee a bowerBy the clear siller fountain,And I 'll cover it o'erWi' the flowers o' the mountain;I will range through the wilds,And the deep glens sae dreary,And return wi' their spoilsTo the bower o' my dearie.When the rude wintry win'Idly raves round our dwelling,And the roar of the linnOn the night breeze is swelling;So merrily we 'll sing,As the storm rattles o'er us,Till the dear sheiling ringWi' the light lilting chorus.Now the summer is in prime,Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,And the wild mountain thymeA' the moorlands perfuming;To our dear native scenesLet us journey together,Where glad innocence reigns,'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
Let us go, lassie, goTo the braes o' Balquhither,Where the blaeberries grow'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;Where the deer and the rae,Lightly bounding together,Sport the lang summer dayOn the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bowerBy the clear siller fountain,And I 'll cover it o'erWi' the flowers o' the mountain;I will range through the wilds,And the deep glens sae dreary,And return wi' their spoilsTo the bower o' my dearie.
When the rude wintry win'Idly raves round our dwelling,And the roar of the linnOn the night breeze is swelling;So merrily we 'll sing,As the storm rattles o'er us,Till the dear sheiling ringWi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,And the wild mountain thymeA' the moorlands perfuming;To our dear native scenesLet us journey together,Where glad innocence reigns,'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
Air—"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."
Gloomy winter 's now awa'Saft the westling breezes blaw,'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw,The mavis sings fu' cheery, O!Sweet the crawflower's early bellDecks Gleniffer's dewy dell,Blooming like thy bonny sel',My young, my artless dearie, O!Come, my lassie, let us strayO'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,Blithely spend the gowden day,'Midst joys that never weary, O!Towering o'er the Newton woods,Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds,Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,Adorn the banks sae briery, O!Round the sylvan fairy nooks,Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,And ilka thing is cheery, O!Trees may bud, and birds may sing,Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,Joy to me they canna bring,Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!
Gloomy winter 's now awa'Saft the westling breezes blaw,'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw,The mavis sings fu' cheery, O!Sweet the crawflower's early bellDecks Gleniffer's dewy dell,Blooming like thy bonny sel',My young, my artless dearie, O!
Come, my lassie, let us strayO'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,Blithely spend the gowden day,'Midst joys that never weary, O!Towering o'er the Newton woods,Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds,Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,Adorn the banks sae briery, O!
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,And ilka thing is cheery, O!Trees may bud, and birds may sing,Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,Joy to me they canna bring,Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!
Air—"Sleepy Maggie."
O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie?O! are ye sleeping, Maggie?Let me in, for loud the linnIs roaring o'er the warlock craigie.Mirk and rainy is the night,No a starn in a' the carry;[84]Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,And winds drive wi' winter's fury.O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.Fearful soughs the bourtree bank,The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,Loud the iron yate does clank,And cry of howlets makes me eerie.O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.Aboon my breath I daurna' speak,For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie,Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek,O rise, rise, my bonny lady!O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.She opt the door, she let him in,He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie:"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!What care I for howlet's cry,For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?
O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie?O! are ye sleeping, Maggie?Let me in, for loud the linnIs roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
Mirk and rainy is the night,No a starn in a' the carry;[84]Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,And winds drive wi' winter's fury.O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Fearful soughs the bourtree bank,The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,Loud the iron yate does clank,And cry of howlets makes me eerie.O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Aboon my breath I daurna' speak,For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie,Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek,O rise, rise, my bonny lady!O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
She opt the door, she let him in,He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie:"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."
Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!What care I for howlet's cry,For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?
Air—"Forneth House."
Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow,Is far ayont yon mountains;And Spring beholds her azure skyReflected in the fountains:Now, on the budding slaethorn bank,She spreads her early blossom,And wooes the mirly-breasted birdsTo nestle in her bosom.But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,Sae darksome, dull, and dreary;Now laverocks 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 every 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 blawIn a' the charms of fancy,For doubly dear these pleasures a',When shared with thee, my Nancy.
Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow,Is far ayont yon mountains;And Spring beholds her azure skyReflected in the fountains:Now, on the budding slaethorn bank,She spreads her early blossom,And wooes the mirly-breasted birdsTo nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,Sae darksome, dull, and dreary;Now laverocks 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 every 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 blawIn a' the charms of fancy,For doubly dear these pleasures a',When shared with thee, my Nancy.
Gaelic Air—"Mor nian à Ghibarlan."
Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O!Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O!Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O!And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O!The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O!Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O!That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O!Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O!Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O!The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen:He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen;He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O!Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O!Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O!Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O!I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!
Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O!Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O!Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O!And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!
But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O!The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O!Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O!That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!
The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O!Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O!Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O!The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!
He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen:He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen;He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O!Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!
Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O!Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O!Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O!I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!
Air—"The Shepherd's Son."
The midges dance aboon the burn,The dews begin to fa';The pairtricks down the rushy holm,Set up their e'ening ca'.Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sangRings through the briery shaw,While flitting, gay, the swallows playAround the castle wa'.Beneath the golden gloamin' sky,The mavis mends her lay,The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,To charm the ling'ring day.While weary yeldrins seem to wail,Their little nestlings torn;The merry wren, frae den to den,Gaes jinking through the thorn.The roses fauld their silken leaves,The foxglove shuts its bell,The honeysuckle and the birkSpread fragrance through the dellLet others crowd the giddy courtOf mirth and revelry—The simple joys that Nature yieldsAre dearer far to me.
The midges dance aboon the burn,The dews begin to fa';The pairtricks down the rushy holm,Set up their e'ening ca'.Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sangRings through the briery shaw,While flitting, gay, the swallows playAround the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky,The mavis mends her lay,The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,To charm the ling'ring day.While weary yeldrins seem to wail,Their little nestlings torn;The merry wren, frae den to den,Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,The foxglove shuts its bell,The honeysuckle and the birkSpread fragrance through the dellLet others crowd the giddy courtOf mirth and revelry—The simple joys that Nature yieldsAre dearer far to me.
Air—"Johnnie M'Gill."
'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins,The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen;The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan 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 cheerie, the gangers were blearie,Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en;They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,For naething gat growing for Barrochan 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 Barrochan Jean!The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin;A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan 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 Barrochan Jean!But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie,The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.
'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.
The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins,The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen;The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan 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 cheerie, the gangers were blearie,Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!
The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en;They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,For naething gat growing for Barrochan 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 Barrochan Jean!
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin;A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan 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 Barrochan Jean!
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie,The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.
Lowland lassie, wilt thou goWhere the hills are clad with snow;Where, 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 of cheery springWill gar a' our plantin's ring,Soon our bonny heather braesWill put on their summer claes;On the mountain's sunny side,We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.When the summer spreads the flowers,Busks the glens in leafy bowers,Then we 'll seek the caller 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 of 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;Take me—take me for your ain!"Across the Firth, away they glide,Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
Lowland lassie, wilt thou goWhere the hills are clad with snow;Where, 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 of cheery springWill gar a' our plantin's ring,Soon our bonny heather braesWill put on their summer claes;On the mountain's sunny side,We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.
When the summer spreads the flowers,Busks the glens in leafy bowers,Then we 'll seek the caller 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 of 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;Take me—take me for your ain!"Across the Firth, away they glide,Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!Near thee I pass'd life's early day,And won my Mary's heart in thee.The broom, the brier, the birken bush,Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea,And a' the sweets that ane can wishFrae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,The cooshat croodles am'rously,The mavis, down thy bughted glade,Gars echo ring frae every tree.Thou bonny wood, &c.Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!They 'll sing you yet a canty sang,Then, O, in pity, let them be!Thou bonny woods, &c.When winter blaws in sleety showers,Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie,He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers,As laith to harm a flower in thee.Thou bonny wood, &c.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.Thou bonny wood, &c.
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!Near thee I pass'd life's early day,And won my Mary's heart in thee.
The broom, the brier, the birken bush,Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea,And a' the sweets that ane can wishFrae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.
Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,The cooshat croodles am'rously,The mavis, down thy bughted glade,Gars echo ring frae every tree.Thou bonny wood, &c.
Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!They 'll sing you yet a canty sang,Then, O, in pity, let them be!Thou bonny woods, &c.
When winter blaws in sleety showers,Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie,He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers,As laith to harm a flower in thee.Thou bonny wood, &c.
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.Thou bonny wood, &c.
Air—"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."
The weary sun 's gaen down the west,The birds sit nodding on the tree;All nature now prepares for rest,But rest prepared there 's none for me.The trumpet sounds to war's alarms,The drums they beat, the fifes they play,—Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms,For the morn I will be far away.Good night, and joy—good night, and joy,Good night, and joy be wi' you a';For since its so that I must go,Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!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 maun now be hush'd,When danger calls I must obey.The transport waits us on the coast,And the morn I will be far away.Good night, and joy, &c.Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast!Though bleak and drear thy mountains be,When on the heaving ocean tost,I 'll cast a wishful look to thee!And now, dear Mary, fare thee well,May Providence thy guardian be!Or in the camp, or on the field,I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee!Good night, and joy, &c.
The weary sun 's gaen down the west,The birds sit nodding on the tree;All nature now prepares for rest,But rest prepared there 's none for me.The trumpet sounds to war's alarms,The drums they beat, the fifes they play,—Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms,For the morn I will be far away.
Good night, and joy—good night, and joy,Good night, and joy be wi' you a';For since its so that I must go,Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
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 maun now be hush'd,When danger calls I must obey.The transport waits us on the coast,And the morn I will be far away.Good night, and joy, &c.
Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast!Though bleak and drear thy mountains be,When on the heaving ocean tost,I 'll cast a wishful look to thee!And now, dear Mary, fare thee well,May Providence thy guardian be!Or in the camp, or on the field,I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee!Good night, and joy, &c.
Dr Henry Duncan the distinguished founder of Savings' Banks, and the promoter of various schemes of social economy, we are enabled to record among the contributors to Caledonian minstrelsy. He was descended through both parents from a succession of respectable clergymen of the Scottish Church. His father George Duncan, was minister of Lochrutton in the stewartry of Kircudbright, and the subject of this memoir was born in the manse of that parish, on the 8th October 1774. After a period of training at home under a private tutor, he was sent to the Academy of Dumfries to complete his preparation for the University. At the age of fourteen, he entered as a student the United College of St Andrews, but after an attendance of two years at that seat of learning, he was induced, on the invitation of his relative Dr Currie, to proceed to Liverpool, there to prepare himself for a mercantile profession, by occupying a situation in the banking office of Messrs Heywood. After a trial of three years, he found the avocations of business decidedly uncongenial, and firmly resolved to follow the profession of his progenitors, by studying for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. He had already afforded evidence of ability to grapple with questions of controversial theology, by printing a tract against the errors of Socinianism, which, published anonymously, attracted in the city of Liverpool much attention from the originality with which theusual arguments were illustrated and enforced. Of the concluding five years of his academical course, the first and two last were spent at the University of Edinburgh, the other two at that of Glasgow. In 1797, he was enrolled as a member of the Speculative Society of the University of Edinburgh, and there took his turn in debate with Henry Brougham, Francis Horner, Lord Henry Petty afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and other young men of genius, who then adorned the academic halls of the Scottish capital. With John Leyden, W. Gillespie afterwards minister of Kells, and Robert Lundie the future minister of Kelso, he formed habits of particular intimacy. From the Presbytery of Dumfries, he obtained licence as a probationer in the spring of 1798, and he thereafter accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Colonel Erskine afterwards Earl of Mar, who then resided at Dalhonzie, near Crieff. In this post he distinguished himself by inducing the inhabitants of the district to take up arms in the defence of the country, during the excitement, which then prevailed respecting an invasion. In the spring of 1799, the parishes of Lochmaben and Ruthwell, both in the gift of the Earl of Mansfield, became simultaneously vacant, and the choice of them was accorded to Mr Duncan by the noble patron. He preferred Ruthwell, and was ordained to the charge of that parish, on the 19th September.
In preferring the parish of Ruthwell to the better position and wider field of ministerial usefulness presented at Lochmaben, Mr Duncan was influenced by the consideration, that the population of the former parish was such as would enable him to extend the pastoral superintendence to every individual of his flock. In this respect he realised his wishes; but not content withefficiently discharging the more sacred duties of a parochial clergyman, he sought with devoted assiduity, the amelioration of the physical condition of his people. Relieving an immediate destitution in the parish, by a supply of Indian corn brought on his own adventure, he was led to devise means of preventing the recurrence of any similar period of depression. With this intention, he established two friendly societies in the place, and afterwards a local bank for the savings of the industrious. The latter proved the parent of those admirable institutions for the working classes, known asSavings' Banks, which have since become so numerous throughout Europe and the United States of America. The Ruthwell Savings' Bank was established in 1810. Numerous difficulties attended the early operation of the system, on its general adoption throughout the country, but these were obviated and removed by the skill and promptitude of the ingenious projector. At one period his correspondence on the subject cost him in postages an annual expenditure of one hundred pounds, a sum nearly equal to half the yearly emoluments of his parochial cure. The Act of Parliament establishing Savings' Banks in Scotland, which was passed in July 1819, was procured through his indomitable exertions, and likewise the Act of 1835, providing for the better regulation of these institutions.
At Ruthwell, Dr Duncan introduced the system of popular lectures on science, which has since been adopted by Mechanics' Institutes. Further to extend the benefits of popular instruction and entertainment, he edited a series of tracts entitled "The Scottish Cheap Repository," one of the first of those periodicals devoted to the moral improvement of the people. A narrative designated "The Cottager's Fireside," which he originally contributed to this series, was afterwards published separately, and commanded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan originated theDumfries and Galloway Courier, a weekly newspaper which he conducted during the first seven years of its existence. He was a frequent contributor to "The Christian Instructor," and wrote the articles "Blair" and "Blacklock" for theEdinburgh Encyclopædia. At the request of Lord Brougham, he composed two treatises on Savings' Banks and Friendly Societies, for publication by the "Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In 1819, he published the "Young Country Weaver," a tale calculated to disseminate just political views among the manufacturing classes; and in 1826 a tale of the times of the Covenant in three volumes, with the title of "William Douglas, or the Scottish Exiles." Deeply interested in the question of Slave Emancipation, he contributed a series of letters on the subject to theDumfries Courier, which, afterwards published in the form of a pamphlet, excited no inconsiderable attention. His most valuable and successful publication, the "Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons" appeared in 1836-7 in four duodecimo volumes.
As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the discovery of footprints of four-footed animals in the New Red-Sandstone. He made this curious geological discovery in a quarry at Corncocklemuir, about fifteen miles distant from his parochial manse. In 1823, he received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In 1839, he was raised to the Moderator's chair in the General Assembly. In church politics, he had early espoused liberal opinions; at the Disruption in 1843, he resigned his charge and united himself to the Free Church. He continued tominister in the parish of Ruthwell, till the appointment of an assistant and successor a short time before his decease. Revisiting the scene of his ministerial labours after a brief absence, he was struck with paralysis while conducting service at a prayer-meeting, and two days afterwards expired. He died at Comlongon, the residence of his brother-in-law Mr Phillips, on the 12th February 1846, and his remains were committed to the church-yard of Ruthwell, in which he had ministered during an incumbency of upwards of forty-six years.
Dr Duncan was twice married; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only surviving daughter of his predecessor, and secondly in 1836, to Mrs Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His memoirs have been published by his son, the Rev. George John C. Duncan, minister of the Free Church, Greenwich. A man of fine intellect, extensive and varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr Duncan was much cherished and beloved alike by his parishioners and his gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his profession, he was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as having "evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions, which we have been privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret that they were not sooner given to the public.
The music o' the year is hush'd,In bonny glen and shaw, man;And winter spreads o'er nature deadA winding sheet o' snaw, man.O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost,A crystal brig has laid, man;The wild geese screaming wi' surprise,The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm,And leave your coaxing wife, man;Gae get your besom, tramps and stane,And join the friendly strife, man.For on the water's face are met,Wi' mony a merry joke, man;The tenant and his jolly laird,The pastor and his flock, man.The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd,The bonspiel is begun, man;The ice is true, the stanes are keen,Huzza for glorious fun, man!The skips are standing at the tee,To guide the eager game, man;Hush, not a word, but mark the broom,And tak' a steady aim, man.There draw a shot, there lay a guard,And here beside him lie, man;Now let him feel a gamester's hand,Now in his bosom die, man;Then fill the port, and block the ice,We sit upon the tee, man;Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,And mak' their winner flee, man.How stands the game? Its eight and eight,Now for the winning shot, man;Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.The stane is thrown, it glides along,The besoms ply it in, man;Wi' twisting back the player stands,And eager breathless grin, man.A moment's silence, still as death,Pervades the anxious thrang, man;When sudden bursts the victor's shout,With holla's loud and lang, man.Triumphant besom's wave in air,And friendly banters fly, man;Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,Wi' eager steps they hie, man.Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,And drink wi' social glee, man,May curlers on life's slippery rink,Frae cruel rubs be free, man;Or should a treacherous bias leadTheir erring course ajee, man,Some friendly in-ring may they meet,To guide them to the tee, man.
The music o' the year is hush'd,In bonny glen and shaw, man;And winter spreads o'er nature deadA winding sheet o' snaw, man.O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost,A crystal brig has laid, man;The wild geese screaming wi' surprise,The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.
Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm,And leave your coaxing wife, man;Gae get your besom, tramps and stane,And join the friendly strife, man.For on the water's face are met,Wi' mony a merry joke, man;The tenant and his jolly laird,The pastor and his flock, man.
The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd,The bonspiel is begun, man;The ice is true, the stanes are keen,Huzza for glorious fun, man!The skips are standing at the tee,To guide the eager game, man;Hush, not a word, but mark the broom,And tak' a steady aim, man.
There draw a shot, there lay a guard,And here beside him lie, man;Now let him feel a gamester's hand,Now in his bosom die, man;Then fill the port, and block the ice,We sit upon the tee, man;Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,And mak' their winner flee, man.
How stands the game? Its eight and eight,Now for the winning shot, man;Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.The stane is thrown, it glides along,The besoms ply it in, man;Wi' twisting back the player stands,And eager breathless grin, man.
A moment's silence, still as death,Pervades the anxious thrang, man;When sudden bursts the victor's shout,With holla's loud and lang, man.Triumphant besom's wave in air,And friendly banters fly, man;Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,Wi' eager steps they hie, man.
Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,And drink wi' social glee, man,May curlers on life's slippery rink,Frae cruel rubs be free, man;Or should a treacherous bias leadTheir erring course ajee, man,Some friendly in-ring may they meet,To guide them to the tee, man.
Tune—"Arniston House."