Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,The woods wi' leaves so green,An' little burds around their bowersIn harmony convene;The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,While saft the zephyrs blaw,But what are a' thae joys to me,When Jockie 's far awa'?When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,When Jockie 's far awa';But what are a' thae joys to me,When Jockie 's far awa'?Last May mornin', how sweet to seeThe little lambkins play,Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,Did kindly walk this way!On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,To busk my bosom braw;Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,But now he 's far awa'.But now, &c.O gentle peace, return again,Bring Jockie to my arms,Frae dangers on the raging main,An' cruel war's alarms;Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll partWhile we hae breath to draw;Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,My Jockie 's far awa';My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.
Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,The woods wi' leaves so green,An' little burds around their bowersIn harmony convene;The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,While saft the zephyrs blaw,But what are a' thae joys to me,When Jockie 's far awa'?When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,When Jockie 's far awa';But what are a' thae joys to me,When Jockie 's far awa'?
Last May mornin', how sweet to seeThe little lambkins play,Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,Did kindly walk this way!On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,To busk my bosom braw;Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,But now he 's far awa'.But now, &c.
O gentle peace, return again,Bring Jockie to my arms,Frae dangers on the raging main,An' cruel war's alarms;Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll partWhile we hae breath to draw;Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,My Jockie 's far awa';My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.
Air—"The Banks o' the Dee."
The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wanderAmang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,The future, by thee, is made almost the present;Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.
The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wanderAmang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.
The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,The future, by thee, is made almost the present;Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.
Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.
Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,An' sae will we yet, &c.Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,An' sae will we yet, &c.
Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.
Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,An' sae will we yet, &c.
Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,An' sae will we yet, &c.
Air—"Hills o' Glenorchy."
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sangAmang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushesThat screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiledBy Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sangAmang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushesThat screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.
There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.
We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiledBy Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
Air—"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."
Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,Her charms steal their luvers awa'.I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,Your wooers are aften complainin'O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,For fear some young laird o' degreeMay come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,An' ding a' my prospects agee.There 's naething like gowd to the miser,There 's naething like light to the e'e,But they canna gie me ony pleasure,If Jessie prove faithless to me.Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,Though my words may be scant to address ye,My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.If ance I were wedded to Jessie,An' that may be ere it be lang,I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassieThat ere was the theme o' a sang.
Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,Her charms steal their luvers awa'.
I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,Your wooers are aften complainin'O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.
I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,For fear some young laird o' degreeMay come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,An' ding a' my prospects agee.There 's naething like gowd to the miser,There 's naething like light to the e'e,But they canna gie me ony pleasure,If Jessie prove faithless to me.
Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,Though my words may be scant to address ye,My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.If ance I were wedded to Jessie,An' that may be ere it be lang,I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassieThat ere was the theme o' a sang.
As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries, substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends—the Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand, encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.
In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondencewith Scott speedily ripened into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of "Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear Willie,"—a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.
The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to prepare the chronicle of events and publications for theEdinburgh Annual Register; and for a short period he furnished a similar record toBlackwood's Magazine. He did not persevere in literary labours, his time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit." Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness, Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September 1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford.He was appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth,—a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health, he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw, tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most interesting Highland scenery.
A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire, and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion beamed a generous benignity.
Air—"Paddy O'Rafferty."
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?If I wasna ettled to be ony better,Then what gars me wish ony better to be?I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,But Lucy likes Jamie;—she turn'd and she lookit,She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.
Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?If I wasna ettled to be ony better,Then what gars me wish ony better to be?I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,But Lucy likes Jamie;—she turn'd and she lookit,She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
Air—"Saw ye my Wee Thing."
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think onThe kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;An' this is my wish, may I leave it if everShe rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think onThe kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;An' this is my wish, may I leave it if everShe rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.
Air—"Logie o' Buchan."
Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complainThat lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fainTo see my dear laddie, to see him again;My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thoughtO' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.He never wad see me in ony ae place,At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me—I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.
Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complainThat lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.
The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fainTo see my dear laddie, to see him again;My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thoughtO' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.
The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.
I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.
He never wad see me in ony ae place,At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.
My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.
His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me—I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.
Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards, was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known asMac-vaistir-Alaister, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come. On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime subsequent to the middle of the century.
Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.
This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still remarkably popular among the Gael.
Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119]blossoms crown;Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air,And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,O'er crested chieftainry[120]thy state, O thou, of right assuming!I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121]glory streaming,As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold,And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told;O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara,Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.Clan Colla,[122]let them have their due, thy true and gallant following,Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them,Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them.They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has neverFound tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123]of death sends legs and arms a flying,And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan,How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;Nor wants their course the speed, the force,—nor wants their gallant stature,This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,So fierce they gush—the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.Clandonuil's[124]root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem,What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd, in that cloud burst of steel,That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,And stranger[125]notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather,So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather;Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true,Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closedWas sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126]limb.Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,—Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.
Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119]blossoms crown;Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air,And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,O'er crested chieftainry[120]thy state, O thou, of right assuming!I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121]glory streaming,As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold,And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told;O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara,Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.Clan Colla,[122]let them have their due, thy true and gallant following,Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them,Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them.They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has neverFound tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123]of death sends legs and arms a flying,And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan,How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;Nor wants their course the speed, the force,—nor wants their gallant stature,This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,So fierce they gush—the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.Clandonuil's[124]root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem,What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd, in that cloud burst of steel,That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,And stranger[125]notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather,So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather;Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true,Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closedWas sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126]limb.Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,—Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.
Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted the air for his "Banks of the Devon."
My brown dairy, brown dairy,Brown dairy-maiden;Brown dairy-maiden,Bell of the heather!A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;Thy glove[128]there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,From the tresses[129]they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreadingO'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,How their lustre is shining in union becoming!My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vyingWith white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!The music of milking, with melodies lilting,While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becomingAs a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
My brown dairy, brown dairy,Brown dairy-maiden;Brown dairy-maiden,Bell of the heather!
A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;Thy glove[128]there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,From the tresses[129]they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreadingO'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,How their lustre is shining in union becoming!My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vyingWith white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!The music of milking, with melodies lilting,While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becomingAs a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or Amaryllisidealof Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language.
O that I were the shaw in,[130]When Morag was there,Lots to be drawingFor the prize of the fair!Mingling in your glee,Merry maidens! WeRolicking would beThe flow'rets along;Time would pass awayIn the oblivion of our play,As we cropp'd the primrose gay,The rock-clefts among;Then in mock we 'd fight,Then we 'd take to flight,Then we 'd lose us quite,Where the cliffs overhung.Like the dew-drop blueIn the mist of mornSo thine eye, and thy huePut the blossom to scorn.All beauties they showerOn thy person their dower;Above is the flower,Beneath is the stem;'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,'Mid the flower-buds it shimmersThe foremost of them!Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!As we wonder, still we sayCan it be a thing of clayWe see in that gem?Since thy first featureSparkled before me,Fair! not a creatureWas like thy glory.[131]....
O that I were the shaw in,[130]When Morag was there,Lots to be drawingFor the prize of the fair!Mingling in your glee,Merry maidens! WeRolicking would beThe flow'rets along;Time would pass awayIn the oblivion of our play,As we cropp'd the primrose gay,The rock-clefts among;Then in mock we 'd fight,Then we 'd take to flight,Then we 'd lose us quite,Where the cliffs overhung.
Like the dew-drop blueIn the mist of mornSo thine eye, and thy huePut the blossom to scorn.All beauties they showerOn thy person their dower;Above is the flower,Beneath is the stem;'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,'Mid the flower-buds it shimmersThe foremost of them!Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!As we wonder, still we sayCan it be a thing of clayWe see in that gem?
Since thy first featureSparkled before me,Fair! not a creatureWas like thy glory.[131]....
Away with all, away with all,Away with all but Morag,A maid whose grace and mensefulnessStill carries all before it.You shall not find her marrow,For beauty without furrow,Though you search the islands thoroughFrom Muile[132]to the Lewis;So modest is each feature,So void of pride her nature,And every inch of statureTo perfect grace so true is.[133]* * * * *O that drift, like a pillow,We madden to share it;O that white of the lily,'Tis passion to near it;Every charm in a cluster,The rose adds its lustre—Can it be but such musterShould banish the Spirit!
Away with all, away with all,Away with all but Morag,A maid whose grace and mensefulnessStill carries all before it.You shall not find her marrow,For beauty without furrow,Though you search the islands thoroughFrom Muile[132]to the Lewis;So modest is each feature,So void of pride her nature,And every inch of statureTo perfect grace so true is.[133]
* * * * *
O that drift, like a pillow,We madden to share it;O that white of the lily,'Tis passion to near it;Every charm in a cluster,The rose adds its lustre—Can it be but such musterShould banish the Spirit!