There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,Nae ither spot sae fair;Nae ither faces look sae kindAs the smilin' faces there.An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,Ha'e travell'd mony ways;But the fairest spot on the earth to meIs on bonnie Ordé Braes.An ell-lang wee thing then I ranWi' the ither neeber bairns,To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,An' to wander 'mang the ferns;An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,An' gather the glossy slaes,By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyneI ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.The memories o' my father's hame,An' its kindly dwellers a',O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's loveEre care that heart could thraw,Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,An' its fairy crooks an' bays,That onward sang 'neath the gowden broomUpon bonnie Ordé Braes.Aince in a day there were happy hamesBy the bonnie Ordé's side:Nane ken how meikle peace an' loveIn a straw-roof'd cot can bide.But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' timeThe roofless wa's doth raze;Laneness an' sweetness hand in handGang ower the Ordé Braes.Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,An', oh! an' I were there,Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,My wanderin' joy to share.For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hameThe flock o' the hills doth graze,Some kind hearts live to love me yetUpon bonnie Ordé Braes.
There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,Nae ither spot sae fair;Nae ither faces look sae kindAs the smilin' faces there.An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,Ha'e travell'd mony ways;But the fairest spot on the earth to meIs on bonnie Ordé Braes.
An ell-lang wee thing then I ranWi' the ither neeber bairns,To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,An' to wander 'mang the ferns;An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,An' gather the glossy slaes,By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyneI ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.
The memories o' my father's hame,An' its kindly dwellers a',O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's loveEre care that heart could thraw,Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,An' its fairy crooks an' bays,That onward sang 'neath the gowden broomUpon bonnie Ordé Braes.
Aince in a day there were happy hamesBy the bonnie Ordé's side:Nane ken how meikle peace an' loveIn a straw-roof'd cot can bide.But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' timeThe roofless wa's doth raze;Laneness an' sweetness hand in handGang ower the Ordé Braes.
Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,An', oh! an' I were there,Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,My wanderin' joy to share.For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hameThe flock o' the hills doth graze,Some kind hearts live to love me yetUpon bonnie Ordé Braes.
I winna bide in your castle ha's,Nor yet in your lofty towers;My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,An' sick o' your darksome bowers;An' oh! I wish I were far awa'Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,Where the freeborn lintie sings its sangOn the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,That blaws fu' kindly there,An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bellThat wave on the muirland bare;An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,An' the little lochs that toomTheir gushing burns to the distant seaO'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,As blithe as a young bridegroom;For dearer than palaces to meIs the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,My mither nurtured me;O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.An', oh! if I were far awa'Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
I winna bide in your castle ha's,Nor yet in your lofty towers;My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,An' sick o' your darksome bowers;An' oh! I wish I were far awa'Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,Where the freeborn lintie sings its sangOn the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,That blaws fu' kindly there,An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bellThat wave on the muirland bare;An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,An' the little lochs that toomTheir gushing burns to the distant seaO'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,As blithe as a young bridegroom;For dearer than palaces to meIs the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!
In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,My mither nurtured me;O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.An', oh! if I were far awa'Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!The bonnie Hieland hills.There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chillsAs it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;Wherever we wander ae vision aye fillsOur hearts to the burstin'—our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!The bonnie Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!The bonnie Hieland hills.
There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chillsAs it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;Wherever we wander ae vision aye fillsOur hearts to the burstin'—our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!The bonnie Hieland hills.
The bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen,Where the burnie clear doth gushIn yon lane glen;My head is white and auld,An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.My Jeanie first I metIn yon lane glen,When the grass wi' dew was wetIn yon lane glen;The moon was shining sweet,An' our hearts wi' love did beat,By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.Oh! she promised to be mine,In yon lane glen;Her heart she did resign,In yon lane glen;An' mony a happy dayDid o'er us pass away,Beside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.Sax bonnie bairns had weIn yon lane glen—Lads an' lassies young an' spree,In yon lane glen;An' a blither familyThan ours there cou'dna be,Beside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.Now my auld wife's gane awa'Frae yon lane glen,An' though summer sweet doth fa'On yon lane glen—To me its beauty's gane,For, alake! I sit alaneBeside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
The bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen,Where the burnie clear doth gushIn yon lane glen;My head is white and auld,An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
My Jeanie first I metIn yon lane glen,When the grass wi' dew was wetIn yon lane glen;The moon was shining sweet,An' our hearts wi' love did beat,By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
Oh! she promised to be mine,In yon lane glen;Her heart she did resign,In yon lane glen;An' mony a happy dayDid o'er us pass away,Beside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
Sax bonnie bairns had weIn yon lane glen—Lads an' lassies young an' spree,In yon lane glen;An' a blither familyThan ours there cou'dna be,Beside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
Now my auld wife's gane awa'Frae yon lane glen,An' though summer sweet doth fa'On yon lane glen—To me its beauty's gane,For, alake! I sit alaneBeside the bonnie rowan bushIn yon lane glen.
Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake—There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee—It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last—For ten years had parted my auld hame and me—And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?But Time changes a' thing—the ill-natured loon!Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,She was douce too, and wise-like—and wisdom's sae cauld;I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.
Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake—There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!
She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee—It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]
And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last—For ten years had parted my auld hame and me—And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?
But Time changes a' thing—the ill-natured loon!Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,She was douce too, and wise-like—and wisdom's sae cauld;I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.
Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December 1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.
Tune—"Caledonia."
The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,The trees are blossom'd fair,The lake is smiling to the sun,And Mary wand'ring there.The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birthDid nature's charms despoil;They stole for her the rose's blush,The sweet lake's dimpled smile.The lily for her breast they took,Nut-brown her locks appear;But when they came to make her eyes,They robb'd the starry sphere.But cruel sure was their design,Or mad-like their device—For while they filled her eyes with fire,They made her heart of ice.
The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,The trees are blossom'd fair,The lake is smiling to the sun,And Mary wand'ring there.The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birthDid nature's charms despoil;They stole for her the rose's blush,The sweet lake's dimpled smile.
The lily for her breast they took,Nut-brown her locks appear;But when they came to make her eyes,They robb'd the starry sphere.But cruel sure was their design,Or mad-like their device—For while they filled her eyes with fire,They made her heart of ice.
Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and contributed to theIllustrated London Newsrepresentations of remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottishcapital. He died suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:—
Father of blissfulness,Grant me a resting-placeNow my sad spirit is longing for rest.Lord, I beseech Thee,Deign Thou to teach meWhich path to heaven is surest and best:Lonely and dreary,Laden and weary,Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!Father of holiness,Look on my lowliness;From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;Grant that, 'mid love and peace,Sorrow and sin may cease,While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.When Death's sleep comes o'er me,On waking—before meThe portals of glory all open I 'll see.
Father of blissfulness,Grant me a resting-placeNow my sad spirit is longing for rest.Lord, I beseech Thee,Deign Thou to teach meWhich path to heaven is surest and best:Lonely and dreary,Laden and weary,Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!
Father of holiness,Look on my lowliness;From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;Grant that, 'mid love and peace,Sorrow and sin may cease,While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.When Death's sleep comes o'er me,On waking—before meThe portals of glory all open I 'll see.
Air—"Bonnie House o' Airlie."
Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,And mak's her look young and cheerie;Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoonAt the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,There 's nought in the world to fear ye;For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leaveTo gang to the Wells o' Wearie.Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and greenBy the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glowerAt your form in the water sae clearly,Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,I felt unco douf and drearie,For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but painAt the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,Let fate look gruesome and eerie;True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,Nae danger will daur to come near ye;For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,And mak's her look young and cheerie;Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoonAt the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,There 's nought in the world to fear ye;For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leaveTo gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and greenBy the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glowerAt your form in the water sae clearly,Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.
Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,I felt unco douf and drearie,For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but painAt the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,Let fate look gruesome and eerie;True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.
Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,Nae danger will daur to come near ye;For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
One of the simplest and most popular of the living national song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787. His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town—an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned competency.
Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"—a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor tothe local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.
Air—"The Cock Laird."
The dark gray o' gloamin',The lone leafy shaw,The coo o' the cushat,The scent o' the haw;The brae o' the burnie,A' bloomin' in flower,An' twa' faithfu' lovers,Make ae happy hour.A kind winsome wifie,A clean canty hame,An' smilin' sweet babiesTo lisp the dear name;Wi' plenty o' labour,An' health to endure,Make time to row round ayeThe ae happy hour.Ye lost to affection,Whom avarice can moveTo woo an' to marryFor a' thing but love;Awa' wi' your sorrows,Awa' wi' your store,Ye ken na the pleasureO' ae happy hour.
The dark gray o' gloamin',The lone leafy shaw,The coo o' the cushat,The scent o' the haw;The brae o' the burnie,A' bloomin' in flower,An' twa' faithfu' lovers,Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,A clean canty hame,An' smilin' sweet babiesTo lisp the dear name;Wi' plenty o' labour,An' health to endure,Make time to row round ayeThe ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,Whom avarice can moveTo woo an' to marryFor a' thing but love;Awa' wi' your sorrows,Awa' wi' your store,Ye ken na the pleasureO' ae happy hour.
Air—"Lass, gin I come near you."
"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.A canty but, a cosie ben,Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman—Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!""Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,An' bidin' bein an' easy;But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,An' you sae auld an' crazy.Wad marriage mak' you young again?Wad woman's love renew you?Awa', ye silly doitet man,I canna, winna lo'e you!""Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';But men maun be the first to speak,An' wanters maun be speerin'.Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,An' now I'm come to woo you;I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,I think you 'd better lo'e me.""Doitet bodie! auld or young,Ye needna langer tarry,Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,He 's no for me to marry.Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'How ye wad come to woo me,An' mind me i' your latter-will,Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"
"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.A canty but, a cosie ben,Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman—Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"
"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,An' bidin' bein an' easy;But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,An' you sae auld an' crazy.Wad marriage mak' you young again?Wad woman's love renew you?Awa', ye silly doitet man,I canna, winna lo'e you!"
"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';But men maun be the first to speak,An' wanters maun be speerin'.Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,An' now I'm come to woo you;I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,I think you 'd better lo'e me."
"Doitet bodie! auld or young,Ye needna langer tarry,Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,He 's no for me to marry.Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'How ye wad come to woo me,An' mind me i' your latter-will,Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"
Air—"Lass of Arranteenie."
I 've seen the smiling summer flowerAmang the braes of Yarrow;I 've heard the raving winter windAmang the hills of Barra;I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seenIs bonnie Jean of Logie.Her lips were like the heather bloom,In meekest dewy morning;Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,The bloomy brier adorning;Her brow was like the milky flowerThat blossoms in the bogie;And love was laughing in her een—The bonnie lass of Logie.I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,My hand, my hame are ready;I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,And ye shall be my ladye.I 've ilka thing baith out and in,To make you blithe and vogie;"She hung her head and sweetly smiled—The bonnie lass of Logie!But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,And wrung my heart with sorrow;The bonnie lass sae dear to meCan never be my marrow.For, ah! she loves another lad—The ploughman wi' his cogie;Yet happy, happy may she be,The bonnie lass of Logie!
I 've seen the smiling summer flowerAmang the braes of Yarrow;I 've heard the raving winter windAmang the hills of Barra;I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seenIs bonnie Jean of Logie.
Her lips were like the heather bloom,In meekest dewy morning;Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,The bloomy brier adorning;Her brow was like the milky flowerThat blossoms in the bogie;And love was laughing in her een—The bonnie lass of Logie.
I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,My hand, my hame are ready;I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,And ye shall be my ladye.I 've ilka thing baith out and in,To make you blithe and vogie;"She hung her head and sweetly smiled—The bonnie lass of Logie!
But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,And wrung my heart with sorrow;The bonnie lass sae dear to meCan never be my marrow.For, ah! she loves another lad—The ploughman wi' his cogie;Yet happy, happy may she be,The bonnie lass of Logie!
Air—"John Anderson, my Jo."
I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see;For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,She 's aye sae dear to me.A bonnier yet I 've never seen,A better canna be;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.Though beauty is a fadin' flower,As fadin' as it 's fair,It looks fu' well in ony wife,An' mine has a' her share.She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass—She 's bonnie aye to me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,An' cheery is my Jean;I never see her angry look,Nor hear her word on ane.She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',An' aye gude wi' me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.But Oh, her looks sae kindly,They melt my heart outright,When ower the baby at her breastShe hangs wi' fond delight.She looks intill its bonnie face,An' syne looks to me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.
I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see;For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,She 's aye sae dear to me.A bonnier yet I 've never seen,A better canna be;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.
Though beauty is a fadin' flower,As fadin' as it 's fair,It looks fu' well in ony wife,An' mine has a' her share.She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass—She 's bonnie aye to me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.
Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,An' cheery is my Jean;I never see her angry look,Nor hear her word on ane.She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',An' aye gude wi' me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.
But Oh, her looks sae kindly,They melt my heart outright,When ower the baby at her breastShe hangs wi' fond delight.She looks intill its bonnie face,An' syne looks to me;I wadna gi'e my ain wifeFor ony wife I see.
Air—"O tell me the Way for to Woo."
O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,The merle an' mavis are hymningThe e'en o' the lang summer's day!An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,The full moon arising in majesty glows;An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,To shine at the fair an' the ball;But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossomWaves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom—My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.O what is the haill warld's treasure,Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,Gin no wi' the lassie we love?O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,Though few are sae bonnie as thee;O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,Though handsome as woman can be.The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring—These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,The merle an' mavis are hymningThe e'en o' the lang summer's day!An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,The full moon arising in majesty glows;An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,To shine at the fair an' the ball;But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossomWaves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom—My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O what is the haill warld's treasure,Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,Gin no wi' the lassie we love?O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,Though few are sae bonnie as thee;O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,Though handsome as woman can be.The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring—These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
Air—"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."
Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,Amang their banks and braes sae green—These borrow a' their finest huesFrae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,When morning gilds the welkin high;Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,When e'ening steals alang the sky.But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,When we 're amang the braes alane,An' softer is the bosom-sighOf lovely Jean of Aberdeen.Though I had a' the valleys gay,Around the airy Bennochie;An' a' the fleecy flocks that strayAmang the lofty hills o' Dee;While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,My heart wi' them I'd freely gieTo lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,Amang their banks and braes sae green—These borrow a' their finest huesFrae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,When morning gilds the welkin high;Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,When e'ening steals alang the sky.But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,When we 're amang the braes alane,An' softer is the bosom-sighOf lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Though I had a' the valleys gay,Around the airy Bennochie;An' a' the fleecy flocks that strayAmang the lofty hills o' Dee;While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,My heart wi' them I'd freely gieTo lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Air—"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."
Oh! where has the exile his home?Oh! where has the exile his home?Where the mountain is steep,Where the valley is deep,Where the waves of the Ohio foam;Where no cheering smileHis woes may beguile—Oh! there has the exile his home.Oh! when will the exile return?Oh! when will the exile return?When our hearts heave no sigh,When our tears shall be dry,When Erin no longer shall mourn;When his name we disown,When his mem'ry is gone—Oh! then will the exile return!
Oh! where has the exile his home?Oh! where has the exile his home?Where the mountain is steep,Where the valley is deep,Where the waves of the Ohio foam;Where no cheering smileHis woes may beguile—Oh! there has the exile his home.
Oh! when will the exile return?Oh! when will the exile return?When our hearts heave no sigh,When our tears shall be dry,When Erin no longer shall mourn;When his name we disown,When his mem'ry is gone—Oh! then will the exile return!
Air—"O rest thee, my Darling."
On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;The next I am far away—far on the wave!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,And to build up his House was the aim of my life;And now in his greatness he turns me away,When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.Oh! fare thee well!Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,Where none of my fathers were gathered before!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;The next I am far away—far on the wave!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,And to build up his House was the aim of my life;And now in his greatness he turns me away,When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.Oh! fare thee well!
Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,Where none of my fathers were gathered before!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment.
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,He 's come sax miles and ten,To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',And sae has she dune,By a' that 's abune,For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,But the bride's modest e'e,And warm cheek are to me'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a','Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';There 's quaffing and laughing,There 's dancing and daffing,And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',The bride's father 's blithest of a'.It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,That my heart is sae eerieWhen a' the lave 's cheerie,But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,He 's come sax miles and ten,To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.
He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',And sae has she dune,By a' that 's abune,For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,But the bride's modest e'e,And warm cheek are to me'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a','Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';There 's quaffing and laughing,There 's dancing and daffing,And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',The bride's father 's blithest of a'.
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,That my heart is sae eerieWhen a' the lave 's cheerie,But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.
My brothers are the stately treesThat in the forests grow;The simple flowers my sisters are,That on the green bank blow.With them, with them, I am a childWhose heart with mirth is dancing wild.The daisy, with its tear of joy,Gay greets me as I stray;How sweet a voice of welcome comesFrom every trembling spray!How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hoursI spend among those songs and flowers!I love the Spirit of the Wind,His varied tones I know;His voice of soothing majesty,Of love and sobbing woe;Whate'er his varied theme may be,With his my spirit mingles free.I love to tread the grass-green path,Far up the winding stream;For there in nature's loneliness,The day is one bright dream.And still the pilgrim waters tellOf wanderings wild by wood and dell.Or up the mountain's brow I toilBeneath a wid'ning sky,Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,Crowding the wondering eye.Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,To cloudless regions upwards springs!The stars—the stars! I know each one,With all its soul of love,They beckon me to come and liveIn their tearless homes above;And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.
My brothers are the stately treesThat in the forests grow;The simple flowers my sisters are,That on the green bank blow.With them, with them, I am a childWhose heart with mirth is dancing wild.
The daisy, with its tear of joy,Gay greets me as I stray;How sweet a voice of welcome comesFrom every trembling spray!How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hoursI spend among those songs and flowers!
I love the Spirit of the Wind,His varied tones I know;His voice of soothing majesty,Of love and sobbing woe;Whate'er his varied theme may be,With his my spirit mingles free.
I love to tread the grass-green path,Far up the winding stream;For there in nature's loneliness,The day is one bright dream.And still the pilgrim waters tellOf wanderings wild by wood and dell.
Or up the mountain's brow I toilBeneath a wid'ning sky,Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,Crowding the wondering eye.Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,To cloudless regions upwards springs!
The stars—the stars! I know each one,With all its soul of love,They beckon me to come and liveIn their tearless homes above;And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.
O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweetAs that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,'Mid Scotia's dark mountains—the Vale of Killean.The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.How solemn the broad hills that curtain aroundThis sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impartTo the soul her own meekness—a rich glow to the heart.The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.
O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweetAs that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,'Mid Scotia's dark mountains—the Vale of Killean.
The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.
How solemn the broad hills that curtain aroundThis sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"
Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.
Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impartTo the soul her own meekness—a rich glow to the heart.
The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.
John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production—"The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem"—appeared in apamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses toBlackwood's Magazineand theEdinburgh Literary Journal.
From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press. He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production—"The Emigrant's Love-letter"—will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.