Lament Of Mary,Queen Of Scots,On The Approach Of Spring Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree,And spreads her sheets o'daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea;Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,And glads the azure skies;But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.
Now laverocks wake the merry morn Aloft on dewy wing;The merle,in his noontide bow'r,Makes woodland echoes ring;The mavis wild wi'mony a note,Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,Wi'care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose down the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang;But I,the Queen of a'Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen o'bonie France,Where happy I hae been;Fu'lightly raise I in the morn,As blythe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,And mony a traitor there;Yet here I lie in foreign bands,And never-ending care.
But as for thee,thou false woman,My sister and my fae,Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro'thy soul shall gae;The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee;Nor th'balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.
My son!my son!may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine;And may those pleasures gild thy reign,That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,Or turn their hearts to thee:
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,Remember him for me!
O!soon,to me,may Summer suns Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me the Autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn?
And,in the narrow house of death,Let Winter round me rave;And the next flow'rs that deck the Spring,Bloom on my peaceful grave!
There'll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame By yon Castle wa',at the close of the day,I heard a man sing,tho'his head it was grey:
And as he was singing,the tears doon came,-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The Church is in ruins,the State is in jars,Delusions,oppressions,and murderous wars,We dare na weel say't,but we ken wha's to blame,-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;It brak the sweet heart o'my faithful and dame,-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,Sin'I tint my bairns,and he tint his crown;But till my last moments my words are the same,-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Song -Out Over The Forth Out over the Forth,I look to the North;But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,The far foreign land,or the wide rolling sea.
But I look to the west when I gae to rest,That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;For far in the west lives he I loe best,The man that is dear to my babie and me.
The Banks O'Doon First Version Sweet are the banks-the banks o'Doon,The spreading flowers are fair,And everything is blythe and glad,But I am fu'o'care.
Thou'll break my heart,thou bonie bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o'the happy days When my fause Luve was true:
Thou'll break my heart,thou bonie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat,and sae I sang,And wist na o'my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,To see the woodbine twine;And ilka birds sang o'its Luve,And sae did I o'mine:
Wi'lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Upon its thorny tree;But my fause Luver staw my rose And left the thorn wi'me:
Wi'lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Upon a morn in June;And sae I flourished on the morn,And sae was pu'd or noon!
The Banks O'Doon Second Version Ye flowery banks o'bonie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant,ye little birds,And I sae fu'o care!
Thou'll break my heart,thou bonie bird,That sings upon the bough!
Thou minds me o'the happy days When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart,thou bonie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat,and sae I sang,And wist na o'my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,To see the woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o'its Luve,And sae did I o'mine.
Wi'lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Upon its thorny tree;But my fause Luver staw my rose,And left the thorn wi'me.
Wi'lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Upon a morn in June;And sae I flourished on the morn,And sae was pu'd or noon.
The Banks O'Doon Third Version Ye banks and braes o'bonie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant,ye little birds,And I sae weary fu'o'care!
Thou'll break my heart,thou warbling bird,That wantons thro'the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o'departed joys,Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov'd by Bonie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o'its Luve,And fondly sae did I o'mine;Wi'lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Fu'sweet upon its thorny tree!
And may fause Luver staw my rose,But ah!he left the thorn wi'me.
Lament For James,Earl Of Glencairn The wind blew hollow frae the hills,By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods,That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep,a Bard,Laden with years and meikle pain,In loud lament bewail'd his lord,Whom Death had all untimely ta'en.
He lean'd him to an ancient aik,Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;His locks were bleached white with time,His hoary cheek was wet wi'tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,And as he tun'd his doleful sang,The winds,lamenting thro'their caves,To Echo bore the notes alang.
"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,The reliques o'the vernal queir!
Ye woods that shed on a'the winds The honours of the aged year!
A few short months,and glad and gay,Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;But nocht in all-revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.
"I am a bending aged tree,That long has stood the wind and rain;But now has come a cruel blast,And my last hald of earth is gane;Nae leaf o'mine shall greet the spring,Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;But I maun lie before the storm,And ithers plant them in my room.
"I've seen sae mony changefu'years,On earth I am a stranger grown:
I wander in the ways of men,Alike unknowing,and unknown:
Unheard,unpitied,unreliev'd,I bear alane my lade o'care,For silent,low,on beds of dust,Lie a'
hat would my sorrows share.
"And last,(the sum of a'my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flow'r amang our barons bold,His country's pride,his country's stay:
In weary being now I pine,For a'the life of life is dead,And hope has left may aged ken,On forward wing for ever fled.
"Awake thy last sad voice,my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake,resound thy latest lay,Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou,my last,best,only,friend,That fillest an untimely tomb,Accept this tribute from the Bard Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom.
"In Poverty's low barren vale,Thick mists obscure involv'd me round;Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found'st me,like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air,The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.
"O!why has worth so short a date,While villains ripen grey with time?
Must thou,the noble,gen'rous,great,Fall in bold manhood's hardy prim Why did I live to see that day-A day to me so full of woe?
O!had I met the mortal shaft That laid my benefactor low!
"The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen;The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been;The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;But I'll remember thee,Glencairn,And a'that thou hast done for me!"Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford,Bart With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn Thou,who thy honour as thy God rever'st,Who,save thy mind's reproach,nought earthly fear'st,To thee this votive offering I impart,The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The Friend thou valued'st,I,the Patron lov'd;His worth,his honour,all the world approved:
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,And tread the shadowy path to that dark world unknown.
Craigieburn Wood Sweet closes the ev'ning on Craigieburn Wood,And blythely awaukens the morrow;But the pride o'the spring in the Craigieburn Wood Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
Chorus.-Beyond thee,dearie,beyond thee,dearie,And O to be lying beyond thee!
O sweetly,soundly,weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,I hear the wild birds singing;But pleasure they hae nane for me,While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee,&c.
I can na tell,I maun na tell,I daur na for your anger;But secret love will break my heart,If I conceal it langer.
Beyond thee,&c.
I see thee gracefu',straight and tall,I see thee sweet and bonie;But oh,what will my torment be,If thou refuse thy Johnie!
Beyond thee,&c.
To see thee in another's arms,In love to lie and languish,'Twad be my dead,that will be seen,My heart wad burst wi'anguish.
Beyond thee,&c.
But Jeanie,say thou wilt be mine,Say thou lo'es nane before me;And a'may days o'life to come I'l gratefully adore thee,Beyond thee,&c.
The Bonie Wee Thing Chorus.-Bonie wee thing,cannie wee thing,Lovely wee thing,wert thou mine,I wad wear thee in my bosom,Lest my jewel it should tine.
Wishfully I look and languish In that bonie face o'thine,And my heart it stounds wi'anguish,Lest my wee thing be na mine.
Bonie wee thing,&c.
Wit,and Grace,and Love,and Beauty,In ae constellation shine;To adore thee is my duty,Goddess o'this soul o'mine!
Bonie wee thing,&c.
Epigram On Miss Davies On being asked why she had been formed so little,and Mrs.A-so big.
Ask why God made the gem so small?
And why so huge the granite?-
Because God meant mankind should set That higher value on it.
The Charms Of Lovely Davies tune-"Miss Muir."O how shall I,unskilfu',try The poet's occupation?
The tunefu'powers,in happy hours,That whisper inspiration;Even they maun dare an effort mair Than aught they ever gave us,Ere they rehearse,in equal verse,The charms o'lovely Davies.
Each eye it cheers when she appears,Like Phoebus in the morning,When past the shower,and every flower The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,When winter-bound the wave is;Sae droops our heart,when we maun part Frae charming,lovely Davies.
Her smile's a gift frae 'boon the lift,That maks us mair than princes;A sceptred hand,a king's command,Is in her darting glances;The man in arms 'gainst female charms Even he her willing slave is,He hugs his chain,and owns the reign Of conquering,lovely Davies.
My Muse,to dream of such a theme,Her feeble powers surrender:
The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour.
I wad in vain essay the strain,The deed too daring brave is;I'll drap the lyre,and mute admire The charms o'lovely Davies.
What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi'An Auld Man What can a young lassie,what shall a young lassie,What can a young lassie do wi'an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny for siller an'lan'.
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny for siller an'lan'!
He's always compleenin'frae mornin'to e'enin',He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang;He's doylt and he's dozin,his blude it is frozen,-O,dreary's the night wi'a crazy auld man!
He's doylt and he's dozin,his blude it is frozen,O,dreary's the night wi'a crazy auld man.
He hums and he hankers,he frets and he cankers,I never can please him do a'that I can;He's peevish an'jealous o'a'the young fellows,-O,dool on the day I met wi'an auld man!
He's peevish an'jealous o'a'the young fellows,O,dool on the day I met wi'an auld man.
My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity,I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;I'll cross him an'wrack him,until I heartbreak him And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan,I'll cross him an'wrack him,until I heartbreak him,And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
The Posie O luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen,O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been;But I will doun yon river rove,amang the wood sae green,And a'to pu'a Posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu',the firstling o'the year,And I will pu'the pink,the emblem o'my dear;For she's the pink o'womankind,and blooms without a peer,And a'to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu'the budding rose,when Phoebus peeps in view,For it's like a baumy kiss o'her sweet,bonie mou;The hyacinth's for constancy wi'its unchanging blue,And a'to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure,and the lily it is fair,And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,And a'to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu',wi'its locks o'siller gray,Where,like an aged man,it stands at break o'day;But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away And a'to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu',when the e'ening star is near,And the diamond draps o'dew shall be her een sae clear;The violet's for modesty,which weel she fa's to wear,And a'to be a Posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie the Posie round wi'the silken band o'luve,And I'll place it in her breast,and I'll swear by a'above,That to my latest draught o'life the band shall ne'er remove,And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.
On Glenriddell's Fox Breaking His Chain A Fragment,1791.
Thou,Liberty,thou art my theme;
Not such as idle poets dream,Who trick thee up a heathen goddess That a fantastic cap and rod has;Such stale conceits are poor and silly;
I paint thee out,a Highland filly,A sturdy,stubborn,handsome dapple,As sleek's a mouse,as round's an apple,That when thou pleasest canst do wonders;But when thy luckless rider blunders,Or if thy fancy should demur there,Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.
These things premised,I sing a Fox,Was caught among his native rocks,And to a dirty kennel chained,How he his liberty regained.
Glenriddell!Whig without a stain,A Whig in principle and grain,Could'st thou enslave a free-born creature,A native denizen of Nature?
How could'st thou,with a heart so good,(A better ne'er was sluiced with blood!)Nail a poor devil to a tree,That ne'er did harm to thine or thee?
The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was,Quite frantic in his country's cause;And oft was Reynard's prison passing,And with his brother-Whigs canvassing The Rights of Men,the Powers of Women,With all the dignity of Freemen.
Sir Reynard daily heard debates Of Princes',Kings',and Nations'fates,With many rueful,bloody stories Of Tyrants,Jacobites,and Tories:
From liberty how angels fell,That now are galley-slaves in hell;How Nimrod first the trade began Of binding Slavery's chains on Man;How fell Semiramis-God damn her!
Did first,with sacrilegious hammer,(All ills till then were trivial matters)For Man dethron'd forge hen-peck fetters;How Xerxes,that abandoned Tory,Thought cutting throats was reaping glory,Until the stubborn Whigs of Sparta Taught him great Nature's Magna Charta;How mighty Rome her fiat hurl'd Resistless o'er a bowing world,And,kinder than they did desire,Polish'd mankind with sword and fire;With much,too tedious to relate,Of ancient and of modern date,But ending still,how Billy Pitt (Unlucky boy!)with wicked wit,Has gagg'd old Britain,drain'd her coffer,As butchers bind and bleed a heifer,Thus wily Reynard by degrees,In kennel listening at his ease,Suck'd in a mighty stock of knowledge,As much as some folks at a College;Knew Britain's rights and constitution,Her aggrandisement,diminution,How fortune wrought us good from evil;Let no man,then,despise the Devil,As who should say,'I never can need him,'
Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom.
Poem On Pastoral Poetry Hail,Poesie!thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o'thee,what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense,or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o'clavers:
And och!o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,'Mid a'thy favours!
Say,Lassie,why,thy train amang,While loud the trump's heroic clang,And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage;Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi'miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus'pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope,the knurlin',till him rives Horatian fame;In thy sweet sang,Barbauld,survives Even Sappho's flame.
But thee,Theocritus,wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats,Maro's catches;Squire Pope but busks his skinklin'patches O'heathen tatters:
I pass by hunders,nameless wretches,That ape their betters.
In this braw age o'wit and lear,Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air,And rural grace;And,wi'the far-fam'd Grecian,share A rival place?
Yes!there is ane-a Scottish callan!
There's ane;come forrit,honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,A chiel sae clever;The teeth o'time may gnaw Tantallan,But thou's for ever.
Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,In thy sweet Caledonian lines;Nae gowden stream thro'myrtle twines,Where Philomel,While nightly breezes sweep the vines,Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy burnie strays,Where bonie lasses bleach their claes,Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,Wi'hawthorns gray,Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,At close o'day.
Thy rural loves are Nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o'nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits,but that sweet spell O'witchin love,That charm that can the strongest quell,The sternest move.
Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig As on the banks o'wandering Nith,Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd,And traced its bonie howes and haughs,Where linties sang and lammies play'd,I sat me down upon a craig,And drank my fill o'fancy's dream,When from the eddying deep below,Up rose the genius of the stream.
Dark,like the frowning rock,his brow,And troubled,like his wintry wave,And deep,as sughs the boding wind Amang his caves,the sigh he gave-"And come ye here,my son,"he cried,"To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?
"There was a time,it's nae lang syne,Ye might hae seen me in my pride,When a'my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide;When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool:
And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool;"When,glinting thro'the trees,appear'd The wee white cot aboon the mill,And peacefu'rose its ingle reek,That,slowly curling,clamb the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld,Its leafy bield for ever gane,And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast its lane.""Alas!"quoth I,"what ruefu'chance Has twin'd ye o'your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky bosom bare-
Has stripped the cleeding o'your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,Or canker-worm wi'secret sting?""Nae eastlin blast,"the sprite replied;
"It blaws na here sae fierce and fell,And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
Man!cruel man!"the genius sighed-
As through the cliffs he sank him down-
"The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,That reptile wears a ducal crown."^1The Gallant Weaver Where Cart rins rowin'to the sea,By mony a flower and spreading tree,There lives a lad,the lad for me,He is a gallant Weaver.
O,I had wooers aught or nine,They gied me rings and ribbons fine;And I was fear'd my heart wad tine,And I gied it to the Weaver.
My daddie sign'd my tocher-band,To gie the lad that has the land,But to my heart I'll add my hand,And give it to the Weaver.
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers,While bees delight in opening flowers,While corn grows green in summer showers,I love my gallant Weaver.
[Footnote 1:The Duke of Queensberry.]
Epigram At Brownhill Inn^1
At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer,And plenty of bacon each day in the year;We've a'thing that's nice,and mostly in season,But why always Bacon-come,tell me a reason?
You're Welcome,Willie Stewart Chorus.-You're welcome,Willie Stewart,You're welcome,Willie Stewart,There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,That's half sae welcome's thou art!
Come,bumpers high,express your joy,The bowl we maun renew it,The tappet hen,gae bring her ben,To welcome Willie Stewart,You're welcome,Willie Stewart,&c.
May foes be strang,and friends be slack Ilk action,may he rue it,May woman on him turn her back That wrangs thee,Willie Stewart,You're welcome,Willie Stewart,&c.
Lovely Polly Stewart Chorus.-O lovely Polly Stewart,O charming Polly Stewart,There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,That's half so fair as thou art!