Chapter II: Part 2

Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green.]

LOGAN BRAES

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie’s bride;
And years sinsyne hae o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow’ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes.

Again the merry month o’ May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening’s tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,
While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush;
Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile:
But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow’d nights and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes.

O wae upon you, men o’ state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan Braes!

ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR

‘O cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man?
Or were you at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?’
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush’d and push’d, and blude out-gush’d,
And mony a bouk did fa’, man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glancèd twenty miles:
They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack’d and hash’d, while broadswords clash’d,
And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d,
Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar’d our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When baig’nets overpower’d the targe,
And thousands hasten’d to the charge,
Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’ death, till, out of breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

‘O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man:
I saw mysel, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi’ a’ their might,
And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight;
But, cursèd lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man.’

My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi’ crowdie unto me, man;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae guid-will,
That day their neibors’ blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o’ brose, they scared at blows,
And hameward fast did flee, man.

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets’ knell,
Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Gray came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to—France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg grew sick as he grew haill,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

Duncan was a lad o’ grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie’s was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath;
Now they’re crouse and cantie baith!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

MY NANNIE O

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
’Mang moors an’ mosses many O,
The wintry sun the day has clos’d,
And I’ll awa’ to Nannie O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shill,
The night’s baith mirk and rainy O;
But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll steal,
An’ owre the hill to Nannie O.

My Nannie’s charming, sweet, and young:
Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye O:
May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she’s bonnie O:
The opening gowan, wat wi’ dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie O.

A country lad is my degree,
An’ few there be that ken me O;
But what care I how few they be,
I’m welcome aye to Nannie O.

My riches a’s my penny-fee,
An’ I maun guide it cannie O;
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’ my Nannie O.

Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie O:
But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An’ has nae care but Nannie O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I’ll tak what Heav’n will send me O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an’ love my Nannie O.

THE RIGS O’ BARLEY

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light
I held awa to Annie:
The time flew by wi’ tentless heed,
Till ’tween the late and early,
Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed
To see me thro’ the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi’ right good will
Amang the rigs o’ barley;
I kent her heart was a’ my ain;
I loved her most sincerely;
I kissed her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I locked her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely;
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o’ barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly,
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’ gatherin’ gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs,
An’ corn rigs are bonnie:
I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes O;
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses O.

Green grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses O!

The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them O.

But gie me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses O.

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes O;
Her prentice han’ she tried on man,
An’ then she made the lasses O.

A WINTER NIGHT

When biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r
Or whirling drift;

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl;

List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,—
The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pitiless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.

Now Phœbe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffl’d, view’d the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:—

‘Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,
Than heav’n-illumin’d man on brother man bestows!
See stern Oppression’s iron grip,
Or mad Ambition’s gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, want, and murder o’er a land!

Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale
How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o’er proud property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show,
A creature of another kind,
Some coarser substance, unrefin’d,
Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour’s lofty brow,
The pow’rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love’s noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim
To bless himself alone?
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares;
This boasted honour turns away,
Shunning soft pity’s rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray’rs!
Perhaps this hour, in mis’ry’s squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call,
Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon’s grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushèd low,
By cruel fortune’s undeservèd blow?
Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!’

I heard nae mair; for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail’d the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress’d my mind—
Thro’ all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.

When biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r.]

THE RICHES OF THE POOR

(TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET)

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme,
In hamely westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift,
That live sae bien an’ snug;
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker
To see their cursèd pride.

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar’d;
How best o’ chiels are whyles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair’t:
But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head,
Tho’ we hae little gear,
We’re fit to win our daily bread,
As lang’s we’re hale and fier:
‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’
Auld age ne’er mind a feg;
The last o’t, the warst o’t,
Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could mak us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s free frae a’
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba’,
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
Nae mair then, we’ll care then,
Nae farther can we fa’.

What tho’, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal’?
Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,
We’ll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t,
And sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It’s no in making muckle, mair:
It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:
Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye’s the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry,
Wi’ never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how oft in haughty mood,
God’s creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either heav’n or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming
It’s a’ an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,
An’s thankfu’ for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;
They mak us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.
Tho’ losses, and crosses,
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne’er could buy;
And joys the very best.
There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart,
The lover an’ the frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a’ on flame!

O all ye pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know’st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since this world’s thorny ways
Had number’d out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin’, rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phœbus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin’ owre my pen.
My spavied Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he’s fairly het;
And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An’ rin an unco fit:
But lest then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I’ll light now, and dight now
His sweaty wizen’d hide.

THO’ CRUEL FATE

Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,
Wide as the pole and line;
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

Tho’ mountains rise and deserts howl
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

TAM GLEN

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len’,
To anger them a’ is a pity;
But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?

I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen’;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller,
‘Guid-day to you, brute!’ he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o’ young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;
But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,
He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten:
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin’
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;
His likeness came up the house stalkin’—
And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen!

Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY

My heart is sair, I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night,
For the sake o’ somebody!
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake o’ somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I wad do—what wad I not?
For the sake o’ somebody!

O, FOR ANE AN’ TWENTY, TAM!

An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam!
An’ hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam!
I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang,
An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam.

They snool me sair, and haud me down,
An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam!
But three short years will soon wheel roun’,
An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam.

A gleib o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear,
Was left me by my auntie, Tam;
At kith or kin I need na spier,
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof,
Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam;
But hear’st thou, laddie? there’s my loof,
I’m thine at ane and twenty, Tam!

O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN?

O, wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin sun upon?
The dearest maid’s in yon town,
That e’enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree:
How blest ye flow’rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Jeanie dear!

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes sae green;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.

Without my love, not a’ the charms
O’ Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Jeanie in my arms,
And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky!

My cave wad be a lover’s bower,
Tho’ raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinkin sun’s gane down upon;
A fairer than’s in yon town,
His setting beam ne’er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom’d to bear;
I careless quit all else below,
But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear.

For while life’s dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart,
And she—as fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.

O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE

I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho’ the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e’e.

She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a’ unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers’ e’en,
When kind love is in the e’e.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learnèd clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

I’LL AYE CA’ IN BY YON TOWN

I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town,
And by yon garden green again;
I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town,
And see my bonnie Jean again.

There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess,
What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass,
And stownlins we sall meet again.

She’ll wander by the aiken tree
When trystin-time draws near again;
And when her lovely form I see,
O haith, she’s doubly dear again!

THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
I’ve seen the day,
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappled, sleek an’ glaizie,
A bonnie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere;
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,
An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin’ wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
An’ unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride;
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide
For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble
For heels an’ win’!
An’ ran them till they a’ did wobble
Far, far behin’.

When thou an’ I were young and skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
Where’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpled, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle,
An’ gart them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours’ gaun,
On guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit,
An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;
Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But, just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa
That thou hast nurst;
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
The very warst.

Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
Wi’ something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’;
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
To some hain’d rig,
Where ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a’ is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me,
And say thou’lt be my dearie O?

Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie O?

The primrose bank, the wimpling burn,
The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,
The wanton lambs at early morn
Shall welcome thee, my dearie O.

And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower,
We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.

When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray,
The weary shearer’s hameward way,
Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray,
And talk o’ love, my dearie O.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest;
Enclaspèd to my faithfu’ breast,
I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O.

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 down 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 Phœbus peeps in view,
For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonny 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 grey,
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 drops 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.

MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T

My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane,
By Colin’s cottage lies his game,
If Colin’s Jenny be at hame.

My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.

My lady’s white, my lady’s red,
And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude,
But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid
Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed.

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss,
Where gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns:
The diamond dew in her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest,
The flower and fancy o’ the west;
But the lassie that a man lo’es best,
O that’s the lass to make him blest.

My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786

Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet
Wi’ spreckl’d breast,
When upward springing, blythe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade,
By love’s simplicity betray’d,
And guileless trust,
Till she like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d:
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom!

Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour.]

THOUGHTS IN WINTER

The wintry wast extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae:
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

‘The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,’
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest,—they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE

Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang,
Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’,
A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’;
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past?

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae:
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is—‘Welcome, and welcome again!’

JOHN BARLEYCORN

A BALLAD

There was three Kings into the east,
Three Kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu’ Spring came kindly on,
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To shew their deadly rage.

They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell’d him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They fillèd up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heavèd in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear’d,
They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all,
For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise;

’Twill make a man forget his woe;
’Twill heighten all his joy:
’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Tho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

WILLIE BREWED

O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na found in Christendie.

We are na fou’, we’re no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we’ll taste the barley bree!

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And mony a night we’ve merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth! she’ll wait a wee.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the King among us three!

COUNT THE LAWIN

Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light,
For ale and brandy’s stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine’s the risin sun.

Then guidwife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then guidwife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen’,
But here we’re a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.

My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o’ care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An’ ye drink it a’ ye’ll find him out.

RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE

O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie
O, he held to the fair,
An’ for to sell his fiddle,
And buy some other ware;
But parting wi’ his fiddle,
The saut tear blin’t his e’e;
And rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,
Ye’re welcome hame to me!

O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o’ wine!
If I should sell my fiddle,
The warl’ would think I was mad;
For mony a rantin’ day
My fiddle and I hae had.

As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannily keekit ben—
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie
Was sitting at yon board en’;
Sitting at yon board en’,
And amang guid companie;
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,
Ye’re welcome hame to me!

AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP

(TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD)

While briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie whiddin’ seen,
Inspire my Muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin’,
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’;
And there was muckle fun and jokin’,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin’
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:
It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,
What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark!’
They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin’ fain to hear’t,
And sae about him there I spier’d;
Then a’ that kenn’d him round declar’d
He had ingine,
That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,
It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale,
An’ either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches,
’Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,
Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie’s death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith
To hear your crack.

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;
Tho’ rude an’ rough,
Yet crooning to a body’s sel,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An’ hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet what the matter?
Whene’er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say ‘How can you e’er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?’
But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes,
Ye’re maybe wrang.

What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an’ stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye’d better ta’en up spades and shools,
Or knappin’-hammers.

A set o’ dull conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o’ Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire,
That’s a’ the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s, the bauld an’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I’se no insist,
But gif ye want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, an’ folks that wish me well
They sometimes roose me;
Tho’ I maun own, as mony still
As far abuse me.

There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses—Gude forgie me;
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,
If we forgather,
An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-ware
Wi’ ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water;
Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
‘Each aid the others,’
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!

But to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing, or whistle,
Your friend and servant.

THE CARDIN’ O’T

I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’,
To make a coat to Johnny o’t;
For Johnny is my only jo,
I lo’e him best of ony yet.
The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t;
The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.

For though his locks be lyart gray,
And though his brow be beld aboon;
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
The pride of a’ the parishen.
The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT

Again rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.

And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill,
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!

DUNCAN DAVISON

There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg,
And she held o’er the moors to spin;
There was a lad that follow’d her,
They ca’d him Duncan Davison.
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,
Her favour Duncan could na win;
For wi’ the rock she wad him knock,
And ay she shook the temper-pin.

As o’er the moor they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a glen was green,
Upon the banks they eased their shanks,
And aye she set the wheel between:
But Duncan swore a haly aith,
That Meg should be a bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith,
And flung them a’ out o’er the burn.

We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house,
And we will live like King and Queen,
Sae blythe and merry we will be
When ye set by the wheel at e’en.
A man may drink and no be drunk;
A man may fight and no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,
And aye be welcome back again.

AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE

NOT TO FORSAKE THE MUSE

AULD NEIBOR ...

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O’ war’ly cares,
Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin’ the words to gar them clink;
Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
O’ rhymin’ clink,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban,
They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’;
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,
An’ while ought’s there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie
Frae door to door.

WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin’ to me,
And come as ye were na comin’ to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flee:
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e—
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither’ tho’ jokin’ ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T

O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
Wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me whare I lie?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

Wha will own he did the faut?
Wha will buy my groanin’ maut?
Wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

When chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning as I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose agèd step
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’
Began the rev’rend sage;
‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

‘The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride—
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev’ry time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

‘O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force give nature’s law,
That man was made to mourn.

‘Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, oh! ill-match’d pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

‘A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn—
That man was made to mourn.

‘Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn—
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

‘See yonder poor o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

‘If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,—
By nature’s law design’d,—
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?

‘Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor oppressèd honest man
Had never sure been born
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

‘O Death, the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my agèd limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh; a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn.’

THE GLOOMY NIGHT