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LADY ANNE LINDSAY

[1750-1825] AULD ROBIN GRAY

328

When the sheep are in the fauld,' and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown'

awa;
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea-
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toild day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,

1 Fold. 2 Cows. 3 Stolen.

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle o did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

THOMAS CHATTERTON

[1752-1770]

329

SONG FROM ÆLLA

O sing unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne' as the winter night,
White his rodeo as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note
Quick in dance as thought can be,

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Ghost. o Weep.

6 Much. 1 Hair. 2 Complexion. & Fasten.

O he lies by the willow-tree !

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid :

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent' the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:*
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

* Grow.

• Elf.

CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY NAIRNE

(1766-1845]

330

THE LAND O' THE LEAL

I'm wearing awa', Jean,
Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.”
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
O we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain

In the land o' the leal.

331

HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I Lo’E WEEL

He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,
He's ower the hills we daurna name;
He's ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

1 Loyal.
(D) HC XLI

My faither's gane to fecht for him,
My brithers winna bide at hame;
My mither greets and prays for them,
And, 'deed, she thinks they're no to blame.

The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer,
But ah! that love maun be sincere
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
And for his sake leaves a' beside.

His right these hills, his right these plains;
O’er Hieland hearts secure he reigns;
What lads e'er did our lads will do;
Were I a laddie I'd follow him too.

Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
O did ye but see him ye'd do as we've done;
Hear him but once, to his standard you'll run,

He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel;
He's ower the hills we daurna name;
He's ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

332

THE AULD HOUSE

Oh, the auld house, the auld house!

What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,

And bairnies fu' o' glee !
The wild rose and the jessamine

Still hang upon the wa':
How mony cherished memories

Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird,

Sae canty, kind, and crouse!
How mony did he welcome to

His ain wee dear auld house!

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