Says he, What gars thee greet sae sair?
What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care?
Thae sportin' lambs hae blythsome days,
And playful skip on Logan braes !
What can I do but weep and murn?
I fear
my lad will ne'er return,
Ne'er return to ease my waes,
Will ne'er come hame to Logan braes.
Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms,
And said, I'm free of war's alarms;
I now hae conquer'd a' my faes,
We'll happy live on Logan braes.
Then straight to Logan kirk they went,
And join'd their hands with one consent,
With one consent, to spend their days,
And live in bliss, on Logan braes.
And now she sings, Thae days are gane,
When I wi' grief did herd alane,
dear lad did fight his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.*
ANDRO AND HIS CUTTIE GUN.
TUNE-Andro and his Cuttie Gun.
BLYTHE, blythe, and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Weel she loo'd a Hawick gill,
And leuch to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, she set me doun,
And hecht to keep me lawin'-free
But, cunning carline that she was,
She gart me birle
my bawbee.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
This song, the author of which is still alive, was written as a substitute for one or two old rude verses which were formerly sung to the same air.
We loo'd the liquor weel eneuch;
But, wae's my heart, my cash was done,
Before that I had quench'd my drouth,
And laith was I to pawn my shoon.
When we had three times toom'd our stoup,
And the neist chappin new begun,
In startit, to heeze up our hope,
Young Andro, wi' his cuttie gun.
The carline brocht her kebbuck ben,
Wi' girdle-cakes weel-toasted brown ;—
Weel does the canny kimmer ken,
They gar the scuds gae glibber doun.
We ca'd the bicker aft about,
Till dawnin' we ne'er jee'd our bum,
And aye the cleanest drinker out
Was Andro wi' his cuttie gun.
He did like ony mavis sing;
And, as I in his oxter sat,
He ca'd me aye his bonnie thing,
And mony a sappy kiss I
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been far ayont the sun;
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw,
Was Andro wi' his cuttie gun.*
TUNE-Andrew and his Cuttie Gun.
BLYTHE, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben,
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.
* First published in the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.
By Ochtertyre there grows the aik,
On Yarrow braes the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She trippit by the banks o' Earn,
As licht's a bird upon a thorn.
Her bonnie face it was as meek
As onie lamb upon a lee;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
The Hieland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been ;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trode the dewy green.
BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT
ARRIVE.
TUNE-Oran Gaoil.
BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest, thou darling of my
Sever'd from thee, can I survive?
But fate has will'd, and we must part.
I'll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail :
"E'en here I took my last farewell,
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
*Written by Burns, while on a visit to Sir William Murray at Ochtertyre, Perthshire, on Miss Euphemia Murray of Lintrose, whose beauty had occasioned her to be popularly called "the Flower of Strathmore."
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While through thy sweets she loves to stray, Oh, tell me, does she muse on me?
Written to an East Indian air.
But lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoiced the day,
Through gentle showers, the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are fled
On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.
But my white pow nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthful prime,
Why com'st thou not again.
BESS, THE GAWKIE.
REV. MR MUIRHEAD.
TUNE-Bess the Gawkie.
BLYTHE Young Bess to Jean did say,
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
And sport a while wi' Jamie?
Ah, na, lass, I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie.
For hark and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see young Jamie pass,
Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,
Out ower the muir to Maggie.
I wat he gae her mony a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss,
'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie-
For when a civil kiss I seek,
She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she'll hardly speak;
Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane into the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.
O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,
But I will never stand for ane
Or twa, when we do meet again ;
So ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that canna be ;
Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or ony thy sweet face that see,
E'er to think thee a gawkie.
But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,
I trow he likes the gawkie.
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