SONGS. Meaning the family of the Earl of Selkirk, resident at St. Mary's Isle, near Kirkcudbright. WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea, He is a gallant weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine, My daddie sign'd my tocher-band And give it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE. THIS air is the Gardeners' March. The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine. WHEN TOSY May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours, The gard'ner wi' his paidle. The crystal waters gently fa'; The merry birds are lovers a' ; When purple morning starts the hare In some editions sailor is substituted for weaver. When day expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest; He flies to her arms he lo'es best, The gard'ner wi' his paidle. THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST. Tune-"Banks of Ayr." THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast, The autumn mourns her ripening corn, 'Tis not the surging billows' roar, Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. Tune--" I red you beware at the hunting." THE heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen; At length they discovered ahonnie moor-hen. Burns wrote this song, while convoying his chest so far on the road from Ayrshire to Greenock, where he intended to embark in a few days for Jamaica. He designed it, he says, as his farewell dirge to his native country. Ired you beware at the hunting, young men ; I red you beware at the hunting, young men; Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;' Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill; His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. THIS was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all in the world. NAE gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair, Within the glen sae bushy, 0, O were yon hills and vallies mine, But fickle fortune frowns on me, Within the glen, &c. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; That Indian wealth may lustre throw She has my heart, she has my hand, Farewell the glen, sae bushy, O, THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. Tune-" O'er the hills and far awa." O, How can I be blithe and glad, It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my ee To think on him that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will take my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. The weary winter soon will pass, And he'll come hame that's far awa. THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. Tune-"The Lass of Ballochmyle." TWAS even, the dewy fields were green, On ilka blade the pearls hang; The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang; All nature list ning seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, A maiden fair I chanced to spy: The lily's hue, and rose's dye, Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. Fair is the morn in flowery May, Oh, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Though shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain! Through weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward dig the Indian mine, Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine, Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED WHEN Januar winds were blawin' cauld, Just in the middle of my care, To walk into a chamber fair. I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And bade her make the bed to me. This song was written in praise of Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one fine evening to meet this young lady, when walking through the beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, which lie at the dis tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. Struck with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble lyric; which he soon after sent to her, enclosed in a letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and as poetical as itself. He was somewhat mortified to find, that either maidenly modest, or pride of supe rior station, prevented her from acknowledging the re ceipt of his compliment: Indeed it is no where record ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest sense of it; as to her the pearls seem to have been li terally thrown away. There is an older and coarser song, containing the same incidents, and said to have been occasioned by an adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the Presbyterian army, 1650-51. The affair happened at the house of Port-Lethem, in Aberdeenshire, and it was a daughter of the laird that made the bed to the king. THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune-" Deil tak the wars." I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarelyMy blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley! SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? But by the moon and stars so bright, Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy: Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods; Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower: The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, She That shone that hour sae clearly! shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. aye I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear I hae been joyfu' gathering gear; ; While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. That happy night was worth them a' Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning Banishes ilka darksome shade, Ainang the rigs o' barley. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. Tune-" The Mill, Mill, O." WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd, That had been blear'd wi' mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger; My humble knapsack a' my wealth; A poor but honest sodger. At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang ' Tak pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully she gazed on me, And lovelier grew than ever; Quoth she, A sodger ance I loved, Forget him will I never. |