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How lost were my days till I met wi' my

Jessie! The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and

vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear

lassie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, flower o'

Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest

grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its

splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum.

blane. Robert Tannahill.Born 1774, Died 1810.

Towering o'er the Newton woods,
Lavrocks fan the shaw-white clouds;
Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,

Adorn the banks sae brierie 0.
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feathery brekans fringe the rocks,
Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie 0. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie O. Robert Tannahill.-Born 1774, Died 1810.


The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa';
The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay the swallows play

Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,

To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yaldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that Nature yields

Are dearer far to me.
Robert Tannahill.-Born 1774, Died 1810.

1603.—MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE 0. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,

My only jo and dearie 0;
Thy neck is like the siller-dew

Upon the banks sae briery 0,
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,
O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee !
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,

My only jo and dearie 0.
The birdie sings upon the thorn

Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie 0,
Rejoicing in the summer morn,

Nae care to mak it eerie 0;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,

My only jo and dearie 0.
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,

And youth was blinking bonnie 0,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0);
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
And round about the thorny tree,
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,

My only jo and dearie 0.
I hae a wish I canna tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0; I wish thou wert for ever mine,

And never mair to leave me 0 :
Then I wad daut thee night and day,
Nor ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgot to play,

My only jo and dearie O.
Richard Gall.Born 1776, Died 1801.

1602.-GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA. Gloomy winter's no

now awa,
Saft the westlin breezes blaw :
Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheerie 0.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie 0.
Come, my lassie, let us stray,
O'er Glenkillosh's sunny brae,
Blithely sperd the gowden day

'Midst joys that never wearie 0.

1604.-FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming,

Fare thee weel before I gang-
Bonny Doon, where, early roaming,

First I weaved the rustic seng!

Bowers, adieu ! where love decoying,

First enthrall’d this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying,

Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine! Friends so dear my bosom ever,

Ye hae render'd moments dear ; But, alas! when forced to sever,

Then the stroke, oh ! how severe ! Friends, that parting tear reserve it,

Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Conld I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be! Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew ; Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu !

Richard Gall.-Born 1776, Died 1801.

My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low

On fair Kirkconnel-lee !
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell—
The fiend who made my heaven a hell

And tore my love from me!
For if, where all the graces shine-
Oh! if on earth there's aught divine,
My Helen ! all these charms were thine-

They center'd all in thee !
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain ?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,

No resting-place for me :
I see her spirit in the air-
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When Murder laid her bosom bare,

On fair Kirkconnel-lee !
Oh! when I'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave

Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise ;
And, joining Helen in the skies,

Forget Kirkconnel-lee !
John Mayne.--Born 1761, Died 1836.

1605.—LOGAN BRAES. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep; Herded sheep and gather'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae's my heart, thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braos. Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me; Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane : Frae kirk and fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. At o'en, when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out and sit alane; Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. Oh! could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain! Beloved by friends, revered by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes !

John Mayne.-Born 1761, Died 1836.

Hail, gentle stream ! for ever dear
Thy rudest murmurs to mine ear!
Torn from thy banks, though far I rove,
The slave of poverty and love,
Ne'er shall thy bard, where'er he be,
Without a sigh remember thee!
For there my infant years began,
And there my happiest minutes ran,
And there to love and friendship true,
The blossoms of affection grew.

Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream
That ever nursed a poet's dream!
Oft have I in forbidden time
(If youth could sanctify a crime),
With hazel rod and fraudful fly,
Ensnared thy unsuspecting fry;
In pairs have dragg'd them from their den,
Till, chased by lurking fishermen,
Away I've flown as fleet as wind,
My lagging followers far behind,
And when the vain pursuit was o'er,
Return'd successful as before.

John Mayne.—Born 1761, Died 1836.

I wish I were where Helen lies,
For, night and day, on me she cries ;
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh’d,
For me she wish'd to be a bride ;
For me in life's sweet morn she died

On fair Kirkconnel-lee !
Where Kirtle-waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind,

Took deadly aim at me :


The lift was clear, the morn serene,
The sun just glinting owre the scene,


When James M'Noe began again

To beat to arms, Rousing the heart o' man and wean

Wi' war's alarms. Frae far and near the country lads (Their joes ahint them on their yads) Flock'd in to see the show in squads;

And, what was dafter, Their pawky mithers and their dads

Cam trotting after !

But ne'er, for uniform or air,
Was sic a group review'd elsewhere !
The short, the tall; fat folk, and spare ;

Syde coats, and dockit;
Wigs, queues, and clubs, and curly hair ;

Round hats, and cockit! As to their guns—thae fell engines, Borrow'd or begg'd, were of a' kinds For bloody war, or bad designs,

Or shooting cushies-Lang fowling-pieces, carabines,

And blunderbusses !

And mony a beau and belle were there,
Doited wi' dozing on a chair;
For lest they'd, sleeping, spoil their hair,

Or miss the sight,
The gowks, like bairns before a fair,

Sat up a' night!

Maist feck, though oil'd to mak them glimmer,
Hadna been shot for mony a simmer;
And Fame, the story-telling kimmer,

Jocosely hints
That some o' them had bits o'timmer

Instead o' flints !

Wi' hats as black as ony raven,
Fresh as the rose, their beards new shaven,
And a' their Sunday's cleeding having

Sae trim and gay,
Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving

To wair that day.

Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl,
Weel may he bruik his new apparel !
And never dree the bitter snarl

O scowling wife!
But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel,

Be blithe through life !
Hech, sirs ! what crowds cam into town,
To see them mustering up and down!
Lasses and lads, sun-burnt and brown-

Women and weans,
Gentle and semple, mingling, crown

The gladsome scenes !
At first, forenent ilk Deacon's hallan,
His ain brigade was made to fall in ;
And, while the muster-roll was calling,

And joybells jowing,
Het-pints, weel spiced, to keep the saul in,

Around were flowing !

Some guns, she threeps within her ken,
Were spiked, to let nae priming ben ;
And, as in twenty there were ten

Worm-eaten stocks,
Sae, here and there, a rozit-end

Held on their locks !
And then, to show what differenco stands
Atween the leaders and their bands,
Swords that, unsheathed since Prestonpans

Neglected lay,
Were furbish'd up, to grace the hands

O'chiefs this day!
“Ohon!” says George, and ga'e a grane,
“ The age o'chivalry is gane !
Syne, having owre and owre again

The hale survey'd,
Their route, and a' things else, made plain,

He snuff'd, and said :
"Now, gentlemen! now, mind the motion,
And dinna, this time, mak a botion :
Shouther your arms! O! ha'd them tosh on,

And not athraw!
Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean,

And march awa!"

Broil'd kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham,
Laid the foundation for a dram
O' whisky, gin frae Rotterdam,

Or cherry brandy ;
Whilk after, a' was fish that cam

To Jock or Sandy:

Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound,
Fifes, clarionets, and hautboys sound !
Through crowds and crowds, collected round,

The Corporations
Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drown'd

In acclamations !
John Mayne.Born 1761, Died 1836.

0! weel ken they wha loe their chapin,
Drink maks the auldest swack and strapping ;
Gars Care forget the ills that happen-

The blate look spruce-
And even the thowless cock their tappin,

And craw fu' croose !

The muster owre, the different bands
File aff in parties to the sands ;
Where, 'mid loud laughs and clapping hands,

Gley'd Geordy Smith
Reviews them, and their line expands

Alang the Nith!

1609.-JENNY DANG THE WEAVER. At Willie's wedding on the green,

The lassies, bonny witches!
Were a' dress'd out in aprons clean,

And braw white Sunday mutches :
Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent,
But Jock would not believe her :

A Norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsen'd naig and siller whup,
Cried, “There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,

Or tie't till a tree.

But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,

Jenny dang the weaver;
But soon the fool his folly kent,

For Jenny dang the weaver.
At ilka country dance or reel,

Wi' her he would be bobbing ; When she sat down, he sat down,

And to her would be gabbing; Where'er she gaed, baith butt and ben,

The coof would never leave her; Aye keckling like a clocking hen, But Jenny dang the weaver

Jenny dang, &c.

What's gowd to me ?-I've walth o' lan’;
Bestow on ane o' worth your han';'
He thought pay what he was awn

Wi’ Jenny's bawbee.
A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs,
A Thing cam neist (but life has rubs),
Foul were the roads, and fou' the dubs,

Ah! waes me!

Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind,

I troth I needna swither;
You've bonny een, and if you're kind,

I'll never seek anither :
He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried, Peugh,

And bade the coof not deave her ;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and lough,
And dang the silly weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,

Jenny dang the weaver ;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,

And dang the silly weaver.
Sir A. Boswell.-Born 1775, Died 1822.

A' clatty, squintin' through a glass,
He girn'd, " I' faith a bonnie lass!”
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,

Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gang comb his wig,
The sodger not to strut sae big,
The lawyer not to be a prig,

The fool cried, “ Tehee,
I kent that I could never fail !”
She prined the dish-clout till his tail,
And cool'd him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.
Sir A. Boswell.-Born 1775, Died 1822.


WI' YE A'.

I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang;
I speer'd at neibour Bauldy Strang,

Wha's thae I see?
Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel,
Thought himsel' cunnin' as the de'il,
And here they cam, awa to steal

Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a captain till his trade,
Wi' skull ill lined, and back well clad,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,

And pappit on his knee.
Quo' be, “My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een;"
But de'il a beauty he had seen

But Jenny's bawbee.
A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,

And a' for a fee :
Accounts he had through a' the town,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could

drown; Haith now he thought to clout his gown

Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

Good night, and joy be wi' ye a';

Your harmless mirth has charm'd my heart; May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw !

In sorrow may ye never part !
My spirit lives, but strength is gone;

The mountain-fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds 'I've done,

And in your deeds I'll live again! When on yon muir our gallant clan

Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha show'd himself a better man,

Or fiercer waved the red claymore ?
But when in peace—then mark me there

When through the glen the wanderer came, I gave him of our lordly fare,

I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear;

But cantie, but be good and leal ;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,

Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,

I'll see you triumph ere I fa';
My parting breath shall boast you mine-
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'.

Sir A. Boswell.--Born 1775, Died 1822.


When the kye comes hame,

When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk,

When the kye comes hame. James Hogg.Born 1772, Died 1835.


Come all ye jolly shepherds

That whistle throngh the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken;
What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes haine,

When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloamin and the mirk,

When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet,

Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbour of the great-
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,

In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,

When the kye comes hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,

0, a happy bird is he!
Then he pours his melting ditty,

And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie

When the kye comes hame.
When the blewart bears a pearl,

And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan

Has fauldit up her ee,
Then the lavrock frae the blue lift,

Draps down, and thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie

When the kye comes hame.
See yonder pawky shepherd

That lingers on the hill-
His yowes are in the fauld,

And his lambs are lying still ;
Yet he downa gang to bed,

For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bomie lassie

When the kye comes hame.
When the little wee bit heart

Rises high in the breast,
And the little wee bit starn

Rises red in the east,
Othere's a joy sae dear,

That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,

When the kye comes hame.
Then since all nature joins

In this love without alloy,
0, wha wad prove a traitor

To nature's dearest joy ?
Or wha wad choose a crown,

Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie

When the kye comes hame.

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-placeO to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth;

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Yusical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

James Hogg.Born 1772, Died 1835.


The moon was a-waning,

The tempest was over ;
Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover ;
But the snow was so deep

That his heart it grew weary ;
And he sunk down to sleep,

In the moorland so dreary.
Soft was the bed

She had made for her lover,
White were the sheets

And embroider'd the cover ;
But his sheets are more white,

And his canopy grander;
And sounder he sleeps

Where the hill-foxes wander.
Alas, pretty maiden,

What sorrows attend you !
I see you sit shivering,

With lights at your window;
But long may you wait

Ere your arms shall enclose kim;
For still, still he lies,
With a wreath on his bosom!

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