I should suspect that I worshipped the devil If I thanked God for worldly things.

The countless gold of a merry heart,

The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man never can bring to the mart, Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury.

THE TWO SONGS

I heard an angel singing,
When the day was springing:
"Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world's release."

Thus he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And haycocks looked brown.

I heard a devil curse

Over the heath and the furze:
"Mercy could be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace.
Misery's increase

Are mercy, pity, peace."

At his curse the sun went down, And the heavens gave a frown.

LOVE'S SECRET

Never seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told shall be; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly:

He took her with a sigh.

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25 And all his sorrows, till he reassumes his ancient bliss.

JOHN SKINNER (1721-1807)

TULLOCHGORUM

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies't for folk to chide

For what's been done before them?

May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot! And may he never want a groat

That's fond of Tullochgorum. But for the dirty, yawning fool, Who wants to be oppression's tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him! May dool' and sorrow be his chance! Dool and sorrow! dool and sorrow! May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE (1735-1788)

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE

HOUSE2

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds,3 fling by your wheel.
Is this the time to think of wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava;'

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.'

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,"

Been fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw' their necks about, That Colin weel may fare;

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1 grief 2 This poem is often wrongly ascribed to Jean Adams. jades at all ⚫ sloes • cross-beam 7 twist

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the
foremost,

The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. 20
We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 24

JOHN MAYNE (1759-1836)

LOGAN BRAES

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft, wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,1
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.

But wae's my heart! thae2 days are gane,
And fu' o' grief I herd3 alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

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 e'en when hope amaist is gane,
I dander dowie and forlane,"
Or sit beneath the trysting-tree,
Where first he spak of love to me.
O! cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless,' and my ain;
Rever'd by friends, and far frae faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

II

When Charlie looked the letter upon,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
Come follow me, my merry, merry men,
And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning.
Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word,
Come let us try both fire and sword;
And dinna flee away like a frighted bird,
That's chased from its nest in the morning.
When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,
He thought it wadna be amiss,
To ha'e a horse in readiness,

To flee awa' in the morning.
Fy now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak' a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,

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Sae early in the morning.

"O! faith," quo' Johnnie, “I got sic flegs 3
Wi' their claymores and philabegs;
If I face them again, deil break my legs -
So I wish you a' gude morning."

• dreary

ROBERT FERGUSSON (1750-1774)

THE DAFT DAYS

Now mirk December's dowie face
Glowrs owr the rigs' wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his miminum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun,

Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;

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