Remorseful Apology The friend whom,wild from Wisdom's way,The fumes of wine infuriate send,(Not moony madness more astray)Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th'insensate frenzied part,Ah!why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!-
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?
tune-"The Sutor's Dochter."
Wilt thou be my Dearie?
When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart,O wilt thou let me cheer thee!
By the treasure of my soul,That's the love I bear thee:
I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my Dearie!
Only thou,I swear and vow,Shall ever be my Dearie!
Lassie,say thou lo'es me;
Or,if thou wilt na be my ain,O say na thou'lt refuse me!
If it winna,canna be,Thou for thine may choose me,Let me,lassie,quickly die,Still trusting that thou lo'es me!
Lassie,let me quickly die,Still trusting that thou lo'es me!
A Fiddler In The North tune-"The King o'France he rade a race."Amang the trees,where humming bees,At buds and flowers were hinging,O,Auld Caledon drew out her drone,And to her pipe was singing,O:
'Twas Pibroch,Sang,Strathspeys,and Reels,She dirl'd them aff fu'clearly,O:
When there cam'a yell o'foreign squeels,That dang her tapsalteerie,O.
Their capon craws an'queer "ha,ha's,"
They made our lugs grow eerie,O;
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,Till we were wae and weary,O:
But a royal ghaist,wha ance was cas'd,A prisoner,aughteen year awa',He fir'd a Fiddler in the North,That dang them tapsalteerie,O.
The Minstrel At Lincluden tune-"Cumnock Psalms."As I stood by yon roofless tower,Where the wa'flow'r scents the dery air,Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,And tells the midnight moon her care.
Chorus-A lassie all alone,was making her moan,Lamenting our lads beyond the sea:
In the bluidy wars they fa',and our honour's gane an'a',And broken-hearted we maun die.
The winds were laid,the air was till,The stars they shot along the sky;The tod was howling on the hill,And the distant-echoing glens reply.
A lassie all alone,&c.
The burn,adown its hazelly path,Was rushing by the ruin'd wa',Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,Whase roarings seem'd to rise and fa'.
A lassie all alone,&c.
The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights,wi'hissing,eerie din,Athort the lift they start and shift,Like Fortune's favours,tint as win.
A lassie all alone,&c.
Now,looking over firth and fauld,Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd,When lo!in form of Minstrel auld,A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd.
A lassie all alone,&c.
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,Might rous'd the slumbering Dead to hear;But oh,it was a tale of woe,As ever met a Briton's ear!
A lassie all alone,&c.
He sang wi'joy his former day,He,weeping,wail'd his latter times;But what he said-it was nae play,I winna venture't in my rhymes.
A lassie all alone,&c.
A Vision As I stood by yon roofless tower,Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid,the air was still,The stars they shot alang the sky;The fox was howling on the hill,And the distant echoing glens reply.
The stream,adown its hazelly path,Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights,wi'hissing,eerie din;Athwart the lift they start and shift,Like Fortune's favors,tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,And,by the moonbeam,shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,Attir'd as Minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o'stane,His daring look had daunted me;And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,The sacred posy-"Libertie!"And frae his harp sic strains did flow,Might rous'd the slumb'ring Dead to hear;But oh,it was a tale of woe,As ever met a Briton's ear!
He sang wi'joy his former day,He,weeping,wailed his latter times;But what he said-it was nae play,I winna venture't in my rhymes.
A Red,Red Rose [Hear Red,Red Rose]
O my Luve's like a red,red rose,That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou,my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I;And I will luve thee still,my dear,Till a'the seas gang dry.
Till a'the seas gang dry,my dear,And the rocks melt wi'the sun;And I will luve thee still,my dear,While the sands o'life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel,my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel,a while!
And I will come again,my Luve,Tho''twere ten thousand mile!
Young Jamie,Pride Of A'The Plain tune-"The Carlin of the Glen."Young Jamie,pride of a'the plain,Sae gallant and sae gay a swain,Thro'a'our lasses he did rove,And reign'd resistless King of Love.
But now,wi'sighs and starting tears,He strays amang the woods and breirs;Or in the glens and rocky caves,His sad complaining dowie raves:-"I wha sae late did range and rove,And chang'd with every moon my love,I little thought the time was near,Repentance I should buy sae dear.
"The slighted maids my torments see,And laugh at a'the pangs I dree;While she,my cruel,scornful Fair,Forbids me e'er to see her mair."The Flowery Banks Of Cree Here is the glen,and here the bower All underneath the birchen shade;The village-bell has told the hour,O what can stay my lovely maid?
'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,Mixt with some warbler's dying fall,The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark in the grove,His little,faithful mate to cheer;At once 'tis music and 'tis love.
And art thou come!and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,Along the flowery banks of Cree.
Monody On a lady famed for her Caprice.
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd;How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,How dull is that ear which to flatt'ry so listen'd!
If sorrow and anguish their exit await,From friendship and dearest affection remov'd;How doubly severer,Maria,thy fate,Thou diedst unwept,as thou livedst unlov'd.
Loves,Graces,and Virtues,I call not on you;So shy,grave,and distant,ye shed not a tear:
But come,all ye offspring of Folly so true,And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.
We'll search through the garden for each silly flower,We'll roam thro'the forest for each idle weed;But chiefly the nettle,so typical,shower,For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.
We'll sculpture the marble,we'll measure the lay;Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.
The Epitaph Here lies,now a prey to insulting neglect,What once was a butterfly,gay in life's beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,Want only of goodness denied her esteem.
Pinned To Mrs.Walter Riddell's Carriage If you rattle along like your Mistress'tongue,Your speed will outrival the dart;But a fly for your load,you'll break down on the road,If your stuff be as rotten's her heart.
Epitaph For Mr.Walter Riddell Sic a reptile was Wat,sic a miscreant slave,That the worms ev'n damn'd him when laid in his grave;"In his flesh there's a famine,"a starved reptile cries,"And his heart is rank poison!"another replies.
Epistle From Esopus To Maria From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells;Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,And deal from iron hands the spare repast;Where truant 'prentices,yet young in sin,Blush at the curious stranger peeping in;Where strumpets,relics of the drunken roar,Resolve to drink,nay,half,to whore,no more;Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing,Beat hemp for others,riper for the string:
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,To tell Maria her Esopus'fate.
"Alas!I feel I am no actor here!"
'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear!
Prepare Maria,for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;Will make thy hair,tho'erst from gipsy poll'd,By barber woven,and by barber sold,Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.
The hero of the mimic scene,no more I start in Hamlet,in Othello roar;Or,haughty Chieftain,'mid the din of arms In Highland Bonnet,woo Malvina's charms;While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,And steal from me Maria's prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet!once my proudest dress,Now prouder still,Maria's temples press;I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,And call each coxcomb to the wordy war:
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan'd lines,For other wars,where he a hero shines:
The hopeful youth,in Scottish senate bred,Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs,to display That veni,vidi,vici,is his way:
The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks:
Though there,his heresies in Church and State Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,And dares the public like a noontide sun.
What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?
Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns'venom,when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)-Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre-divine The idiot strum of Vanity bemus'd,And even the abuse of Poesy abus'd?-Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse,made For motley foundling Fancies,stolen or strayed?
A Workhouse!ah,that sound awakes my woes,And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.
Why,Lonsdale,thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,And make a vast monopoly of hell?
Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse;The Vices also,must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
Maria,send me too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls-Who calls thee,pert,affected,vain coquette,A wit in folly,and a fool in wit!
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that deciphering defy,And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!
Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb Capt.Wm.Roddirk,of Corbiston.
Light lay the earth on Billy's breast,His chicken heart so tender;But build a castle on his head,His scull will prop it under.
On Capt.Lascelles When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart,Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart;A bystander whispers-"Pray don't make so much o't,The subject is poison,no reptile will touch it."On Wm.Graham,Esq.,Of Mossknowe "Stop thief!"dame Nature call'd to Death,As Willy drew his latest breath;How shall I make a fool again?
My choicest model thou hast ta'en.
On John Bushby,Esq.,Tinwald Downs Here lies John Bushby-honest man,Cheat him,Devil-if you can!
Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell Of Glenriddell and Friars'Carse.
No more,ye warblers of the wood!no more;Nor pour your descant grating on my soul;Thou young-eyed Spring!gay in thy verdant stole,More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm,ye flowers,with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend!
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes,pour,ye warblers!pour the notes of woe,And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier:
The man of worth-and hath not left his peer!
Is in his "narrow house,"for ever darkly low.
Thee,Spring!again with joy shall others greet;Me,memory of my loss will only meet.
The Lovely Lass O'Inverness The lovely lass o'Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For,e'en to morn she cries,alas!
And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e.
"Drumossie moor,Drumossie day-
A waefu'day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,My father dear,and brethren three.
"Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growin'green to see;And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e!
"Now wae to thee,thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For mony a heart thou has made sair,That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!"Charlie,He's My Darling 'Twas on a Monday morning,Right early in the year,That Charlie came to our town,The young Chevalier.
Chorus-An'Charlie,he's my darling,My darling,my darling,Charlie,he's my darling,The young Chevalier.
As he was walking up the street,The city for to view,O there he spied a bonie lass The window looking through,An'Charlie,&c.
Sae light's he jumped up the stair,And tirl'd at the pin;And wha sae ready as hersel'
To let the laddie in.
An'Charlie,&c.
He set his Jenny on his knee,All in his Highland dress;For brawly weel he ken'd the way To please a bonie lass.
An'Charlie,&c.
It's up yon heathery mountain,An'down yon scroggie glen,We daur na gang a milking,For Charlie and his men,An'Charlie,&c.
Bannocks O'Bear Meal Chorus-Bannocks o'bear meal,Bannocks o'barley,Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o'barley!
Wha,in a brulyie,will First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi'the Bannocks o'barley,Bannocks o'bear meal,&c.
Wha,in his wae days,Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi'the Bannocks o'barley!
Bannocks o'bear meal,&c.
The Highland Balou Hee balou,my sweet wee Donald,Picture o'the great Clanronald;Brawlie kens our wanton Chief Wha gat my young Highland thief.
Leeze me on thy bonie craigie,An'thou live,thou'll steal a naigie,Travel the country thro'and thro',And bring hame a Carlisle cow.
Thro'the Lawlands,o'er the Border,Weel,my babie,may thou furder!
Herry the louns o'the laigh Countrie,Syne to the Highlands hame to me.
The Highland Widow's Lament Oh I am come to the low Countrie,Ochon,Ochon,Ochrie!
Without a penny in my purse,To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,Ochon,Ochon,Ochrie!
Nae woman in the Country wide,Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score o'kye,Ochon,Ochon,Ochrie!
Feeding on you hill sae high,And giving milk to me.
And there I had three score o'yowes,Ochon,Ochon,Ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonie knowes,And casting woo'to me.
I was the happiest of a'the Clan,Sair,sair,may I repine;For Donald was the brawest man,And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie Stewart cam at last,Sae far to set us free;My Donald's arm was wanted then,For Scotland and for me.
Their waefu'fate what need I tell,Right to the wrang did yield;My Donald and his Country fell,Upon Culloden field.
Oh I am come to the low Countrie,Ochon,Ochon,Ochrie!
Nae woman in the warld wide,Sae wretched now as me.
It Was A'For Our Rightfu'King It was a'for our rightfu'King We left fair Scotland's strand;It was a'for our rightfu'King We e'er saw Irish land,my dear,We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a'is done that men can do,And a'is done in vain;My Love and Native Land fareweel,For I maun cross the main,my dear,For I maun cross the main.
He turn'd him right and round about,Upon the Irish shore;And gae his bridle reins a shake,With adieu for evermore,my dear,And adiue for evermore.
The soger frae the wars returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae parted frae my Love,Never to meet again,my dear,Never to meet again.
When day is gane,and night is come,And a'folk bound to sleep;I think on him that's far awa,The lee-lang night,and weep,my dear,The lee-lang night,and weep.
Ode For General Washington's Birthday No Spartan tube,no Attic shell,No lyre Aeolian I awake;'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,Thy harp,Columbia,let me take!
See gathering thousands,while I sing,A broken chain exulting bring,And dash it in a tyrant's face,And dare him to his very beard,And tell him he no more is feared-No more the despot of Columbia's race!
A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,They shout-a People freed!They hail an Empire saved.
Where is man's god-like form?
Where is that brow erect and bold-
That eye that can unmov'd behold The wildest rage,the loudest storm That e'er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt!thou caitiff,servile,base,That tremblest at a despot's nod,Yet,crouching under the iron rod,Canst laud the hand that struck th'insulting blow!
Art thou of man's Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers,No!
But come,ye sons of Liberty,Columbia's offspring,brave as free,In danger's hour still flaming in the van,Ye know,and dare maintain,the Royalty of Man!
Alfred!on thy starry throne,Surrounded by the tuneful choir,The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design,To make detested tyrants bleed?
Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,Every pang of honour braving,England in thunder calls,"The tyrant's cause is mine!"That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice And hell,thro'all her confines,raise the exulting voice,That hour which saw the generous English name Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee,Caledonia!thy wild heaths among,Fam'd for the martial deed,the heaven-taught song,To thee I turn with swimming eyes;Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies Hear it not,Wallace!in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds!in silence sweep,Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,Firm as the rock,resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;Show me that arm which,nerv'd with thundering fate,Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!-Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,No more that glance lightens afar;That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
