  James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother, Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which assembled periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit, Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately impressed with earnest religious convictions.
MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY. Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,
A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,
Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,
For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.
Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',
Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';
My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,
But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.
Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,
And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,
How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,
Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,
And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,
A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,
Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,
Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;
I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,
Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,
E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,
Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,
The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,
And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,
But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,
Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,
And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?
It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,
And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.
LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH. Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green
That waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;
And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,
It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;
It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,
That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;
Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue—
If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mind
The days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,
A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,
My soul was enraptured—I canna tell how.
Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,
And why should I start at the glance o' her een,
Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?—
If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,
I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,
I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,
And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;
She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?
The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,
And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,
Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.
She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,
Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.
Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew,
And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;
A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,
And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,
I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,
For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.
HOW 'S A' WI' YE. Air—"Jenny's Bawbee." Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,
A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,
Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,
Folk scunner'd a' at tea;
When cronies met they didna stand,
To rule their words by manners grand,
But warmly clasping hand in hand,
Said, How 's a' wi' ye.
But now there 's nought but shy finesse,
And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,
That scarce a hand a hand will press
Wi' ought o' feeling free;
A cauldrife pride aside has laid
The hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,
And a' is changed since neebors said
Just, How 's a' wi' ye.
Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,
The maiden's gown was worset guid,
And kept her ringlets in a snood
Aboon her pawkie e'e;
Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',
She flaunts it in her silken gown,
That scarce ane dare by glen or town
Say, How 's a' wi' ye.
I watna how they manage now
Their brides in lighted ha's to woo,
But it is caulder wark, I trow,
Than e'er it was wi' me;
Aye true unto the trysts we set,
When we among the hawthorns met,
Love-warm, true love wad scarce us let
Say, How 's a' wi' ye.
Wae-worth their haughty state and style,
That drive true feeling frae our isle!
In saxty years o' care and toil,
What ferlies do we see!
The lowliest heart a pride displays,
Unkent in our ain early days,
Ilk kind and canty thing decays,
Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
When back we look on bygane years,
Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,
The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,
Ance dear to you and me;
Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,
While ane comes to my ingle side,
Whose bosom glows wi' honest pride
At, How 's a' wi' ye.
Newfangled guffs may things arrange
For further and still further change,
But strange things shall to me be strange,
While I can hear and see.
And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,
To join the leal in hames aboon,
I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,
Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
OH! SAIR I FEEL THE WITCHING POWER. Tune—"Miller of Dron," improved set. Oh, sair I feel the witching power
O' that sweet pawkie e'e,
And sair I 'll rue the luckless hour
That e'er it shone on me;
Unless sic love as wounds this heart
Come frae that heart again,
And teach for aye the kindly ray
To blink on me alane.
Thy modest cheek aye mantling glows
Whene'er I talk o' love,
As rainbow rays upon the rose
Its native sweets improve;
Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,
And gloamin' vails the glen,
Will ye gang to the birken bower
When nane on earth can ken?
Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And oh! how fain to meet alane,
When nane on earth can ken!
Amang the lave I manna speak,
And when I look the while,
The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seek
Their watching to beguile;
But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',
And frae this heart sae leal
Thou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,
It canna mair conceal.
My plaid shall shield thy peerless charms
Frae evening's fanning gale,
And saft shall be my circling arms,
And true my simple tale;
And seated by the murmuring brook,
Within the flowery den,
If love 's reveal'd in word or look,
There 's nane on earth can ken.
Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And oh! how fain to meet alane,
When nane on earth can ken.
There 's music in the lighted ha',
And looks in laughing een,
That seem affection forth to show,
That less is felt than seen.
But silent in the faithfu' heart
The charm o' love shall reign,
Or words shall but its power impart
To make it mair our ain.
Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,
And spendthrifts hae their glee,
Not a' the state o' a' the great,
Shall draw a wish frae me;
Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,
Far frae the haunts o' men,
Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,
The world can never ken.
Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
Heartfelt pleasures len',
And aye how fain we 'll meet again,
When nane on earth can ken.
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