  One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions—in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to Johnstone's Magazine, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career. In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the Leeds Times newspaper, with a salary of £100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith. Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "OrdÉ Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the OrdÉ Braes, in his native parish.
ORDÉ BRAES. There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
Nae ither spot sae fair;
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie OrdÉ Braes.
An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes,
By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e loved sweet OrdÉ Braes.
The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
Ere care that heart could thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie OrdÉ Braes.
Aince in a day there were happy hames
By the bonnie OrdÉ's side:
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
The roofless wa's doth raze;
Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
Gang ower the OrdÉ Braes.
Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An', oh! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
My wanderin' joy to share.
For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie OrdÉ Braes.
THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM. I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers;
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
That blaws fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
That wave on the muirland bare;
An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushing burns to the distant sea
O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!
In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me;
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
An', oh! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS. Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'—our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH. The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen,
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
My Jeanie first I met
In yon lane glen,
When the grass wi' dew was wet
In yon lane glen;
The moon was shining sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Oh! she promised to be mine,
In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign,
In yon lane glen;
An' mony a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Sax bonnie bairns had we
In yon lane glen—
Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen,
An' though summer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen—
To me its beauty's gane,
For, alake! I sit alane
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
BONNIE BESSIE LEE. Air—"Loch Erroch Side." 'Twas on a summer's afternoon,
A wee afore the sun gaed down,
A lassie, wi' a braw new gown,
Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie.
The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower,
Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower;
But Kitty was the fairest flower
That e'er was seen in Gowrie.
To see her cousin she cam' there,
An', oh, the scene was passing fair!
For what in Scotland can compare
Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie?
The sun was setting on the Tay,
The blue hills melting into gray;
The mavis' and the blackbird's lay
Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.
Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd!
An' truth and constancy had vow'd,
But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed,
Until she saw fair Gowrie.
I pointed to my faither's ha',
Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw,
Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw;
Wad she no bide in Gowrie?
Her faither was baith glad and wae;
Her mither she wad naething say;
The bairnies thocht they wad get play
If Kitty gaed to Gowrie.
She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet,
The blush and tear were on her cheek;
She naething said, an' hung her head;
But now she's Leddy Gowrie.
THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.[56] There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,
And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard,
Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hieland lads,
And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me,
Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.
"But were they a' true that were far awa?
Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'?
They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.
"Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been,
Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green;
Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."
"I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green,
I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean,
Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa',
And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."
*****
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill,
And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
JOHN TOD. He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's a terrible man, John Tod;
He scolds in the house,
He scolds at the door,
He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod,
He scolds on the vera hie road.
The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The weans a' fear John Tod;
When he 's passing by,
The mithers will cry,—
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod,
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.
The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The callants a' fear John Tod;
If they steal but a neep,
The callant he 'll whip,
And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod,
It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.
An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod?
Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod?
His bannet was blue,
His shoon maistly new,
An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod,
Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.
How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod?
How is he wendin', John Tod?
He 's scourin' the land,
Wi' his rung in his hand,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.
Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod
Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod;
Wi' your auld strippit coul,
Ye look maist like a fule,
But there 's nouse i' the lining,[57] John Tod, John Tod,
But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod;
He 's a terrible man,
But we 'd a' gae wrang
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod,
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.
WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN? Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
Safely ower the friendly main;
Mony a heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again.
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be—
Will ye no come back again?
Ye trusted in your Hieland men,
They trusted you, dear Charlie!
They kent your hiding in the glen,
Death or exile braving.
Will ye no, &c.
English bribes were a' in vain,
Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be;
Siller canna buy the heart
That beats aye for thine and thee.
Will ye no, &c.
We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour,
We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray;
Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e,
Oh, there is none that wad betray!
Will ye no, &c.
Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang,
Lilting wildly up the glen;
But aye to me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no, &c.
JAMIE THE LAIRD. Air—"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow." Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink,
Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think;
Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw,
An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava.
Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e,
In body or mind, nae fau't can she see;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow,
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee,
His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee;
He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he,
A dafter-like body I never did see.
An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein',
When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein';
Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation,
I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.
An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun,
An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun.
Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say,
"I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae,
Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury—
I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury.
For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.
Freen's! gi'e your advice!—I 'll follow your counsel—
Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council,
Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae.
The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin',
For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin';
The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin',
For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'.
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND. Air—"Happy Land." Songs of my native land,
To me how dear!
Songs of my infancy,
Sweet to mine ear!
Entwined with my youthful days,
Wi' the bonny banks and braes,
Where the winding burnie strays,
Murmuring near.
Strains of my native land,
That thrill the soul,
Pouring the magic of
Your soft control!
Often has your minstrelsy
Soothed the pang of misery,
Winging rapid thoughts away
To realms on high.
Weary pilgrims there have rest,
Their wand'rings o'er;
There the slave, no more oppress'd,
Hails Freedom's shore.
Sin shall then no more deface,
Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease,
Ending in eternal peace,
And songs of joy!
There, when the seraphs sing,
In cloudless day;
There, where the higher praise
The ransom'd pay.
Soft strains of the happy land,
Chanted by the heavenly band,
Who can fully understand
How sweet ye be!
CASTELL GLOOM.[58] Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone,
The green grass o'er thee growin';
On hill of Care thou art alone,
The Sorrow round thee flowin'.
Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
Nae banners now are streamin',
The houlet flits amang thy ha's,
And wild birds there are screamin'.
Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;
Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
And mourn the great Montrose.
Here ladies bright were aften seen,
Here valiant warriors trod;
And here great Knox has aften been,
Wha fear'd nought but his God!
But a' are gane! the guid, the great,
And naething now remains,
But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
And crumblin' down the stanes.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show,
What ragin' flames had done.
Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,
And all was solitude.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
BONNIE GASCON HA'. Lane, on the winding Earn there stands
An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,
Biggit by lang forgotten hands,
Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.
Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd
And rived thy gray disjaskit wa',
But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd
To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!
Oh, may a muse unkent to fame
For this dim greesome relic sue,
It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,
The truest Scotland ever knew.
Just leave in peace each mossy stane
Tellin' o' nations' rivalry,
An' for succeeding ages hain
Remains o' Scottish chivalry.
*****
What though no monument to thee
Is biggit by thy country's hand;
Engraved are thy immortal deeds
On every heart o' this braid land.
Rude Time may monuments ding doun,
An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;
Enduring, deathless, noble chief,
Thy name can never pass away!
Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,—
Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;
In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,
"Wallace" remember'd aye shall be.
THE AULD HOUSE. Oh, the auld house, the auld house!
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu' o' glee!
The wild-rose and the jesamine
Still hang upon the wa';
How mony cherish'd memories
Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!
Sae canty, kind, and crouse;
How mony did he welcome to
His ain wee dear auld house!
And the leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The blue bells sweetly blaw,
The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa'.
The auld house, the auld house,
Deserted though ye be,
There ne'er can be a new house,
Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear tree
The bairnies liked to see,
And oh, how aften did they speir
When ripe they a' wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin' here and there,
The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet
To think we 'll hear nae mair.
For they are a' wide scatter'd now,
Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
Not here we 'll meet again.
The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,
Wi' flowers o' every hue,
Shelter'd by the holly's shade,
An' the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun,
How glorious it gaed down;
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies aboon!
The auld dial, the auld dial,
It tauld how time did pass;
The wintry winds hae dung it down,—
Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
THE HUNDRED PIPERS.[59] Air—"Hundred Pipers." Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,
Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,
An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,
An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',
Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
THE WOMEN ARE A' GANE WUD.[60] The women are a' gane wud,
Oh, that he had biden awa'!
He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,
And ruin will bring on us a'.
George was a peaceable man,
My wife she did doucely behave;
But now dae a' that I can,
She 's just as wild as the lave.
My wife she wears the cockade,
Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,
She has a true friend in her maid,
And they ne'er mind a word that I say.
The wild Hieland lads as they pass,
The yetts wide open do flee;
They eat the very house bare,
And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.
I 've lived a' my days in the Strath
Now Tories infest me at hame,
And tho' I tak nae side at a',
Baith sides will gae me the blame.
The senseless creturs ne'er think
What ill the lad wad bring back;
The Pope we 'd hae, and the d—l,
And a' the rest o' his pack.
JEANIE DEANS.[61] St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,
Where gowan'd grass was growin',
For man and beast were food and rest,
And milk and honey flowin'.
A father's blessing follow'd close,
Where'er her foot was treading,
And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys
On every side were spreading wide,
On every side were spreading.
The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,
St Anthon's well aye springin';
The lammies playing at her feet,
The birdies round her singin'.
The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,
Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,
The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,
The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62]
The lowly wells o' Weary.
But evil days and evil men,
Came ower their sunny dwellin',
Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,
Or wastefu' waters swellin'.
What aince was sweet is bitter now,
The sun of joy is setting;
In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,
The briny tear is wetting fast,
The briny tear is wetting.
Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,
In faithful supplication;
Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,
The guardian o' the nation.
A hero's heart—a sister's love—
A martyr's truth unbending;
They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid—
And she is gane, her leefu' lane,
To Lunnon toun she 's wending!
THE HEIRESS.[63] Gaelic Air—"Mo Leannan Falnich." I 'll no be had for naething,
I 'll no be had for naething,
I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,
So ye needna follow me.
Oh, the change is most surprising,
Last year I was plain Betty Brown,
Now to me they 're a' aspiring,—
The fair Elizabeth I am grown!
What siller does is most amazing,
Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,
Now my charms they a' are praising,
For my sake they 're like to dee.
The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,
Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;
Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention—
Oh, surely this is no me!
But I 'll no, &c.
The yett is now for ever ringing,
Showers o' valentines aye bringing,
Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,
Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.
The siller, O the weary siller!
Aft in toil and trouble sought,
But better far it should be sae,
Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
But there is ane, when I had naething,
A' his heart he gi'ed to me;
And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,
To bring me when he cam frae sea.
If ever I should marry ony,
He will be the lad for me;
For he was baith gude and bonny,
And he thought the same o' me.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE. The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,
We tentit it kindly by night and by day,
The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,
Its food was the gowan—its music was "mai."
Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,
But it would gae witless the world to see;
The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,
Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.
Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,
Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;
He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,
And left its kind hame the wide world to try.
We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',
Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,
Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';
'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.
THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64] Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,
To tell o' hame-made sorrow,
And if they cheat you o' your tears,
They 'll dry upon the morrow.
Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,
In verity they're sportin',
My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,
But wakin' true misfortune.
Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',
For loyalty attainted,
A nameless bardie 's wae to see
Your sorrows unlamented;
For if your fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
Ye 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
For old hereditary right,
For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;
And for the crown their valiant sons
Themselves have shed their injured blood;
And if their fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
They 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
TRUE LOVE IS WATERED AYE WI' TEARS.[65]
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