And find at night a sheltering cave, And art thou come, and art thou true! THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. Tune-"Rhannerach dhon na chri." THE BARD'S SONG. Tune-" Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." SEE the smoking bowl before us, THESE verses were composed on a charming THE BARD'S SONG IN "THE JOLLY BEGGARS. girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. physician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline; and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon.-I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, Mark our jovial ragged ring! A fig for those by law protected, What is title what is treasure, With green spreading bushes and flow'rs If we lead a life of pleasure, blooming fair! "Tis no matter how or where. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, "O CAM ye here the fight to shun, And did the battle see, man?" Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They hack'd ana hash'd, while broadswords] clash'd, Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlets plays; And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, Come, let us spend the lichtsome days Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, "O how deil Tam can that be true? The horsemen back to Forth, man; And straught to Stirling winged their flight; For fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate came up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man: Frae Perth unto Dundee, man; They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. And whigs to hell did flee, man. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. Tune-"The Birks of Abergeldy."\ Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. While o'er their head the hazels hing, The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'rs, Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee, In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. Tune" Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly." No churchman am I, for to rail and to write; The peer I don't envy-I give him his bow; And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. I wad wear thee in my bosom, Wishfully I look and languish, In that bonnie face of thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine, Bonnie wee thing, fe, Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! THE BRAES Oʻ BALLOCHMYLE THE Catrine woods were yellow seeti, The flowers decayed on Catrine les, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the ee. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel, farewee!! sweet Ballochmyle! THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. THESE words are mine; I composed them from the old traditionary verses. THERE lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He met wi' the devil; says, “How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime, "I've got a bad wife, Sir; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whiteroerd, now of Alexander, Rog. (1800), For, ving v presenes, to hér ye're a saint ; | And to her auld husband he's carried her back; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. "It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore, And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime, Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Tarn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is prime. The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair'; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue in prime. "A reekit wee devil looks over the wa'; is (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime.". The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He pitied the man that was tied to a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then Setan has travelled again wi' his pack ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem When the lingerin' moments are numbered by fair, care? No flowers gaily springing, Or birds sweetly singing, The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma lice Thou strikest the dull peasant; he sinks in the dark, Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; Thou strikest the young hero-a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the proud field of honour-our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to saveWhile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O! who would not die with the brave! THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN. THE deil cam fiddling through the toun, The deil's awa wi' the exciseman; We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, The deil's awa, &c. There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; THE ELECTION.' Tune" Fy, let us a' to the bridal." Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, AND there will be Murray commander, And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie, And there will be Templeton's birkie, And there will be Wigton's new sheriff: Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped; She's gotten the heart of a B- -by, But what has become of the head? Fy, let us a', &c. And there will be Cardoness' squire, So mighty in Cardoness' eyes; And there will be Douglasses doughty, And there will be Kenmure sae generous, But we winna mention Redcastle; And there is our King's Lord Lieutenant, 1 |