And then she ran in, and made a loud din ;
Believe your ain een an ye trow na me.
And then she ran in, &c.
His bonnet stood aye fou round on his brow;
His auld ane look'd aye as well as some's new;
But now he lets 't wear ony gate it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing.
But now he, &c.
And now he gaes daundrin about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes:
The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his ee;
And were na my heart licht I wad dee.
The live-lang nicht, &c.
Were I young for thee as I hae been,
We should ha' been gallopin down on yon green,
And linkin it on yon lilie-white lea;
And wow gin I were but young for thee!
And linkin it, &c.*
THERE'S auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' gude fellows and wale o' auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, and owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the licht o' my ee.
But, oh, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my deid.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The nicht comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane, like a nicht-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in
my breist.
Oh, had she but been of a lower degree,
I then micht hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
THE LAST TIME I CAM OWER THE MUIR.
TUNE-The last time I cam ower the Muir.
THE last time I cam ower the muir,
I left my love behind me:
Ye powers, what pains do I endure
When soft ideas mind me!
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreats for wooing.
We stray'd beside yon wand'ring stream,
And talk'd with hearts o'erflowing;
Until the sun's last setting beam
Was in the ocean glowing.
I pitied all beneath the skies,
Even kings, when she was nigh me;
In raptures I beheld her eyes,
Which could but ill deny me.
Should I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me,
Or cast upon some foreign shore,
Where dangers may surround me;
Yet hopes again to see my love,
To feast on glowing kisses,
Shall make my cares at distance move,
In prospect of such blisses.
In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter:
Since she excels in ev'ry grace,
In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow,
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.
The neist time I gang ower the muir,
She shall a lover find me;
And that my faith is firm and pure,
Though I left her behind me;
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom;
There, while my being does remain,
My love more fresh shall blossom.*
From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. It. is known, however, that Ramsay wrote the song as a substitute for an older one, of which he retained only the first line.
THERE'S nought but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, 0:
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent
Were spent amang the lasses, O.
The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
Gie me a canny hour at een,
My arms about my dearie, O;
And warly cares, and warly men,
May a' gang tapsalteirie, O!
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest man the warld e'er saw,
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O!
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest works she classes, O;
Her 'prentice-hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.*
There is an old rude song to this air, having the same owerword.
I subjoin, by way of curiosity, a German translation of this favourite Scottish song, which has been handed to me by a friend.
THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the bluming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.
Es ist nur Sorge überall
In jeder Stund' der Irdischen ;
Das Leben wäre leerer Schall,
Verschönten's nicht die Weiberchen.
Grün sprosst das Binsenkraut,
Grün sprosst das Binsenkraut;
Doch meine Tag', die fröhlichsten,
Verbring' ich bei den Weiberchen
Nach Reichthum jagt das Volk sich matt,
Doch sieht man stets den Reichthum fliehn
Und wer zuletzt erhascht ihn hat,
Geniesset auch nicht einmal ihn.
Nur eine Stund' an jedem Tag,
Die Arme um mein Liebchen schön,
Mag Erdenvolk und Erdenplag
Kopfüber dann, kopfunter gehn.
Doch wer mir das für Thorheit hält,
Ist von den Unvernünftigen;
Der klügste Mann auf dieser Welt,
Der leibte stets die Weiberchen.
Fragt bei Natur, der Alten, an,
Und sie wird gern es Euch gestehn,
Ihr Lehrlingstück war nur der Mann,
Ihr Meisterwerk die Weiberchen.
*The original song of Gala Water was thus recited to me by a person resident in that interesting district of Scotland:
Bonnie lass o' Gala Water,
Braw, braw lass o' Gala Water!
I could wade the stream sae deep
For yon braw lass o' Gala Water.
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