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And then she ran in, and made a loud din ;
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,
The live-lang nicht, &c.
Were I young for thee as I hae been,
And linkin it, &c.*
AULD ROB MORRIS,
TUNE-Auld Rob Morris.
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;
* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1721.
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ;
Oh, had she but been of a lower degree,
THE LAST TIME I CAM OWER THE
TUNE-The last time I cam ower the Muir.
The last time I cam ower the muir,
I left my love behind me:
powers, what pains do I endure
When soft ideas mind me!
The beaming day ensuing,
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.
Even kings, when she was nigh me;
I beheld her eyes,
Should I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me,
Where dangers may surround me;
To feast on glowing kisses,
In prospect of such blisses.
In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter :
In her my love shall centre.
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
Before I cease to love her,
The neist time I gang ower the muir,
She shall a lover find me;
Though I left her bebind me;
My heart to her fair bosom;
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.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
There's nought but care on every band,
the rashes, O,
grow the rashes, O:
Were spent amang the lasses, O.
The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, 0;
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
My arms about my dearie, 0;
May a' gang tapsalteirie, o !
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0;
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O!
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest works she classes, 0;
And then she made the lasses, 0.*
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 blaming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.
Es ist nur Sorge überall
In jeder Stund' der Irdischen;
Grün sprosst das Binsenkraut,
Grün sprosst das Binsenkraut;
Verbring' ich bei den Weiberchen
Doch sieht man stets den Reichthum fliehn
Geniesset auch nicht einmal ihn.
Nur eine Stund' an jedem Tag,
Die Arme um mein Liebchen schön,
Kopfüber dann, kopfunter gehn.
Ist von den Unvernünftigen;
Der leibte stets die Weiberchen.
Fragt bei Natur, der Alten, an,
Und sie wird gern es Euch gestehn,
* 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,