A WEARIE BODIE'S BLYTHE WHEN THE SUN GAES DOUN.
A WEARIE bodie's blythe when the sun gaes down,
A wearie bodie's blythe when the sun gaes down;
To smile wi' his wife, and to daut wi' his weans,
Wha wadna be blythe when the sun gaes down?
The simmer day's lang, and we're a' toil'd sair;
Frae sunrise to sunset's a dreich tack o' care;
But at hame for to daut 'mang our wee bits o' weans,
We think on our cares and our toils nae mair.
The Saturday sun gangs aye sweetest down;
My bonnie boys leave their wark i' the town;
My heart loups licht at my ain ingle-side,
When my kind blythe bairntime is a sittin' roun'.
The Sabbath morn comes, and warm lowes the sun,
Ilk heart's fu' o' joy, a' the parishen roun',
Round the hip o' the hill comes the sweet psalm-tune,
And the auld folk a' to the preachin' are boun'.
The hearts o' the younkers loup lichtsome to see The gladness that dwells in their auld grannie's ee; And they gather i' the sun, 'side the green haw-tree; Nae new-flown birds are sae mirthsome and hie.
Though my sonsie dame's cheeks nae to auld age are preif,
Though roses that blumed there are smit in the leaf; Though the young blinks o' luve hae a' dee'd in her ee, She is bonnier and dearer than ever to me!
Ance puirtith cam in yont our hallan to keek,
But my Jeanie was nursin' and singin' sae sweet,
That she laid down her pocks at another door-cheek,
And steppit blythely ben her auld shanks for to beek.
My hame is the mailin' weel-stockit and fu',
My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I loe;
My Jeanie is the gowd and delight o' my ee;
She is worth a hail mailin' o lairdships to me.
O wha wad fade awa like a flower i' the dew,
And leave nae a sprout for kind heaven to pu'?
Wha wad rot 'mang the mools like the trunk o' a tree,
Wi' nae shoots, the pride o' the forest to be?
TUNE-Whistle o'er the lave o't.
AROUSE, arouse, each kilted clan!
Let Highland hearts lead on the van,
And forward, wi' their dirks in han',
To fight for royal Charlie.
Welcome, Charlie, o'er the main,
Our Highland hills are a' your ain,
Welcome to your Isle again;
O, welcome, royal Charlie !
Auld Scotia's sons, 'mang Highland hills,
Can nobly brave the face o' ills ;
For kindred fire ilk bosom fills,
At sight o' royal Charlie.
The ancient thistle wags her pow,
And proudly waves ower dale and knowe,
To hear the oath and sacred vow-
We'll live and die wi' Charlie!
Rejoiced to think nae foreign weed
Shall trample on our kindred seed;
For weel she kens her sons will bleed,
Or fix his throne right fairly.
Among the wilds o' Caledon
Breathes there a base degenerate son,
Wha would not to his standard run,
And rally round Prince Charlie !
Then let the flowing quaich go round,
And loudly let the pibroch sound,
Till every glen and rock resound
The name of royal Charlie.
OUR gudewife's awa―
Now's the time to woo,
For the lads like lasses,
And the lasses lads too.
The moon's beaming bricht,
And the gowan's in the dew,
And my love's by my side,
And we're a happy now.
I hae wale o' lovers-
Nancie rich and fair,
Bessie brown and bonnie,
And Kate wi' curlin' hair,
And Bell young and proud,
Wi' gold abune her brow;
But my Jean has twa een
That pierce me through and through.
Sair she slichts the lads-
Three like to dee,
Four in sorrow listed,
And five flew to the sea.
Nigh her chamber-door
Lads watch a' nicht in dule-
Ae kind word frae my love
Wad charm frae Yule to Yule.
Our gudewife's come hame-
Mute now maun I woo;
But my love's bricht glances
Shine a' the chamber through.
O sweet is her voice,
When she sings at her wark;
Sweet the touch o' her hand,
And her vows in the dark!
OH, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempests roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irvine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin love
I lang lang had denied?
How aften didst thou pledge the vow,
Thou wad for aye be mine!
And my fond heart, itsell sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast!
Thou dart of heaven that flashes by,
Oh, wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my false love
His wrongs to heaven and me! *
GONE were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
Cold's the snaw at my head,
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death 's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my father,
Or my mother sae dear
I'll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.
This song was composed upon the subject of the well-known and very beautiful ballad, entitled "The Lass of Lochroyan."
|
