That to my latest breath o' life the band shall ne'er re
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
ROBIN is my only jo,
For Robin has the art to lo'e;
Sae to his suit I mean to bow,
Because I ken he lo'es me.
Happy, happy was the shower,
That led me to his birken bower,
Where first of love I fand the power,
And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me.
They speak of napkins, speak of rings,
Speak of gluves and kissin' strings;
And name a thousand bonnie things,
And ca' them signs he lo'es me.
But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob,
Seated on the velvet fog,
To gifts as lang's a plaiden wab;
Because I ken he lo'es me.
He's tall and sonsie, frank and free,
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me;
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee,
Because my Robin lo'es me.
My tittie Mary said to me,
Our courtship but a joke wad be,
And I or lang be made to see
That Robin didna lo'e me.
But little kens she what has been,
Me and my honest Rob between ;
And in his wooing, O sae keen
Kind Robin is that lo'es me.
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away,
And hasten on the happy day,
When, Join your hands, Mess John will say,
And mak him mine that lo'es me.
Till then, let every chance unite
To fix our love and give delight,
And I'll look down on such wi' spite,
Wha doubt that Robin lo'es me.
O hey, Robin! quo she,
O hey, Robin! quo she,
O hey, Robin! quo she;
Kind Robin lo'es me." *
SON of the mighty and the free,
Loved leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh, hadst thou slumber'd with the slain,
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
Even though on red Culloden's plain,
We then had mourn'd thee not.
But darkly closed thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sunbeams rose so fair:
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,
The watch-word of despair.
Yet, oh, if gallant spirit's power
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line.
O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom;
* From Herd's Collection, 1776.
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on the mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air;
But the loved scenes may vainly smile-
Not e'en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle's sound
Is mixing with the torrent's roar ;
Unmark'd the red deer sport around-
Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still-
Those halls where swell'd the choral strain ; They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill, And all is hush'd again.
Thy bard his pealing harp has broke-
His fire, his joy of song, is past!
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,
His saddest, and his last.
No other theme to him is dear
Than lofty deeds of thine:
Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line.*
WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.
TUNE-Woo'd, and Married, and a'.
THE bride cam out o' the byre,
And, O, as she dighted her cheeks!
Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And have neither blankets nor sheets;
Have neither blankets nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too;
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.
Woo'd, and married, and a',
Married, and woo'd, and a'!
*From The Scottish Minstrel, 1824-8.
And was she nae very weel off,
That was woo'd, and married, and a'?
Out spake the bride's father,
As he cam' in frae the pleugh;
O, haud your tongue, my dochter,
And ye'se get gear eneugh;
The stirk stands i' th' tether,
And our bra' bawsint yade,
Will carry ye bame your corn-
What wad ye be at, ye jade?
Out spake the bride's mither,
What deil needs a' this pride?
I had nae a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsy-woolsy,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.
What's the matter, quo Willie ;
Though we be scant o' claes,
We'll creep the closer thegither,
And we'll smoor a' the fleas :
Simmer is coming on,
And we'll get taits o' woo;
And we'll get a lass o' our ain,
And she'll spin claiths anew.
Out spake the bride's brither,
As he came in wi' the kye;
Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife;
Gin I canna get a better,
I'se ne'er tak ane my life.
Out spake the bride's sister
As she came in frae the byre; O gin I were but married,
It's a' that I desire;
But we poor folk maun live single,
And do the best that we can;
I dinna care what I shou'd want
If I cou'd get but a man.*
WOOED, AND MARRIED, AND A'.
MRS SCOTT OF DUMBARTONSHIRE.
grass had nae freedom o' growin'
As lang as she wasna awa;
Nor in the toun could there be stowin'
For wooers that wanted to ca'.
Sic boxin', sic brawlin', sic dancin',
Sic bowin' and shakin' a paw;
The toun was for ever in brulyies:
But now the lassie's awa.
Wooed, and married, and a',
Married, and wooed, and a'
The dandalie toast of the parish,
She's wooed, and she's carried awa.
But had he a' kenn'd her as I did,
His wooin' it wad hae been sma':
She kens neither bakin', nor brewin',
Nor cardin', nor spinnin' ava;
But a' her skill lies in her buskin':
And, O, if her braws were awa,
She sune wad wear out o' fashion,
And knit up her huggers wi' straw.
But yesterday I gaed to see her,
And, O, she was bonnie and braw;
She cried on her gudeman to gie her
An ell o' red ribbon or twa.
He took, and he set down beside her
A wheel and a reel for to ca';
She cried, Was he that way to guide her?
And out at the door and awa.
*From Herd's Collection, 1776.
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