Now dowie I sigh on the bank o' the burn,
Or through the wood, laddie, until thou return.
Though woods now are bonnie, and mornings are clear, While lavrocks are singing,
And primroses springing;
Yet nane o' them pleases my eye or my ear,
When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear.
That I am forsaken, some spare not to tell;
I'm fash'd wi' their scornin'
Baith e'enin' and mornin';
Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi' a knell,
When through the wood, laddie, I wander mysell.
Then stay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away;
But, quick as an arrow,
Haste here to thy marrow,
Wha's living in languor till that happy day,
When through the wood, laddie, thegither we'll gae.*
OH, had I a house and a cantie wee fire,
A bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire,
A bonnie wee yardie beside a wee burn,
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn,
And bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what may betide me yet;
Some bonnie wee bodie may fa' to my lot,
And I'll aye be cantie wi' thinkin' o't.
When I gang a-field and come hame at e'en,
I'll find my wee wifie fu' neat and fu' clean;
And a bonnie wee bairnie upon her knee,
That'll cry Papa, or Daddie, to me.
* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724,
I carena a button for sacks fu' o' cash;
Let wizen'd auld bachelors think on sic trash:
Gie me my dear lassie to sit on my knee ;
A kiss o' her mou' is worth thousands to me.
And if there ever should happen to be
A difference atween my wee wifie and me;
In hearty good-humour, although she be teased,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleased.*
O, MARY, at thy window be;
It is the wished, the trysted hour:
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blythely wad I byde the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen, when to the stented string
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing-
I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast o' a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison.
O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
*From Herd's Collection, 1776.
The high sentiment of this song, and especially of its second verse, has been remarked by Mr Hazlitt in one of his critical publications.
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thocht ungentle canna be
The thocht of Mary Morison.
Он, I'm come to the Low Countrie,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Without a penny in my purse
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me!
For there I had a score o' kye,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Feeding on yon hill sae high,
And bringing milk to me.
And there I had three score o' yowes,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo to me.
I was the happiest o' the clan,
Sair, sair may I repine!
For Donald was the bravest man,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie he cam o'er at last,
Sae far, to set us free;
My Donald's arm was wanting then,
For Scotland and for me.
Their waefu' fate what need I tell!
Richt to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden-field.
Ochon, ochon, oh, Donald, oh !
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Nae woman in this warld wide
Sae wretched now as me.*
TUNE-Low down in the Brume.
O, MY luve's like a red red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Sae deep in luve am I ;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
O, WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.
TUNE-Whistle and I'll come to you, my Lad.
O, WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
*From the Jacobite Relics, 1821.
Though father, and mother, and a' should gae
O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be ajee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.
O, whistle, &c.
At kirk or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
O, whistle, &c.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lichtly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O, whistle, &c.
OH, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE.
TUNE-Hughie Graham.
Он, gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysell a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht;
Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fleyed awa by Phoebus' licht.*
From Herd's Collection, 1776.
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