1046.-MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climb'd the highest hill Her silver light on tower and tree; Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. Three stormy nights and stormy days O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me!" My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck; The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee ? Or why do I live to say, Wae's me? My father argued sair: my mother didna speak; But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break; Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee." Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee; And why do I live to say, Wae's me? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 1048. THE FLOWERS OF THE I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and . sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting ? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Mrs. Cockburn.-Born 1679, Died 1749. 1050.-TULLOCHGORUM. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, For what's been done before them? To drop their Whigmegmorum. O, Tullochgorum's my delight; And ony sumph that keeps up spite, And mak' a cheerfu' quorum. For half a hundred score o' 'em. Let warldly minds themselves oppress Like auld Philosophorum ? At the reel of Tullochgorum ? 1053. THE FARMER'S INGLE. Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin keeks; Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barndoor steeks, An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire; What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld, An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain ; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chaunt in hamely strain. Garr'd Scotish thristles bang the Roman bays; For near our crest their heads they dought na raise. The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash O' Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's sour, Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce hash. 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. The fient a cheep 's amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen. In rangles round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tales they hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow: O' ghaists, that win in glen an kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear! For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our il!; That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin' kiln. O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near. Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave. On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy; Careless though death shou'd mak the feast her foy. In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O' kebbuck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to prie; This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee. Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back, For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill. Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies bound; Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground; Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. Then a' the house for sleep begin to green, Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en, An' hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer; The reistit ingle 's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow. Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb, An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded car! May Scotia's simmers ay look gay an' green; Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien, Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774. 1054.-TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL. Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow, And keep it frae gaun through and through Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't; To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't, Oh! were I provost o' the town, For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap, That gies the tither weary chap I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick: Quo' he-"This bell o' mine's a trick, A wily piece o' politic, A cunnin' snare, To trap fouk in a cloven stick, As lang's my dautit bell hings there, We downa care a single hair If magistrates wi' me would 'gree, Sic honest fouk, But far frae thee the bailies dwell, Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774. 1055.-A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene O' men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi' their clo'es, And fain wad gar ilk neibour think They thirst for guidness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion mak us sad, If good frae virtue 's to be had? 51 |