Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

BURNS.*

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here-
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild-deer and following the roe
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

[WRITTEN AFTER THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN,

1746.]

SMOLLETT.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.

* Except the first four lines, which are old.

Some social join, and leagues combine ;

Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion ;
The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry,

The fluttering, gory pinion.

But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear,

Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,

All fading green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome way,

And view the charms o' nature,
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,

And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk and sweetly talk,

Till the silent moon shine clearly ;
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't,

And swear I love thee dearly.
Not vernal showers to budding flowers,

Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer!

THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly. No churchman am I, for to rail and to write ; No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight; No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The

peer I don't envy-I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse ;
There centum-per-centum, the cit with his purse ;
But see you the Crown,' how it waves in the air !
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make ;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares.

« Life's cares they are comforts,"* a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black

gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair, For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care.

[STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.]

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care.

* Young's Night Thoughts.

SCORNFU' NANCY.

TUNE-Nancy's to the Greenwood gane.

NANCY's to the greenwood gane,

To hear the gowdspink chatt'ring; And Willie he has follow'd her,

To gain her love by flatt'ring : But, a' that he could say or do,

She geck'd and scorned at him ; And, aye when he began to woo,

She bad bim mind wha gat him.
What ails ye at my dad, quoth he,

My minnie or my auntie ?
Wi' crowdy-mowdy they fed me,

Lang-kale and ranty-tanty:
Wi' bannocks o' gude barley-meal,

Of thae there was richt plenty,
Wi' chappit stocks fu' butter'd weel,

And was not that richt dainty ?

Although my father was nae laird,

'Tis daffin to be vaunty,
He keepit aye a guid kale-yard,

A ha' house, and a pantry:
A guid blue bonnet on his head,

An owerlay 'bout his craigie ;
And aye, until the day he dee'd,

He rade on guid shanks-naigie.'

Now wae and wonder on your snout,

Wad ye hae bonny Nancy? Wad ye compare yoursell to me

A docken till a tanzie ? I hae a wooer o' my ain,

They ca' him Souple Sandy;

And weel I wat his bonny mou’

Is sweet like sugar-candy.

Now, Nancy, what need a' this din ?

Do I no ken this Sandy ?
I'm sure the chief o' a' his kin

Was Rab, the beggar-randy:
His minny Meg, upon her back,

Bare baith him and his billy ;
Will ye compare a nasty pack

To me, your winsome Willy ?
My gutcher left a guid braidsword :

Though it be auld and rusty,
Yet ye may tak' it on my word,

It is baith stout and trusty;
And if I can but get it drawn,
Which will be richt

uneasy,
I shall lay baith my lugs in pawn,

That he shall get a heezy.

Then Nancy turn'd ber round about,

And said, Did Sandy hear ye,
Ye wadna miss to get a clout;

I ken he disna fear ye:
Sae haud your tongue, and say nae mair,

Set somewhere else your fancy;
For as lang 's Sandy 's to the fore,

Ye never shall get Nancy.*

* This clever song is marked in the Tea-Table Miscellany as one of the anonymous and old sort of which the editor knew nothing; but I have been informed, upon good authority, that it was the composition of a Mr Ainslie, a small farmer at Carrington, near Dalkeith, who lived upwards of a century ago. It seems to present a just, as it certainly does a graphic picture of the food and dress of the rustic people of Scotland at that period.

« AnteriorContinuar »