Life's poor day I'll musing rave
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonie Castle Gordon.
SONG-LADY ONLIE, HONEST LUCKY
Tune "The Ruffian's Rant."
A' THE lads o' Thorniebank,
When they gae to the shore o' Bucky,
They'll step in an' tak a pint
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky.
Chorus.-Lady Onlie, honest Lucky,
Brews gude ale at shore o' Bucky;
I wish her sale for her gude ale,
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean
I wat she is a daintie chuckie;
And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed
O' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!
Lady Onlie, &c.
THENIEL MENZIES' BONIE MARY
Air-"The Ruffian's Rant," or "Roy's Wife."
In comin by the brig o' Dye,
At Darlet we a blink did tarry;
As day was dawnin in the sky,
We drank a health to bonie Mary.
Chorus.-Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary,
Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary,
Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie,
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white,
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry;
And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile,
The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, &c.
We lap a' danc'd the lee-lang day,
Till piper lads were wae and weary;
But Charlie gat the spring to pay
For kissin Theniel's bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, &c.
THE BONIE LASS OF ALBANY1
Tune "Mary's Dream."
My heart is wae, and unco wae,
To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
An' the bonie Lass of Albany.
This lovely maid's of royal blood
That rulèd Albion's kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonie face,
They've wrang'd the Lass of Albany.
In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.
But there's a youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place where she should be;
We'll send him o'er to his native shore,
And bring our ain sweet Albany.
Alas the day, and woe the day,
A false usurper wan the gree,
Who now commands the towers and landsThe royal right of Albany.
We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe an' drum
We'll welcome hame fair Albany.
1 Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN
LOCH-TURIT
A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.
"This was the production of a solitary forenoon's walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. 'Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come."-R. B., Glenriddell MSS.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain!
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
BLYTHE WAS SHE'
Tune "Andro and his Cutty Gun."
Chorus.-Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.
By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her bonie face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
1 Written at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray, a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.-Lang.
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosèd bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and
gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning.
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