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As Sh A Th Ae Th Th Th
A daimen icker in a thrave
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 's a sma request:
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield,
O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
And low thou lies! An' weary winter comin fast,
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n,
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrenchid of ev'ry stay but Heavin, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
He, rujn'd, sink! The present only toircheth thee:
Ev’n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
The The She The Or By
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH TAE PLOUGH, IN
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
When chapman billies leave the street,
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy lender form.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice !
A better never lifted leg, She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, A blethring, blustering, drunken blellum;
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; That frae November till October,
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet'; Ae market-day thou was na sober;
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Thou sat as long as thou had siller;
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
By this time he was cross the ford, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoord ; She prophesy'd, that, late or soon,
And past the birks and meikle stane, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane; 31 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 1 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet,
And near the thorn, aboon the well, To think how monie counsels sweet,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. How monie lengthen'd sage advices,
Before him Doon pours all his foods ; The husband frae the wife despises !
The doubling storm roars through the woods ; But to our tale: Ae market night,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 5. Tam had got planted unco right;
Near and more near the thunders roll; * Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; L. And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing: His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony.
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! They had been fou for weeks thegither.
What dangers thou canst make us scorn! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; And aye the ale was growing better:
Wi’ usquabae, we'll face the Devil! The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious :
Fair play, he car'd na Deil's a boddle. The souter tauld his queerest stories ;
But Maggie stood right sair astonishid, ri The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, The storm without might rair and rustle,
She ventur'd forward on the light; Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
Warlocks and witches in a dance; E'en drown's himself amang the nappy;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, As bees flee hame wi' lades of treasure,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Put life and mettle in their heels. Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
A winnock-bunker in the east, O'er a'the i!ls o' life victorious.
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; But pleasures are like poppies spread,
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
To gie them music was his charge: Or, like the snow falls in the river,
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, A moment white-then melts for ever:
Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl. Or, like the borealis race,
Coffins stood round like open presses, That flit ere you can point their place;
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; Or, like the rainbow's lovely form,
And by some devilish cantrip slight, Evanishing amid the storm.
Each in its cauld hand held a light,Nae man can tether time or tide ;
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the baly table,
Twa span lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns; And sic a night he taks the road in,
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
Five tomabawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : A knife, a father's throat had mangled, That night, a child might understand,
Whom his ain son o'life bereft, The Deil had business on his hand.
The grey hairs yet stack to the hef: ;
Three lawyers' tongues turn’d inside out,
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout,
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! Lay, stinking, vile, in every
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious :
And win the key-stane of the brig; The piper loud and louder blew;
There at them thou thy tail may toss, The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
A running stream they dare na cross. They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleckit, But ere the key-stane she could make, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
The fient a tail she had to shake! And coost her duddies to the wark,
For Nannie, far before the rest, And linket at it in her sark!
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
And few at Tain wi' furious ettle; A' plump and strapping in their teens ;
But little wist she Maggie's mettleTheir sarks, instead o' creeshie fannen,
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
But left behind her ain grey tail: Thir breeks o’mine, my only pair,
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed: Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Lowping an' Minging on a crummock,
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
As I stood by yon roofless tower, And perish'd monie a bonie boat,
Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air, And shook baith meikle corn and beer,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care:
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky; It was her best, and she was vauntie.
The fox was howling on the hill, Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
And the distant-echoing glens reply. That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
The stream, adown its hazelly path, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches!
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth (A souple jad she was and strang)
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ;
Like fortune's favours tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd my eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook, to see Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o'stane,
His darin look had daunted me; When out the hellish legion sallied,
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posy—LIBERTIE!
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; As eager runs the market-crowd,
But oh it was a tale of woe, When, “ Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
As ever inet a Briton's ear!
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown ! But what he said it was nae play,
A thought ungentle canna be I winna ventur't in my rhymes.
The thought o' Mary Morison.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither: And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
TUNE_" Bide ye yet." O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
The lovely Mary Morison.
The dance gaed through the lighted 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 of 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 die? Or çanst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
BONIE LESLEY. O saw ye bonie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is,
And never made anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on ev'ry han’
In ev'ry hour that passes, 0;
What signifies the life o' man
An 'twere na for the lasses, 0?
Green grow, &c,
The warly race may riches chace,
An' riches still may fiy them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, 0;
An' warly cars, an’ warly men,
&c. Although thou maun never be mine,
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Although even hope is denied;
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
The wisest man the warl e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
Her noblest work she classes, 0: But welcome the dream o'sweet slumber,
Her 'prentice han’ she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
I guess by the love-rolling e'e; But why urge the tender confession
CALEDONIA. 'Gainst Fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy!
TUNE-" Humours of Glen."
Their groves ofsweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per-
Wi’the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-beil and gowan lurk lowly unseen: There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
For there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, And monie a hill between ;
A-listening the linnet aft wanders my Jean. But day and night my fancy's flight
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, Is ever wi' my Jean,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave: I see her in the dewy flowers,
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud I see her sweet and fair:
palace, I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
What are they? The hauntof the tyrant and slave. I hear her charm the air:
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun There's not a bonje flower that springs
tains, By fountain, shaw, or green ;
The brave Caledonian views with disdain; There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.