John Clerk [1684-1755]
THE LASS O' GOWRIE
'Twas on a simmer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed doun, A lassie wi' a braw new goun Cam' owre the hills to Gowrie. The rosebud washed in simmer's shower Bloomed fresh within the sunny bower; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie.
To see her cousin she cam' there; And oh! the scene was passing fair, For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into gray, The mavis and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.
O lang the lassie I had wooed, And truth and constancy had vowed, But could nae speed wi' her I lo'ed Until she saw fair Gowrie. I pointed to my faither's ha' - Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae loun that there nae blast could blaw: - Wad she no bide in Gowrie?
Her faither was baith glad and wae; Her mither she wad naething say; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet;
The blush and tear were on her cheek; She naething said, and hung her head; - But now she's Leddy Gowrie.
Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]
THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID
Soon as the day begins to waste, Straight to the well-known door I haste, And rapping there, I'm forced to stay While Molly hides her work with care, Adjusts her tucker and her hair, And nimble Becky scours away.
Entering, I see in Molly's eyes A sudden smiling joy arise, As quickly checked by virgin shame: She drops a curtsey, steals a glance, Receives a kiss, one step advance. - If such I love, am I to blame?
I sit, and talk of twenty things, Of South Sea stock, or death of kings, While only "Yes" or "No," says Molly; As cautious she conceals her thoughts, As others do their private faults: - Is this her prudence, or her folly?
Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, I hang about her snowy neck, And cry, "Farewell, my dearest Molly!" Yet still I hang and still I kiss, Ye learned sages, say, is this In me the effect of love, or folly?
No - both by sober reason move, - She prudence shows, and I true love - No charge of folly can be laid. Then (till the marriage-rites proclaimed Shall join our hands) let us be named The constant swain, the virtuous maid.
Unknown
"WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME"
Come, all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbor of the great - 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye comes hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he! Then he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he'll woo his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.
When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.
See yonder pawkie shepherd That lingers on the hill - His ewes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame.
When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, When the kye comes hame.
Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonnie lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame!
James Hogg [1770-1835]
THE LOW-BACKED CAR
When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day, A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass And decked with flowers of Spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car.
In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of death - in warlike cars: While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town, As right and left they fly; - While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far, - For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of Love! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-backed car.
O, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach-and-four, and goold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, - While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar, O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, - Though it beat in a low-backed car!
Samuel Lover [1797-1868]
THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN
The shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door.
"God save all here!" my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; "God save you kindly!" quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soil black eyes, Her fluttering curtsey takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone, And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal.
She brought us, in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter, - it gilds all my rhyme!
And, while we ate the grateful food (With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged, From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, - we stood and pledged The modest rose above Loch Dan.
"The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary, - bless those budding charms! - Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!"
She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have naught to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger-men.
Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.
Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, - 'Tis all in vain, - she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face, - I see it yet, - And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light; The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight,
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, - The rosy cheek that won't be still: - O, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill?
For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again!
Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886]
MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG
Frowned the Laird on the Lord: "So, red-handed I catch thee? Death-doomed by our Law of the Border! We've a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee: Who trespasses - hangs: all's in order."
He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant: Then the Laird's dame: "Nay, Husband, I beg! He's comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant - If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!"
"No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry: Grant rather the gallows!" laughed he. "Foul fare kith and kin of you - why do you tarry?" "To tame your fierce temper!" quoth she.
"Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week: Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders: Who lion-like roars, now mouse-fashion will squeak, And 'it rains' soon succeed to 'it thunders.'"
A week did he bide in the cold and dark - Not hunger: for duly at morning In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lark Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still ye're scorning?