Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved; Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved: But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest.
O, if I were where happy I hae been;
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green: For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee.
POWERS CELESTIAL.
POWERS celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own;
Let my Mary's kindred spirit
your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Sooth her bosom into rest:
Guardian angels, O, protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home '.
1 Probably written on Highland Mary, ou the eve of the Poet's departure to the West Indies.
THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING.
THE heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen.
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ;
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ;
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And O! as she wantoned gay on the wing.
I red, &c.
Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the
[she lay.
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where
I red, &c.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.— I red, &c.
TUNE-Last time I cam o'er the muir.
YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning :
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has grac'd them,
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful Envy grins in vain,
The poison'd tooth to fasten.
Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,
From ev'ry ill defend her;
Inspire the highly favour'd youth
The destinies intend her;
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom'.
THERE was a lad was born at Kyle 2,
But what'n a day o' what'n a style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ;
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin.
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' scho, wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we'll ca' him Robin.
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit to us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
1 This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his first publication.
2 Kyle-A district of Ayrshire.
IMITATION OF AN OLD SONG.
But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin'.
So leeze me on thee, Robin.
Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessings on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin;
Robin was a rovin' Boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin.
IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG.
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We darena weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the
yerd:
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment: my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
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