Weel I mind the ploys an' jokin'
Lads and lasses used to ha'e,
Moonlight trysts an' Sabbath wanders
O'er the haughs an' on the brae.
Truer lads an' bonnier lasses
Never danced beneath the moon;
Love an' Friendship dwelt amang them,
An' their daffin ne'er was done.
I ha'e left them now forever;
But to greet would bairnly be:
Better sing, au' wish kind Heaven
Frae a' dule may keep them free.
Where'er the path o' life may lead me,
Ae thing sure, -I winna mane
If I meet wi' hands an' hearts
Like those o' cantie Ochtergaen.
ROM the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free,
Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.
Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steered,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheered;
The road I explored out, without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.
At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
As Phoebus, behind a high mountain, went down;
The clouds gathered dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugged myself safe now in old Auchtertool.
An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
But the landlady's pertness seemed instantly fired;
For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
"I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."
With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride;
But, asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.
To his mansion I scampered, and rapped at the door;
He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and uttered a howl
That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.
Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode,
Till I came to a ruined old house by the road,
Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
My wrath I'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.
WAS June, 't was morn, and Brandon's deer
From Cadzow pastures brushed the dew;
The laverock lilted o'er the bere,
And through the woods shone white Mill Heugh; His feathered guile the fisher threw,
The cushie cooed his dearie's praise,
When forth I hied the flowers to view,
And spend an hour on Avon bracs.
Nae weary, hopeless swain was I,
To languish in a sunny glade,
To aid the zephyr with a sigh,
And gie each flower a sombre shade.
Exulting through the woods I strayed,
Through mony a brier and rosy maze;
Or watched where shimmering ripples played
On Avon, lingering 'mang its braes.
I stood on cliffs with verdure fringed,
And far beneath me, spreading gay,
With blossomed broom and crawflowers tinged,
The summer-painted landscape lay.
There woodbine wound its spiral way,
There brambles leaned on neebor slaes;
And Robin warbled on the spray,
The blithest bird on Avon braes.
There Scotland's bearded symbol grew,
And there her gentler bell I saw;
And, oh! how fondly round them flew
The odor o' the blooming haw!
Suppressed my worldly yearnings a',
I only wished in measured praise
To sing the charms o' glade and shaw,
The linns and rills o' Avon braes.
O, were I lord o' Brandon's Ha',
And a' the charms o' yonder glen,
Nae stars wad woo me far awa',
To wair my golden thousands ten.
If wranged by rude unfeeling men,
The river's sang might soothe my waes;
And wha, a life o' joy to spend,
Necd flee frae Avon's bonny braes?
a precious, an immortal name!
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard of, and their channels wear
Like this contented, though unknown to fame:
For great and sacred is the modest claim
Of streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;
And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.
But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,
Anguish, and death: full oft, where innocent blood
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,
Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:
Never for like distinction may the good
Shrink from thy name, pure rill, with unpleased ears.
STREAM, that flows from Awe's isle-studded lake, Whose heathery mountains high their summits rear, How rapid is thy current, and how clear!
And what sweet murmurings thy pure waters make, As if they were lamenting to forsake
Their granite urn, with precipices sheer
Begirt, from whose high peaks the antlered deer
Look down, and eagles the far echoes wake.
No sluggish streams their turbid tribute bring
To thy pure tide, and all in vain man tries
To stain thy bosom with impurities;
These thou with indignation off dost fling,
Reaching thy goal as pure as at thy source.
Ah, sparkling stream, that such were my own course!
|