They hack'd ana hash'd, while broadswords] Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, They fled like frighted doos, man. In the Birks of Aberfeldy. And find at night a sheltering cave, And art thou come, and art thou true! THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. Tune-" Rhannerach dhon na chri." THE BARD'S SONG. Tune-" Jolly mortals, fill your glasses. THESE Verses were composed on a charming THE BARD'S SONG IN "THE JOLLY BEGGAM girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. physician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline; and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon.-I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, Mark our jovial ragged ring! A fig for those by law protected, What is title what is treasure, With green spreading bushes and flow'rs If we lead a life of pleasure, blooming fair! But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De 'Tis no matter how or where. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes, Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE "O CAM ye here the fight to shun, And did the battle see, man?" Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords] Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hastened to the charge, Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man. "O how deil Tam can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And straught to Stirling winged their flight; For fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate came up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man: Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebor's blood to spill; For fear by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes, And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. And whigs to hell did flee, man. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. Tune-" The Birks of Abergeldy." Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. I wad wear thee in my bosom, Wishfully I look and languish, In that bonnie face of thine; Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the ee. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. THESE words are mine; I composed them from the old traditionary verses. THERE lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, in prime. "I've got a bad wife, Sir; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. (1800. For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; | And to her auld husband he's carried her back; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. "It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. While day and night can bring delight, Or nature ought of pleasure give! |