J. Wilson McLaren.

Scots poems and ballants online

. (page 1 of 5)
Online LibraryJ. Wilson McLarenScots poems and ballants → online text (page 1 of 5)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook


I8R!CE15Y\

LIBRARY

UNIVEHS'TY OF
CAi»fO«NIA J






SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.



Scots Poems



AND



Ballants



BY

J. WILSON M'LAREN

Author of "" Rhymes frae the Chimla-Lug"
" Tommy Catchiron" etc.



AT EDINBVRGH

IMPRINTED BY THE AUTHOR

177 DALKEITH ROAD

MDCCCXCII



LOAN STACK



■41 &



Of this Book only one hundred and fifty copies have
been printed.



535



TO BRITHER SCOTS

THE WORLD O'ER.

A Scot here endeavours to depict only that which is
trtie to nature. His earnest desire is to be homely and
natural ; to touch a tender chord that may awaken the
susceptibilities to a more ennobling state, or with a
gleam of humour demolish the cobivebs of Melancholia
from the mind.



CONTENTS.



The Printing Press

A Godly Ballant .

Stanzas anent a Cudgel .

A Scot Abroad

Greyfriars Bobby

White Heather

Henry Irving .

Tibbie ....

A Fallen one Dead .

The Lass d Logan Lee

Mist ....

Shouggie Shou, my Bairnie

Oh, Waes Me .

To Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ladye Rea

A Summer-Day Dream

A Screed to Hugh Haliburton



Page 1
3
5
6
8

15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
24
24
28
29



CONTENTS.



The Wa-Gaun d the Wean
Jock.

A t the Grave of Knox
Jeannie .
Aspirations

The Wee Orphan Laddie
The Land we Love .
Henry W. Longfellow
The cosy Chimla-Lug
Burns
Stanzas .
The bonnie Lass d Lnvcrary
Robert Fergusson
Tammas Stark's Drucken
Within my Den
A Country Idyll
An auld warV Wail
A Reverie
To a Brither Scot .
Dunnottar
Owre the Faem
Doubt
Gowff

Adelaide Detchon
Only a Face



Wife



Page 32

. 37

. 39

. 40

. 41

. 43

. 44

. 40

. 47

. 49

. 50

. 56

. 57

. 58

. 66

. 69

. 70

. 73

. r ih

. 78

. 79

. 81

. 83

. 85

. 86



CONTENTS.


xi


Hozvgate Jock .


. Page 88


Bygone Days .




. 97


The Haudiri d the Bairn




. 98


The Fisher Lass




. 102


" Nana " .




. 104


" English as She is Spoke "




. 105


Lenore ....




. 107


Fishing in the Tiveed




. 109


James Smith .




. Ill


John Bremnar .




. 112


To His Memory




. 114



The die is cast ! With trembling fear
I scan tlie printed pages ?wzv,
While Care still hovers on my broiv t

A nd click of type rings in my ear.

I see the Press frail and antique, —
And troublesome, — a dwarf in size ;
Yet soon I leant 'd to love and prize

At midnight's hour its cheery creak !

Its compass only would give birth
A nd slowly, to one little page,
But Pleasure is a golden wage,

And I had faith in hearts on earth.

Love's labour lost ? A vaunt, grim Dread !
From all things simple yet sincere,
Good still may wing its fight, and rear

On barren soil a pyramid.



SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.



THE PRINTING PRESS.
"Let light be."

God speed the craft whose potent power

Iirthralls the world to-day ;
And tho' brain-rack'd hour after hour,

We only Life's part play ;
Yet what a part ! let glib-tongued voice

Deride the " art " at will ;
But we as craftsmen may rejoice

O'er no unworthy skill.

Mark Learning at the gamer'd fruits ! —

While Rank and Wealth stand near —
Of those whose hearts in their pursuits

On eveiy page is clear !
Who fed the mind — altho' assail'd —

With floods of heavenly light,
When venom'd Bigotry prevail'd,

And all was dark as night I



SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS.

Then let us humbly bow the head,

And stand with bated breath,
When Fame's emblaxou'd scroll is read

And "names that know not death !"
Behold our Masters foremost placed !

And rightly so, for they
Foul fantasies from men's hearts chased,

And Truth held glorious sway !

The world moves on ! Great changes come,

Until our power's ten-fold ;
But tho' the Press of old be dumb,

No purer is the gold !
Now pulse of engines ever beat,

The ground throbs where we stand,
And cylinders clank ! God ! what a treat

Is modern printing-land !

Lo ! look ! the paper that was dead,

Hath life in every vein ;
And laughter round the hearth is shed,

Where sadness once did reign !
The greatest thoughts of master-minds,

Thus scatter' d far and wide,
Wields moral power, and closer binds

All nations to our side !



A GODLY BALLANT.

What of our sires begrimed and worn,

Whose sweat-drops dyed the brow %
Oh ! million millions yet unborn,

I charge you ne'er allow
Oblivion to east its shroud

Around their honour'd names,
For Genius hath to them endow'd

Imperishable claims !



A GODLY BALLANT.
MARK xii. 41-44.
The auld kirk bells were jowlin' lood,

An' thrang was the hie an' laigh road,
Wi' haly folk an' hypocrites,

On their way to the hoose o' God.

The Maister at the kirk-yett stuid,
As a laird wi' his heid fu' hie,

In gangin' by drapt in the plate
What he could weel afford to gie.

An' mony mair cam' stappin' in,
But oh, in heart thae werena' true,

Yet that gied them fu' little thocht,
For grand were thae in ootward view.



SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

Syne in a widow hirplin' cam',
Wha was righteous in heart tho' puir,

An' put a farden canny doon —

'Twas a' the auld body could spare.

The Maister's een were wat wi' tears
As he turn'd to the Twal' an' said —

" Mark'd ye the walthy carles wha
Mak' liberality a trade ;

An' this puir wifie ? she has gien
Far mair to God's service than a'

This day, for oh, her heart was true
In the gie'in' o' it awa ! "



Ay, e'en to this day ye will find monie folk —
Their sauls black wi' vice, whyles in fear

To God's hoose repair in hypocrisy's cloak,
An' wi' aumus their conscience wad clear !

But priceless the dower in Death's fell glamourie,
Whilk in scripture like this somehow rins —

Respecter o' persons God never can be,
An' gowd winna blot oot oor sins !



STANZAS ANENT A CUDGEL.



STANZAS ANENT A CUDGEL.

Preserve us ! what a muckle stick !
'Twad tak' the breath e'en frae Auld Nick !
Or better still some Home Rule Mick,

Help in debate ;
For chiels wi' it wha got a lick,

"Wad soou be quate !

When I, fu prood, the stick produced,
My mither vow'd she wadna' hoose't, —
An' waur, I'd in the bine be soused,

Gin I'd no burn it !
I'se half inclined frae words she used,

Then to return it !

But courage ! quick I to the flare,
An' dang the leg clean aff a chair !
Waesucks ! she could do nocht but stare,

Wi' hands aloft,
An' cry, "My conscience! Jock, tak' care !

Ye're surely dauft ! "

" Dauft 1 far frae that," I made reply,
As, swish ! three mair legs gaed awry ;



SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

" There ! that's a proof ye needna' try
To put me past it ;

Frae oot the hoose, tho' sair ye ciy,

I ne'er will cast it !"

Losh keep's ! gin my respectit mither,
Had got the hale length o' her tether,
The keepsakes folk gie ane anither

At antrin times,
She'd sweep frae sicht withoot a swither

Like my puir rhymes !

Richt fervently I've often prayed
That when my part in life is played,
This stick will be 'neath nae glass shade,

But ever ready
For some frien' wha micht need its aid,

Wi' steps unsteady.

— o —
A SCOT ABROAD.



>'V



TlS meet that we should sit within our room
Alone, to-night, in sweetest reverie,
And let our thoughts be wafted o'er the sea,
And break the year's dull, melancholy gloom.



A SCOT ABROAD. 7

Yet why be sad ? June, with its balmy breath,
Draws fragrance sweet from every budding flower,
So let us now but consecrate an hour,

And from the Past weave Bygones as from death !

Alive — yet dead ! for in that distant clime
His voice is heard not, nor his smiling face
Is with us now the homely hearth to grace,

As in our childhood's joyous summer-time.

So, on his natal day, 'tis fitly we,

As Scots, remembrance prove for auld langsyne,
And toast his worth, that ne'er with us will tine —

God's grace, good health, and fair prosperity !

May such be his : and when Life's cherished prize
In after years he holds in faithful trust ;
Youth, battling on, with hope will look, and must

As from the mountain spring refreshed arise !

As lovers yearn when Fate keeps them apart,
Thus we to-night must drop a silent tear,
For with our hope there always comes the fear ;

So, brother, take this song-gift from the heart !



8 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

GREYFRIARS BOBBY.

A dowg's appeal to the provost, bailies, councillors,

AND CITIZENS o' AULD REEKIE.

At a meeting of the Edinburgh Town Council on February
5th 1889, a letter was read from A rchibald Langwill, C. A.,
which stated that a movement was some time ago set on foot
to collect subscriptions from children with the view of perpet-
uating the memory of the dog known as "Grey friars Bobby "
by erecting a monument in Grey friars Churchyard. Several
hundreds of children gladly subscribed, and on their behalf he
asked permission to do so. Councillor Gillies, in reply said
that the story of " Grey friars Bobby " ivas a penny-a-liner s
romance. T/iere was no truth in it at all. "Grey friars Bobby"
had no beloved master, and was just a mongrel of the High
Street breed.

"We have some satisfaction to-day in applying correction
to a serious act of injustice done to an old Edinburgh favour-
ite. In his haste at the Town Council meeting, Councillor
Gillies said that the romantic story of 'Grey friars Bobby'
was all humbug, and that its fame was got on false pretences.
According to Mr Gillies, 'Bobby' zvas a very ordinary cur
indeed — a mere High Street iv astral. Not a single Councillor
had patriotic sentiment or spirit enough to raise a word of
protest ; they were all as dumb dogs. It will create no sur-
prise if at the next meeting an attempt be made to prove that
Wallace and Bruce, were mythical personages. The romance
of 'Grey friars Bobby' is no myth?— EVENING DISPATCH.

Whaur is the dowg that bears a name,
That winna hand his heid wi' shame ?



GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y.

Since that bauld billie in the Chaumer —

Wi' meikle o' an auld wife's yammer,

Has taen the task upon himsel',

To break the sweet romantic spell ;

To delve in history o' the past,

And now proclaim to east and wast,

To north and south, that Greyfriars Bobby,

Is just a myth — a hearsay hobby ;

In fact, to gie a dowg a bad name,

Wha only what is truthfu' wad claim.

It looks as if some civic chiels,
Were man than anxious for the " seals,"'
For like some dowgs that I could mention,
Thae daily bark to draw attention ;
And tho' chasteezed, like some puir messin,
Thae aye forget the painfu' lesson !
Or why this idle controversy,
And on a dowg that's at then- mercy ?

The " laughter," and the cries " Hear, hear,"
A' this and niair I weel can bear,
But when thae wander frae the truth,
I canna sit and haud my mooth !

"A mongrel o' the High Street breed !"
Is language far owre strong, indeed ;
It ill befits the chiel wha said it,



10 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

And folk wha live there has degraded.
Now in their minds they'll hae to bear,
That South Side villas thae maun rear,
And be like Councillors, snug and crouse,
Wi' grund at front and back o' hoose !

Tho' for mysel', I maun confess,
I like the High Street nane the less,
For what langsyne was there enactit,
When women young and auld distractit,
View'd Scotland's sons wi' hope 'gae 'wa,
But doom'd on Flodden sune to fa' !
Or when the charger, weary worn,
Wha frae the fecht had Murray borne,
Wi' clattering hoofs forth a' did bring,
To hear the fate o' Scotland's King !
Or later still, when ladies fair,
And men chivalrous Avelcom'd there,
Wi' roses white that charm' d ilk e'e,
Prince Charlie, fresh frae victory !
But words o' mine are little needit,
When in Scots history a' can read it.

Is there a patriotic soul,
Sae base as now its doonfa' thole,
And cast sic slurs wi' pompous air,
When poortith's load's eneuch to bear ?



GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y. 11

But cringe I'll no, nor hing my tail,
When Ignorance wad thus assail ;
And tho' my lines I haena got
This mak's me nane the less a Scot !

I maun admit it's no in keeping,
That I wi' Martyrs should be sleeping,
Tho' often I hae gaed to view
The tomb that tells o' men sae true :
The martyr'd Marquis ! — Guthrie, brave !
And Renwick, wha wad be nae slave !
Wi' ithers o' the fearless deid
Wha for the King had little dreid,
But focht against tyrannic laws,
For God, — their conscience, and a cause !
And prov'd Christ's Crown and Covenant,
To be nae idle reel-rail rant.

Wi' a' due honour to ilk bairn,
I'm no in favour o' a cairn,
Altho' waur things hae been erectit,
To show how weel the deid's respectit !
(Oor auld kirkyards a wheen can boast noo,
And keepit at the public cost, too) ;
While tributes oft inscribed thereon,
Hae gar'd oor antiquarians groan,
For weel thae ken the best ot's fiction,



12 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

And still they're rais'cl withoot restriction ;
On mony a rather doubtfu' story
We've built the best o' Scotland's glory !

I've long supplied a needfu' want,
Whilk e'en oor Council winna grant ;
When frae the Meadows folks returnin',
And wi' the summer sun are burnin' —
Or when wi' gowff, the quoits, or cricket,
Or e'en wi' Socialists been licket —
Wee Bobby, feth, is aye frequented,
And a' gang blythely aff contented ;
If only this, and naething mair,
A blessing I hae been, I'm sure.

When no lang whalpit, near St Giles,
Wi' twa three mair I rompit whiles,
But little ettled my guid name,
Wad there some day be brocht to shame.
I watched, too, chiels free o' pretence —
Wha aye spak' truth and common-sense,
Gae linkin' by in furthy crack —
Wha e'en straik't mongrels on the back !
And tho' a dowg I maun confess
I glowered wi' interest nane the less !
But there was ane whase honour'd name,
In a' Scots hearts has found a hame ;



GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y. 13

A frieii' to High Street dowgs was he —
It matter' cl uae their pedigree,
Baith rich and poor he aye respec'it ;
In fact, mysel' wi' collar deckit !

Hech surse the day ! when dowgs protection
Are forced to claim frae foul dissection,
"When things o' far mair consequence,
That baith oorsels and toon wad mense,
Are now ignored, while " archers wine, "
And sic like fads are i' the line.
The public guid ! alack a day !
Whan useless clatter hauds the sway !
Wi' sma'er rents and hooses better
Auld Reekie folks wad be their debtor ;
But progress ! — no, nor e'en attention
To mony things that I could mention —
The streets, or there's the gas we're burnin',
Sae poor that some to " dips " are turnin' ;
Wi' jobbery baith richt and left,
0' sense fu' sune we'll be bereft ;
Nae wonder whiles my een I'm dichtin',
When sic as this needs sae much richtin',
It maks folk say when they're electit
Thae carena then tho' a's neglectit.

By Granny Gray's auld tirlin' pin,



14 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

I wadna be within their shoon,
But still remain a " mongrel " dowg
Wi' power to cock my tail or lug.

Had " Rab's " auld frien' been to the fore,
Wha penn'd the touching Howgate lore —
A story whaur a dowg play'd part,
That oft has moved the hardest heart,
And withoot whilk there's nane daur say
But we'd been poorer, far, the day.
To John nane ere tried to maintain
That I had sat there for a bane ;
But just to prove that dowgs whiles ken,
When richtly treated now and then,
And show to mony a bairn a lesson,
That ere thae dee may be a blessin' !



WHITE HE A THER. 15



WHITE HEATHER.

CHORUS.

My heart's fu' d joy, thd a tear dims ilk e'e,
For, oh, visions sweet come frae yont tJte braid sea ;
A sprig d zvhite heather this nicht zvafts me there ;
White heather ! white heather, I'll tend ye wi' care !

White heather frae Scotia ! my heart throbs wi' pride,
And so I will cherish't as lover his bride,
For life's sweetest treasure I won, leal and true,
Ae nicht in the gloaming whare white heather grew.

How pleasant life's spring-time — to speil the hills hie,
Whare nocht but white heather aroon ye could see,
Or sit by the burnie awa' doon the glen,
And dream o' a lassie like far aulder men.

A sprig o' white heather I brocht Ailie Broun
The nicht that we parted wi' hearts broken doon ;
The same in return, but entwined wi' her hair,
I got frae the lassie I'll never see mair !



16 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

As shadows o' eventide owre my path fa',

I sigh for the wild mountain hame far awa',

For, oh, it is there now I fain would repose

Wi' my ain kith and kin whare the white heather grows !



HENRY IRVING.

LYCEUM THEATRE, EDINBURGH, 1888.

MASTER ! may time fall lightly on thy head,
For such as thou this earth would miss full sore.

Thy great creations — which have nightly fed
So many minds, even o'er th' Atlantic's roar —
And others which may yet come from thy store,

Must be a priceless boon, a life's elixir which,

When thirsting youth partakes, 'twill more than gold
enrich !

Devil thou art ! but if the Reigning Power
In Hell's abyss were privileged to view

His antitype for only one brief horn,

Remorse, so keen, might pierce his conscience thro',
And half the world would feel as born anew,

For this thy mission is. May God sustain thy heart

To play upon Life's stage this now much-needed part !



TIBBIE.



TIBBIE.

CHORUS.

Heck ay ! ok, dearie vie /
For a drap d tke nappy what wadna Tib gie ;

My giniirf auld A?tnty,

Whase siller is scanty,
Maun aye kae a cinder at nickt in her tea !

I HAE an auld Aunty ay out Wuddislee,
She's cock o' the middeu tho' bliu' o' au e'e,

An' tak's sic delight in

Baith girnin' an' flytm',
That a' in the clachan afore her will flee !

On the croon o' her pow there's a big plaster patch,
But losh ! tak' guid care that her e'e doesna catch

You glowerin' at her —

Your nerves she'd sune shatter,
A tongue deavin' randie, you'll no find her match !

It's seldom that Tibbie's withoot twa black een, —
It's Johnnie Maut's trade-mark ! she cares na a preen ;

Oor deacon Tarn Miller,

Ance tried to preach till her,
And for a month after't in kirk wasna seen !



IS SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

The longer folk live the mair ferlies they see,
An' tho' Aunty Tib is for weeks on the spree,

To turn owre a new leaf,

An' end a' this sair grief,
E'er neist Hallow Fair she has promised to me !

A FALLEN ONE DEAD !

A FALLEN one dead ! Yes, her short race is run,
The wan face betrays the sad life she has led ;

No sister to aid her — to pray for her — none !

But her death-stiffened limbs and her weary head

Lie there — on the earth 'neath a cold wintry sun,
That shines on the wreck of a beauty that's fled,

But she heeds not the shame, nor the deed that is done-

A fallen one dead !

Alas ! there are others, as this fallen one —

In the city's foul dons where no solace is shed ;

Oh, Christians ! think of the creatures you shun,
In hovels and hells, where rank infamy's fed,

There's work for redemption that's not yet begun —
Where Christ sends His angels, ye also may tread —

And do noble duty, ah ! thus left undone —

A fallen one dead !



THE LASS a LOGAN LEE. 19



THE LASS 0' LOGAN LEE.

The sun owe Duu-ediu was shining- fu' bonnie,

As I, and my Jeannie, strayed roun' the Braid Hills ;
The lassie wi' looks more bewitching than onie,

Whose voice is far sweeter than murmuring rills ;
The mavis was warbling his wood-notes so cheery,

And wakening the echoes o' Nature's sweet lyre,
As down on the brae-side I sat wi' my dearie,

Enraptured wi' songs o' the wild feathered choir.

The hum o' the bees, and the kye loudly roaring,

Brought back to our memory childhood again ;
While mild summer zephyrs, tired Nature restoring,

Flushed Jeannie' s fair cheeks like the rose after rain.
A flower is my lassie, both precious and tender —

As spotless and pure as the primrose in spring ;
For beauty and wealth lordlings seek the ha's splendour,

But when wi' my Jeannie I envy nae king.

How sweet is the 'oor wi' your love in the gloaming,
Where meanders the burnie, or down pours the linn ;

Where monie for harebell and foxglove gang roaming,
Awa' in the country frae Labour's loud din.



20 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

Then, oh, may the Powers wha bestow on us pleasures
That poor o' the land like the rich aye can pree,

Guard winsome young Jeannie, first o' my heart's trea-
sures,
Wha dwells in seclusion near sweet Logan Lee.

— o —
MIST.

I STRAYED where wild flowers wet with dew

By mortal feet were prest,

While o'er the Pentland's breast
Descending mist obscured the view,
And there it hung with dismal frown,

Until the sun-god smote

Its density afloat —
And swept the mist athwart the town.

With dusky mantle it embraced

The towering city spires

That paled like beacon fires,
Quenched in it s wide and humid waste ;
Thus sorrow clouds the brow of man,

And wraps his soul in gloom,

Till hope bids joy illume
Creation's universal plan.



SHOUGGIE SHOU, MY BAIRNIE. 21



SHOUGGIE SHOU, MY BAIRNIE.
A mither's sang.

CHORUS.

Shouggie shou, shonggk shou !

Hush-a-ba my dearie ;
Hech surse ! but a iv auk rife bairn

Aye mak's a wither weary !

SHOUGGIE shou, my baimie,

Hush ! my bonnie doo ;
Wha sae like your ain sel' %

Sonnie, keekie boo !

Eenie, fegs ! ye wiuna olose ;

Wirr-a-wiiT-a-wae !
Tak' the rattle ; that's it noo !

Or wi' pussy play.

There's the boo-man f the stair,

Wi' the muckle pock ;
Steek your een ! cuddle close,

And the door I'll lock !



22 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

Losh ! but ye're a waukrife bairn —
Shouggie, shouggie shou !

Here, big dowgie, come ye ben, —
Tak' him in your mou' !

Bless the lamb, he's noo asleep,

Soun' as soun' can be ;
Noo the hearthstane I maun wash,

Syne mak' daddie's tea !



OH, WAES ME !

I'M wae to think that poortith's load sae mony hae to

bear —
For, oh, the reflex o' the mind is oft found in a tear ;
But courage ! tho' affliction's rife, for wha hae least to dree
Are aye the first to prostrate fa' and cry oot — " Oh, waes

me!"

Some folk ye'll find the hale year roun' enshrouded aye

in gloom,
Wha speak o' hardships draggin' them to an owre early

tomb :



OH, WAES ATE ! 23

Gin they wad tread life's staney road wi' hope in ilka e'e,
They'd aiblins hae fu' little cause to ciy oot — " Oh, waes
me!"

Mak' Common-sense the finger post this warld to guide

ye thro',
'Twill prove e'er lang 'tis folly to sit doon and sairly rue
The ill that's dune, or what has dimm'd at times the

wifie's e'e :
Up wi' a will ! there's prospects bricht, and cry na — " Oh,

waes me ! "

Then let us strive frae morn till mirk to fecht against

what's wrang;
Advice and solace is required whatever road we gang ;
We're sure to be rewarded sune, then great the joy will

be ;
It's neither manly nor yet wise to cry oot — " Oh, waes

me!"



24 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS.

TO ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

ON READING " DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS. "

To tliee, whose heart is like a golden mine —

Rich in its wealth as all may well conceive ;
This tribute to thy worth. bard divine,

I know thou wilt in kindly mood receive.
Tho' not Avith thy Promethean spirit fraught,

For thus thy verse is nerved — intense and grand !

Whilst its impassioned ardour stirs the land,
And vibrates in all hearts, where it has taught

Life's deathless precepts, which I ever strive to keep ;
And trust that He to whom Ave humbly bend
May give thee strength to be man's truest friend !

And in the good thou sowest may thou also reap ;
Whilst in the fervour of my heartfelt love I pray
Thy genius long may add its lustre to our day.

LADYE REA.

A BALLAD.

TWAS a cauld, cauld, an' a mirky night,

An' the hinmost o' the year ;
The sea to the sky roAv'd mountains high,

An' the forest soucrh'd fu' drear.



LAD YE RE A. 25

An' oh, but the thunder sounded loud,

An' the rain rain'd heavilie ;
But, hark ! a wail that might a' hearts quail —

" Whare, whare can my true hive be 1 "

'Twas Ladye Rea that gaz'd on the sea,
An' avow ! but she look'd fu' braw,

As there she stood in despairing mood,
An' aye on her luve did ca'. w „

Nae heed took she o' the light'ning's flash,

Nor the rain so heavilie,
But wi' waefu' mein an' tearfu' een,

Sobb'd — " Whare can my true luve be ? "

A sea-maw perch' d on a cliff near hand,

Wail'd thae words mournfullie —
" Ladye, ladye fair, greet thou nae mail*,

But list what I tell to thee —

Yon braw sailor lad thou lo'ed so weel,

Fause, fause has prov'd to thee,
An' taen a bride, an' gane to abide

Awa' in a far countrie ! "

" Why, an' oh why, have ye prov'd so fause,
Oh ! Leslie, come tell to me I "



26 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS.

She spak' in vain, for never again
On earth her luve she would see !

"An' now, fare thee weel, " the weird maw cried,


1 3 4 5

Online LibraryJ. Wilson McLarenScots poems and ballants → online text (page 1 of 5)