When e'enin's clud's fa'en', and cauld win's are blawin',
His fireside 's the shelter o' ilk beggar loun,
Wi' kimmer or carle he'd share his last farle,
A warm-hearted chiel's Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
He's free o' deceivry, the basest o' knavery,
An 's blythe aye the face o' a cronnie to see;
Wi' him the lang mouter, mysel', an' the souter,
Hae aften forgather'd an' had a bit spree;
There's naething we crack o' but he has the knack o',
When we ower the stoup an' the cauppie sit doun,
Tho' chiels we've had clever, the equal we never
Had yet o' this bauld Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
There's nae Gothic chaumer, whar deils their black glaumer
Hae niffert wi' auld wives langsyne, late at e'en ;
Nae cave, crag, nor cairnie, by time-blasted thornie,
Ower Scotland's braid borders that he hasna seen.
But this Monday comin' we meet at the gloamin',
In wee Andro Sibbal's, our sorrows to droun,
Sae gin, my auld hearty, ye're ane o' the party,
Ye'll baith see an' hear Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
Robert Clark
AIR-" Miss Graham of Inchbraickie."
SWEET May! sweet May! revives again
The buds and blossoms of the year;
And, clad anew, each hill and plain
In emerald green appear.
How bright the view from yonder bank,
Of primroses and daisies fair,
Where high o'erhead the joyous lark
Makes vocal all the air;
And round and round the spangled mead
The bounding lambkins frisk and play,
And little rills, like living light,
Gleam in the sunny ray.
But what were nature's fairest scenes,
Though graced with all her gayest flowers,
Unless we loved, unless we felt,
One fond, fond heart, were ours!
Then come, my own dear Mary, come,
My all on earth I prize most dear ;
And in yon blooming hawthorn shade,
The glowing landscape near,
I'll tell to thee my hopes and fears,
And all my heart to thee confess,
And if thou giv'st me love for love,
I'll own no higher bliss.
To an original Air, by Peter M'Leod, Esq.
My young cousin Peggy cam' doun frae Dunkeld, Wi' nae word o' lawlants ava, man,
But her blue speakin' een a' her kind meaning tald, An' her brow shone as white as the snaw, man; She cam' here to shear, and she stay'd here to spin, She wrought wi' the fraumit, an' liv'd wi' her kin, She laid naething out, but she laid muckle in,
An' she livit upon naething ava, man.
An' wow but the lassie was pawky an' slee,
For she smiled an' she smirkit till a', man,
Growing a' bodies' bodie, baith muckle an' wee,
An' our folk wadna let her awa', man,
For when there was trouble or death in the house,
She tended the sick-bed as quiet as a mouse,
An' wrought three folks' wark aye sae canny an' douce,
Ye wad thought she did naething ava, man.
She grew rich in beauty, she grew rich in gear,
She learnt to speak lawlants an' a', man;
Her wit it was keen, and her head it was clear,
My sang, she was match for us a', man;
She was trysted to suppers, and invitit to teas,
Gat gude wappin' presents, an' braw slappin' fees,
An' e'en my ain billies sae kittle to please,
She tickled the hearts o' them a', man.
But the sweet Highland lassie, sae gentle and meek,
Refused them for gude an' for a', man,
Aye gaun to the auld Highlan' kirk ilka week,
While the minister aft gae a ca', man;
O his was the fervour, and her's was the grace,
They whisper'd sweet Gaelic, he gazed in her face,
Like light, true love travels at nae laggard pace-
She's the star o' his heart an' his ha', man.
James Ballentine
THE BORRISTOUN.
Written to an unpublished Gaelic Melody. 'TWAS on a cauld an' rainy day,
When coming ower the hills o' Dee,
I met a lassie young an' gay,
Wi' rosy cheeks an' lily bree;
An' laith that sic a flow'r should bloom,
Without the bield o' bush or tree;
I said, My lassie, will ye come
An' dwell in Borristoun wi' me?
O wha may think to stay the hand
That turns the page o' destinie?
The broken ship has come to land,
The stately bark has sunk at sea.
But fain to woo, and free to wed,
I'll bless the doom I hae to dree
That ettled her, my Highland maid,
To dwell in Borristoun wi' me!
AIR-" Braes of Bogie."
YE'LL come to the wooin', dear laddie,
Ye'll come to the wooin' at e'en ;
An' gin ye can win my auld daddie,
We'se sune mak' a bridal, I ween.
'Tis true we hae baith a beginnin',
Tho' nane o' his siller we see ;
But the gudewill is aye worth the winnin'
Whan there's mair than guide wishes to gie.
Your luve you may hang i' the widdie--
Your sighs you may stick to the wa';
They'll do wi' the dochter, my laddie,
But no wi' the daddie at a';
Ye'll crack awa' doucely an' cannie,
Of markets, of farmin', and flocks; Ye'll ruse up the days o' your grannie, Auld fashions, an' auld-fashion'd folks.
An' whan ye maun wish him guide-e'enin',
I winna be far out o' view,
I'll come frae my dairy or spinnin',
An' gang out the loanin' wi' you;
An' gin the auld bodie's nae gloomin',
Gin nane o' his tauntin' he flings,
Niest Friday ye'll ca' i' the gloamin',
An' overly speak about things.
But gin ye see like a storm brewin',
Ye'll to your auld stories again;
An' we'll tak' anither week's wooin',
An' try him mair cannily then.
I've heard my ain mither declarin',
An' wha could hae kend him sae weel?
My father wad lead wi' a bairn,
But wadna be ca'd for the de'il.
O MEIKLE bliss is in a kiss,
Whyles mair than in a score,
But wae betak' the stouin' smack
I took ahint the door.
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