Page images



Died 1798.

The moon had climb’d the highest hill

That rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tow'r and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ;
When soft and low a voice was heard,

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me.

She from her pillow gently rais'd

Her head, to ask who there might be;
She saw young Sandy shiv’ring stand,

With visage pale and hollow e'e :-
O Mary dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea ;
Far far from thee I sleep in death,

So, Mary, weep no more for me.

Three stormy nights and stormy days

We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain.
Ev’n then, when horror chill'd my blood,

My heart was fill'd with love for thee :
The storm is past, and I'm at rest,

So, Mary, weep no more for me.

[merged small][ocr errors]

O maiden dear, thyself prepare,

We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more.
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said,

“ Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !"

[John Lowe was the son of a gardener at Kenmure Castle in Gal. loway ; bred up for the church, he was employed as a tutor in a gentleman's family in the same part of the country, Macghie, of Airds, on the River Dee, where he fell in love with one of that gentleman's daughters, whose sister about the same time lost her lover, a Mr. Alexander Miller at sea, which gave occasion to Lowe's writing the above pathetic verses. The song originally commenced thus :

Pale Cynthia just had reached the hill, which some person very judiciously altered as it now stands.]



All lonely on the sultry beach

Expiring Strephon lay,
No hand the cordial draught to reach,

Nor cheer the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh

To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swimming eye,

Or smooth the face of death!

Far distant from the mournful scene

Thy parents sit at ease,
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,

And all the spring, to please.
Ill-fated youth ! by fault of friend,

Not force of foe, depress’d,'
Thou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind,

Thy country, unredress’d!

[“ The following I had from Dr. Blacklock. The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song, were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the gentle Jean mentioned somewhere in Hamilton of Bangour's Poems. Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena.

The author of the song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill in Ayrshire."-BURNS.]



O weel may the boatie row,

And better may she speed !
And weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairns' bread.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ;
And happy be the lot of a'

That wishes her to speed.

I cuist my line in Largo bay,

And fishes I catch'd nine; 'Twas three to boil, and three to fry,

And three to bait the line.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ;
And happy be the lot of a?

Who wishes her to speed.
O weel may the boatie row

That fills a heavy creel,
And cleads us a' frae head to feet,

And buys our porritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a’

That wish the boatie speed.
When Jamie vow'd he would be mine

And wan frae me my heart,
O muckle lighter grew my creel !

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel ;
And muckle lighter is the lade

When love bears up the creel.
My kurch I put upon my head,

And dress’d mysel' fu' braw,
I trow my heart was douf an’ wae

When Jamie gaed awa':
But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part ;
And lightsome be the lassie's care

That yields an honest heart.

When Sawney, Jock, and Janetie,

Are up, and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie 'row,

And lighten a' our care.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu’ weel;
And lightsome be her heart that bears

The murlain and the creel.

And when wi' age we're worn down

And hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us dry and warm,

As we did them before.
Then weel may the boatie row,

She wins the bairns' bread,
And happy be the lot of a'

That wish the boat to speed.

[“ The Boatie Rows,' is a charming display of womanly affection mingling with the concerns and occupations of life.”—BURNS.)



Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap,

The dew sits on the gowan ;
Deep murmurs thro' her glens the Spey,

Around Kinrara rowan.
Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass ?

Alas! wert thou but near me,
Thy gentle soul, thy melting e'e

Would ever, ever cheer me.

« PreviousContinue »