Page images

If sweetest sounds can win thy ear,

These sounds I'll strive to catch ;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',

That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;

I never lov'd but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,

For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing-

O tell me how to woo !

(Sir Walter Scott assigned this song to the age of Charles I., and printed it in the Minstrelsy, vol. iii., at one time he supposed it to to have been the composition of the great Grahame, Marquis of Montrose.

Mr. Graham of Gartmoor was the friend of Smollett.]



Born 1750.

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie-o;
And cuddle there fu’ kindly

Wi' me, my kind dearic-o?

At thorny bush, or birken tree,

We'll daff, and never weary-o,
They'll scug ill e'en frae you and me,

My ain kind dearie-o.
Nae herd wi' kent or colly there

Shall ever come to fear ye-o;
But laverocks whistling in the air

Shall woo, like me, their dearie-o. While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,

And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lee my pleasure grows

Wi’ thee, my kind dearie-o. At gloamin', if my lane I be,

Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie-o;
And mony a heavy sigh I gie,

When absent frae my dearie-o:
But seated ’neath the milk-white thorn,

In ev’ning fair and clearie-o,
Enraptur’d, a' my cares I scorn,

Whan wi' my kind dearie-o.
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,

Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie-o,
Among the bonnie greensward howes,

Wi’ thee, my kind dearie-o.
I've courted till I've heard the craw

Of honest Chanticleerie-o,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,

Whan wi' my kind dearie-o. For though the night were ne'er sae dark,

And I were ne'er sae weary-0, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie-o.

While in this weary warld of wae

This wilderness sae drearie-o,
What makes me blithe, and keeps me sae !

'Tis thee, my kind dearie-o.

(Fergusson wrote the two first verses of this song, the others of equal merit are from the pen of a late bookseller in Glasgow, Nr. William Reid. The “ Lea Rig" of Burns may escape in a note :

When o'er the hill the eastern star,

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field,

Return sae dowf and weary 0;
Down by the burn, where scented birks

Wi’dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie 0.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie 0,
If through that glen i gaed to thee,

My ain kind dearie 0.
Although the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie 0,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.
The hunter lo'es the morning sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o'gloamin' gray,

It maks my heart sae cheery O
To meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie 0.
as also may the old words preserved by Burns.

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea rig

My ain kind dearie, o,
I'll rowe the o'er the lea-rig

My ain kind dearie, o.
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat

And I were pe'er sae weary, 0,
I'U rowe thee o'er the lea-rig

My ain kind dearie, 0.]



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.


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 filed,

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

“ Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”

(John I owe was the son of a gardener at Kenmure Castle in Gal. loway; bred up for the church, he was employed as a tutor is 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!

« PreviousContinue »