O the de'il's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw, They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa; The haill of their marriage is gowd and a carriage, Plain love is the caldest blast now that can blaw! Auld dotards, be wary! tak tent when ye marry, Young wives wi' their coaches they'll whip and they'll ca', Till they meet wi' some Johnny that's youthfu' and bonny, And they'll gi'e ye horns on ilk haffet to claw. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Born 1774-Died 1810. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes of Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; I will twine thee a bower, By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er, Wi' the flowers of the mountain, I will range thro' the wilds, To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, On the night breeze is swelling, As the storm rattles o'er us, Now the summer is in prime, Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the bracs o' Balquhither. THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, shaw ! The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie; They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee; And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ; 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e; For, O! gin I saw but my bonny scots callan, The dark days o' winter were simmer to me. THE FLOW'R O' DUMBLANE. ROBERT TANNAHILL. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom! She's modest as onie, and blithe as she's bonnie; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and yain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dum blane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Gloomy winter's now awa', Saft the westlin breezes blaw: Sweet the craw-flower's early bell Midst joys that never wearie-o. Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods, Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie-o. THRO' CRUIKSTON CASTLE'S LONELY WA'S. ROBERT TANNAHILL. Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; Tho' mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary. |