Poems & Ballads Volume III Part 15

"Gin I maun bide and bide, Willie, I wot my weird is sair: Weel may ye get ye a light love yet, But never a mither mair."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"O gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow, The wyte be yours of a': But though ye slay me that haud and stay me, The weird ye will maun fa'."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

When c.o.c.ks were crawing and day was dawing, He's boun' him forth to ride: And the ae first may he's met that day Was fause Earl Robert's bride.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

O blithe and braw were the bride-folk a', But sad and saft rade she; And sad as doom was her fause bridegroom, But fair and fain was he.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And winna ye bide, sae saft ye ride, And winna ye speak wi' me?

For mony's the word and the kindly word I have spoken aft wi' thee."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"My lamp was lit yestreen, Willie, My window-gate was wide: But ye camena nigh me till day came by me And made me not your bride."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

He's set his hand to her bridle-rein, He's turned her horse away: And the cry was sair, and the wrath was mair, And fast and fain rode they.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

But when they came by Chollerford, I wot the ways were fell; For broad and brown the spate sw.a.n.g down, And the lift was mirk as h.e.l.l.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And will ye ride yon fell water, Or will ye bide for fear?

Nae scathe ye'll win o' your father's kin, Though they should slay me here."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer ride yon fell water, Though strange it be to ride, Than I wad stand on the fair green strand And thou be slain beside."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer swim yon wild water, Though sair it be to bide, Than I wad stand at a strange man's hand, To be a strange man's bride."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer drink yon dark water, Wi' the stanes to make my bed, And the faem to hide me, and thou beside me, Than I wad see thee dead."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

He's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice, On cheek and lip and chin: He's wound her rein to his hand again, And lightly they leapt in.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

Their hearts were high to live or die, Their steeds were stark of limb: But the stream was starker, the spate was darker, Than man might live and swim.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

The first ae step they strode therein, It smote them foot and knee: But ere they wan to the mid water The spate was as the sea.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

But when they wan to the mid water, It smote them hand and head: And nae man knows but the wave that flows Where they lie drowned and dead.

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL

1716

There's nae mair lands to tyne, my dear, And nae mair lives to gie: Though a man think sair to live nae mair, There's but one day to die.

For a' things come and a' days gane, What needs ye rend your hair?

But kiss me till the morn's morrow, Then I'll kiss ye nae mair.

O lands are lost and life's losing, And what were they to gie?

Fu' mony a man gives all he can, But nae man else gives ye.

Our king wons ower the sea's water, And I in prison sair: But I'll win out the morn's morrow, And ye'll see me nae mair.

A JACOBITE'S EXILE

1746

The weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: And never an hour is fair wi' flower, And never a flower wi' dew.

I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, As now in dreams I may.

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And loud the dark Durance: But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne Than a' the fields of France; And the waves of Till that speak sae still Gleam goodlier where they glance.

O weel were they that fell fighting On dark Drumossie's day: They keep their hame ayont the faem, And we die far away.

O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea-banks green Sounds loud the sundering sea.

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, But sweet and fast sleep they; And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day.

Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer Should yet wax blithe to see?

The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The fields are green and gold: The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, As ours at home of old.

But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are oversea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, To try what end might be.

Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Can die, and cannot change.

Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Mair keen than wind and sea.

Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away.