The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 25

Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!

Your day it 's wearin' thro', John; And I 'll welcome you To the land o' the leal.

Now, fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John; We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain, In the land o' the leal.

[49] This exquisitely tender and beautiful lay was composed by Lady Nairn, for two married relatives of her own, Mr and Mrs C----, who had sustained bereavement in the death of a child. Such is the account of its origin which we have received from Lady Nairn's relatives.

THE LAIRD O' c.o.c.kPEN.[50]

The Laird o' c.o.c.kpen he 's proud and he 's great, His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Down by the d.y.k.e-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she 'd look well; M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless la.s.s wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and c.o.c.k'd hat, And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the gray mare, and rade cannily-- And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' c.o.c.kpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine, "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"

She put aff her ap.r.o.n, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;"

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie; He mounted his mare--he rade cannily; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' c.o.c.kpen.

And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' c.o.c.kpen."

Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at c.o.c.kpen.

[50] This humorous and highly popular song was composed by Lady Nairn towards the close of the last century, in place of the older words connected with the air, "When she came ben, she bobbit." The older version, which is ent.i.tled "c.o.c.kpen," is exceptional on the score of refinement, but was formerly sung on account of the excellence of the air. It is generally believed to be a composition of the reign of Charles II.; and the hero of the piece, "the Laird of c.o.c.kpen," is said to have been the companion in arms and attached friend of his sovereign.

Of this personage an anecdote is recorded in some of the Collections.

Having been engaged with his countrymen at the battle of Worcester, in the cause of Charles, he accompanied the unfortunate monarch to Holland, and, forming one of the little court at the Hague, amused his royal master by his humour, and especially by his skill in Scottish music. In playing the tune, "Brose and b.u.t.ter," he particularly excelled; it became the favourite of the exiled monarch, and c.o.c.kpen had pleasure in gratifying the royal wish, that he might be lulled to sleep at night, and awakened in the morning by this enchanting air. At the Restoration, c.o.c.kpen found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to the king, and had the deep mortification to discover that he had suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his many pet.i.tions and entreaties for the restoration of his possessions.

Visiting London, he was even denied an audience; but he still entertained a hope that, by a personal conference with the king, he might attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to the following artifice:--He formed acquaintance with the organist of the chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his subst.i.tute when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he struck up the monarch's old favourite, "Brose and b.u.t.ter." The scheme, though bordering on profanity, succeeded in the manner intended. The king proceeding hastily to the organ-gallery, discovered c.o.c.kpen, whom he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had "almost made him dance." "I could dance too," said c.o.c.kpen, "if I had my lands again." The request, to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the power of music and old a.s.sociation. c.o.c.kpen was restored to his inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. The present Laird of c.o.c.kpen is the Marquis of Dalhousie.

HER HOME SHE IS LEAVING.

AIR--_"Mordelia."_

In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving, In sad and tearful silence grieving, And still as the moment of parting is nearer, Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer.

Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection; Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood, But tells, as it pa.s.ses, how blest was her childhood.

And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses, Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses!

How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river, The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever!

Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall, And winter hangs out her cold icy pall-- Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see, And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.

The joys of the past, more faintly recalling, Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling, And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow, Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow.

Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling, The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling; And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre, Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter.

THE BONNIEST La.s.s IN A' THE WARLD.

The bonniest la.s.s in a' the warld, I 've often heard them telling, She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen, She 's in yon lonely dwelling.

But nane could bring her to my mind Wha lives but in the fancy, Is 't Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May, Is 't Effie, Bess, or Nancy?

Now la.s.ses a' keep a gude heart, Nor e'er envy a comrade, For be your een black, blue, or gray, Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad.

The tender heart, the charming smile, The truth that ne'er will falter, Are charms that never can beguile, And time can never alter.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51]

Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O?

Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O?

Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me, Mishap will never steer ye, O; Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O!

There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O!

There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O!

Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws-- Let them gang tapsle teerie, O!

It 's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth, My ain kind dearie, O!

[51] The first two lines of this song are borrowed from the "Lea-Rig," a lively and popular lyric, of which the first two verses were composed by Robert Fergusson, the three remaining being added by William Reid of Glasgow. (See _ante_, article "William Reid.")

HE'S LIFELESS AMANG THE RUDE BILLOWS.

AIR--_"The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."_

He 's lifeless amang the rude billows, My tears and my sighs are in vain; The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie, Will ne'er beat for mortal again.

My lane now I am i' the warld, And the daylight is grievous to me; The laddie that lo'ed me sae dearly Lies cauld in the deeps o' the sea.

Ye tempests, sae boist'rously raging, Rage on as ye list--or be still; This heart ye sae often hae sicken'd, Is nae mair the sport o' your will.

Now heartless, I hope not--I fear not,-- High Heaven hae pity on me!