The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 29

English bribes were a' in vain, Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be; Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine and thee.

Will ye no, &c.

We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray; Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e, Oh, there is none that wad betray!

Will ye no, &c.

Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen; But aye to me he sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again?

Will ye no, &c.

JAMIE THE LAIRD.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_

Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink, Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think; Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw, An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava.

Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e, In body or mind, nae fau't can she see; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"

Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow, An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"

Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee, His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee; He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he, A dafter-like body I never did see.

An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein', When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein'; Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation, I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation.

An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.

An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun, An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun.

Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say, "I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae, Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie, Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."

I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury-- I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury.

For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.

Freen's! gi'e your advice!--I 'll follow your counsel-- Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council, Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say, For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae.

The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin', For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin'; The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin', For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'.

For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow, For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"

Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.

AIR--_"Happy Land."_

Songs of my native land, To me how dear!

Songs of my infancy, Sweet to mine ear!

Entwined with my youthful days, Wi' the bonny banks and braes, Where the winding burnie strays, Murmuring near.

Strains of my native land, That thrill the soul, Pouring the magic of Your soft control!

Often has your minstrelsy Soothed the pang of misery, Winging rapid thoughts away To realms on high.

Weary pilgrims _there_ have rest, Their wand'rings o'er; There the slave, no more oppress'd, Hails Freedom's sh.o.r.e.

Sin shall then no more deface, Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease, Ending in eternal peace, And songs of joy!

There, when the seraphs sing, In cloudless day; There, where the higher praise The ransom'd pay.

Soft strains of the happy land, Chanted by the heavenly band, Who can fully understand How sweet ye be!

CASTELL GLOOM.[58]

Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone, The green gra.s.s o'er thee growin'; On hill of _Care_ thou art alone, The _Sorrow_ round thee flowin'.

Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's Nae banners now are streamin', The houlet flits amang thy ha's, And wild birds there are screamin'.

Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime, Frae civil war that flows; Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, And mourn the great Montrose.

Here ladies bright were aften seen, Here valiant warriors trod; And here great Knox has aften been, Wha fear'd nought but his G.o.d!

But a' are gane! the guid, the great, And naething now remains, But ruin sittin' on thy wa's, And crumblin' down the stanes.

Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow, Though sleepin' was the sun; But mornin's light did sadly show, What ragin' flames had done.

Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud, That hung o'er thy wild wood!

Thou wert like beauty in a shroud, And all was solitude.

Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

[58] Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of the n.o.ble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burnt by the Marquis of Montrose--an enterprise to which he was excited by the Ogilvies, who thus sought revenge for the destruction, by the Marquis of Argyll, of the "bonnie house of Airlie." The castle is situated on a promontory of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song. Two hill rivulets, designated _Sorrow_ and _Care_, proceed on either side of the castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached the Reformed doctrines.

BONNIE GASCON HA'.

Lane, on the winding Earn there stands An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld, Biggit by lang forgotten hands, Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.

Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd And rived thy gray disjaskit wa', But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!

Oh, may a muse unkent to fame For this dim greesome relic sue, It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name, The truest Scotland ever knew.

Just leave in peace each mossy stane Tellin' o' nations' rivalry, An' for succeeding ages hain Remains o' Scottish chivalry.

What though no monument to thee Is biggit by thy country's hand; Engraved are thy immortal deeds On every heart o' this braid land.

Rude Time may monuments ding doun, An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay; Enduring, deathless, n.o.ble chief, Thy name can never pa.s.s away!