The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 36

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Whare muirc.o.c.ks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegither, There lived an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation, The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his b.u.t.tons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin', To lock in the door was her care; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!

Gae look man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"

"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"

Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

"Our youngest son 's in the militia, Our eldest grandson 's volunteer: O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear."

His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"

And teughly she hang by his tails.

"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!

Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead; This aught days I tent.i.t a pyot Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

"And yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croakin'; I kend it foreboded some ill."

"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty, For ere the next sun may gae down, Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown?"

"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee, I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead, And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

Syne aff in a fury he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun; At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled, Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour aff in dirdum were seen, Auld wives and young la.s.ses a-sheddin'

The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon, And to the commander he gaes; Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man, And help ye to lounder our faes.

"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire, Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash, And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, I 'll turn her b.u.t.t-end, and I 'll thrash."

"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"

The captain did smiling reply, But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till daylight should glent in the sky.

Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething; Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed bannin' the French again hame.

COQUET WATER.

AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_

Whan winter winds forget to blaw, An' vernal suns revive pale nature, A shepherd lad by chance I saw, Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.

Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays, His Mary's charms an' matchless feature, While echoes answer'd frae the braes, That skirt the banks of Coquet water.

"Oh, were that bonnie la.s.sie mine,"

Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her; An' deem mysel' as happy syne, As landit laird on Coquet water.

"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam, In foreign lands their fortune fritter; But love's pure joys be mine at home, Wi' my dear la.s.s on Coquet water.

"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I, Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better; Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy, Tending my flocks by Coquet water.

"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream, For on thy banks aft hae I met her; Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam, That busk the banks of Coquet water."

THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.

AIR--_"Far frae Hame," &c._

Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the b.l.o.o.d.y wars to cease, An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace; Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea, Wad return to his la.s.sie, an' his ain countrie.

My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main, An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain; But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me, That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.

When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break, An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake; Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be, An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.

Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile sh.o.r.e, Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar; In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee, Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.

Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war, An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar: But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity, First began the b.l.o.o.d.y wark in their ain countrie.

An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!

On a far foreign sh.o.r.e now, the dear, dear ashes lie, Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea, Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.

Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!

An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won; On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily, An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.

But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land, When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be, An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.

THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.

There was a musician wha play'd a good stick, He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle, An' in his profession he had right good luck At bridals his elbow to diddle.