第32章 1793(2)
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,And aye she sang sae merrilie;The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest;And frost will blight the fairest flowers,And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,The flower and pride of a'the glen;And he had owsen,sheep,and kye,And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi'Jeanie to the tryste,He danc'd wi'Jeanie on the down;And,lang ere witless Jeanie wist,Her heart was tint,her peace was stown!
As in the bosom of the stream,The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;So trembling,pure,was tender love Within the breast of bonie Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark,And aye she sighs wi'care and pain;Yet wist na what her ail might be,Or what wad make her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,And didna joy blink in her e'e,As Robie tauld a tale o'love Ae e'ening on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;His cheek to hers he fondly laid,And whisper'd thus his tale o'love:
"O Jeanie fair,I lo'e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me,Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,And learn to tent the farms wi'me?
"At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,Or naething else to trouble thee;But stray amang the heather-bells,And tent the waving corn wi'me."Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,And love was aye between them twa.
Lines On John M'Murdo,ESQ.
Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray;No wrinkle,furrow'd by the hand of care,Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!
O may no son the father's honour stain,Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!
Epitaph On A Lap-Dog Named Echo In wood and wild,ye warbling throng,Your heavy loss deplore;Now,half extinct your powers of song,Sweet Echo is no more.
Ye jarring,screeching things around,Scream your discordant joys;Now,half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.
Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway What dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit,Galloway,and find Some narrow,dirty,dungeon cave,The picture of thy mind.
No Stewart art thou,Galloway,The Stewarts 'll were brave;Besides,the Stewarts were but fools,Not one of them a knave.
Bright ran thy line,O Galloway,Thro'many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-famed Roman way,And ended in a mire.
Spare me thy vengeance,Galloway!
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,For thou hast none to give.
Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan When Morine,deceas'd,to the Devil went down,'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;"Thy fool's head,"quoth Satan,"that crown shall wear never,I grant thou'rt as wicked,but not quite so clever."Song -Phillis The Fair tune-"Robin Adair."While larks,with little wing,Fann'd the pure air,Tasting the breathing Spring,Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high;Such thy morn!did I cry,Phillis the fair.
In each bird's careless song,Glad I did share;While yon wild-flowers among,Chance led me there!
Sweet to the op'ning day,Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;Such thy bloom!did I say,Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk,Doves cooing were;I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,Such make his destiny,He who would injure thee,Phillis the fair.
Song -Had I A Cave tune-"Robin Adair."Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar:
There would I weep my woes,There seek my lost repose,Till grief my eyes should close,Ne'er to wake more!
Falsest of womankind,can'st thou declare All thy fond,plighted vows fleeting as air!
To thy new lover hie,Laugh o'er thy perjury;Then in thy bosom try What peace is there!
Song.-By Allan Stream By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;The winds are whispering thro'the grove,The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,An'thought on youthfu'pleasures mony;And aye the wild-wood echoes rang-
"O,dearly do I love thee,Annie!
"O,happy be the woodbine bower,Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,The place and time I met my Dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,She,sinking,said,'I'm thine for ever!'
While mony a kiss the seal imprest-
The sacred vow we ne'er should sever."
The haunt o'Spring's the primrose-brae,The Summer joys the flocks to follow;How cheery thro'her short'ning day,Is Autumn in her weeds o'yellow;But can they melt the glowing heart,Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?
Or thro'each nerve the rapture dart,Like meeting her,our bosom's treasure?
Whistle,And I'll Come To You,My Lad Chorus.-O Whistle,an'I'll come to ye,my lad,O whistle,an'I'll come to ye,my lad,Tho'father an'mother an'a'should gae mad,O whistle,an'I'll come to ye,my lad.
But warily tent when ye come to court me,And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee;Syne up the back-stile,and let naebody see,And come as ye were na comin'to me,And come as ye were na comin'to me.
O whistle an'I'll come,&c.
At kirk,or at market,whene'er ye meet me,Gang by me as tho'that ye car'd na a flie;But steal me a blink o'your bonie black e'e,Yet look as ye were na lookin'to me,Yet look as ye were na lookin'to me.
O whistle an'I'll come,&c.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a-wee;But court na anither,tho'jokin'ye be,For fear that she wile your fancy frae me,For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.
O whistle an'I'll come,&c.
Phillis The Queen O'The Fair tune-"The Muckin o'Geordie's Byre."Adown winding Nith I did wander,To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;Adown winding Nith I did wander,Of Phillis to muse and to sing.
Chorus.-Awa'wi'your belles and your beauties,They never wi'her can compare,Whaever has met wi'my Phillis,Has met wi'the queen o'the fair.
The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,So artless,so simple,so wild;Thou emblem,said I,o'my Phillis-
For she is Simplicity's child.
Awa'wi'your belles,&c.
The rose-bud's the blush o'my charmer,Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily!
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa'wi'your belles,&c.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,They ne'er wi'my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath of the woodbine,Its dew-drop o'diamond her eye.
Awa'wi'your belles,&c.
Her voice is the song o'the morning,That wakes thro'the green-spreading grove When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,On music,and pleasure,and love.
Awa'wi'your belles,&c.
But beauty,how frail and how fleeting!
The bloom of a fine summer's day;
While worth in the mind o'my Phillis,Will flourish without a decay.
Awa'wi'your belles,&c.
Come,Let Me Take Thee To My Breast Come,let me take thee to my breast,And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;And I shall spurn as vilest dust The world's wealth and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone,That I may live to love her.
Thus,in my arms,wi'a'her charms,I clasp my countless treasure;I'll seek nae main o'Heav'n to share,Tha sic a moment's pleasure:
And by thy e'en sae bonie blue,I swear I'm thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,And break it shall I never.
Dainty Davie Now rosy May comes in wi'flowers,To deck her gay,green-spreading bowers;And now comes in the happy hours,To wander wi'my Davie.
Chorus.-Meet me on the warlock knowe,Dainty Davie,Dainty Davie;There I'll spend the day wi'you,My ain dear Dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',The merry birds are lovers a',The scented breezes round us blaw,A wandering wi'my Davie.
Meet me on,&c.
As purple morning starts the hare,To steal upon her early fare,Then thro'the dews I will repair,To meet my faithfu'Davie.
Meet me on,&c.
When day,expiring in the west,The curtain draws o'Nature's rest,I flee to his arms I loe'the best,And that's my ain dear Davie.
Meet me on,&c.
Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn Scots,wha hae wi'Wallace bled,Scots,wham Bruce has aften led,Welcome to your gory bed,Or to Victorie!
Now's the day,and now's the hour;
See the front o'battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and Slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a Slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha,for Scotland's King and Law,Freedom's sword will strongly draw,Free-man stand,or Free-man fa',Let him on wi'me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!
Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!-
Let us Do or Die!
Behold The Hour,The Boat Arrive Behold the hour,the boat arrive;Thou goest,the darling of my heart;
Sever'd from thee,can I survive,But Fate has will'd and we must part.
I'll often greet the surging swell,Yon distant Isle will often hail:
"E'en here I took the last farewell;
There,latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
Along the solitary shore,While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,Across the rolling,dashing roar,I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
"Happy thou Indian grove,"I'll say,"Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro'thy sweets she loves to stray,O tell me,does she muse on me!"Down The Burn,Davie As down the burn they took their way,And thro'the flowery dale;His cheek to hers he aft did lay,And love was aye the tale:
With "Mary,when shall we return,Sic pleasure to renew?"Quoth Mary-"Love,I like the burn,And aye shall follow you."Thou Hast Left Me Ever,Jamie tune-"Fee him,father,fee him."Thou hast left me ever,Jamie,Thou hast left me ever;Thou has left me ever,Jamie,Thou hast left me ever:
Aften hast thou vow'd that Death Only should us sever;Now thou'st left thy lass for aye-
I maun see thee never,Jamie,I'll see thee never.
Thou hast me forsaken,Jamie,Thou hast me forsaken;Thou hast me forsaken,Jamie,Thou hast me forsaken;Thou canst love another jo,While my heart is breaking;Soon my weary een I'll close,Never mair to waken,Jamie,Never mair to waken!
Where Are The Joys I have Met?
tune-"Saw ye my father."
Where are the joys I have met in the morning,That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,At evening the wild-woods among?
No more a winding the course of yon river,And marking sweet flowerets so fair,No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure,But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.
Is it that Summer's forsaken our valleys,And grim,surly Winter is near?
No,no,the bees humming round the gay roses Proclaim it the pride of the year.
Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,Yet long,long,too well have I known;All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,Is Jenny,fair Jenny alone.
Time cannot aid me,my griefs are immortal,Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then,enamour'd and fond of my anguish,Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.
Deluded Swain,The Pleasure tune-"The Collier's Dochter."Deluded swain,the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee,Is but a fairy treasure,Thy hopes will soon deceive thee:
The billows on the ocean,The breezes idly roaming,The cloud's uncertain motion,They are but types of Woman.
O art thou not asham'd To doat upon a feature?
If Man thou wouldst be nam'd,Despise the silly creature.
Go,find an honest fellow,Good claret set before thee,Hold on till thou art mellow,And then to bed in glory!
Thine Am I,My Faithful Fair tune-"The Quaker's Wife."Thine am I,my faithful Fair,Thine,my lovely Nancy;Ev'ry pulse along my veins,Ev'ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,There to throb and languish;Tho'despair had wrung its core,That would heal its anguish.
Take away those rosy lips,Rich with balmy treasure;Turn away thine eyes of love,Lest I die with pleasure!
What is life when wanting Love?
Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,Nature gay adorning.
On Mrs.Riddell's Birthday 4th November 1793.
Old Winter,with his frosty beard,Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
"What have I done of all the year,To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags,dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,But spleeny English hanging,drowning.
"Now Jove,for once be mighty civil.
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me,and I've no more to say,Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,Spring,Summer,Autumn,cannot match me.""'Tis done!"says Jove;so ends my story,And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
My Spouse Nancy tune-"My Jo Janet."
"Husband,husband,cease your strife,Nor longer idly rave,Sir;Tho'I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave,Sir.""One of two must still obey,Nancy,Nancy;Is it Man or Woman,say,My spouse Nancy?'
"If 'tis still the lordly word,Service and obedience;I'll desert my sov'reign lord,And so,good bye,allegiance!""Sad shall I be,so bereft,Nancy,Nancy;Yet I'll try to make a shift,My spouse Nancy.""My poor heart,then break it must,My last hour I am near it:
When you lay me in the dust,Think how you will bear it.""I will hope and trust in Heaven,Nancy,Nancy;Strength to bear it will be given,My spouse Nancy.""Well,Sir,from the silent dead,Still I'll try to daunt you;Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!""I'll wed another like my dear Nancy,Nancy;Then all hell will fly for fear,My spouse Nancy."Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night,December 4th,1793,at the Theatre,Dumfries.
Still anxious to secure your partial favour,And not less anxious,sure,this night,than ever,A Prologue,Epilogue,or some such matter,'Twould vamp my bill,said I,if nothing better;So sought a poet,roosted near the skies,Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;Said,nothing like his works was ever printed;And last,my prologue-business slily hinted.
"Ma'am,let me tell you,"quoth my man of rhymes,"I know your bent-these are no laughing times:
Can you-but,Miss,I own I have my fears-Dissolve in pause,and sentimental tears;With laden sighs,and solemn-rounded sentence,Rouse from his sluggish slumbers,fell Repentance;Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,Waving on high the desolating brand,Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,"D'ye think,"said I,"this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh,that's poz-nay more,the world shall know it;And so,your servant!gloomy Master Poet!"Firm as my creed,Sirs,'tis my fix'd belief,That Misery's another word for Grief:
I also think-so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter,so much life enjoy'd.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say,you'll be merry,tho'you can't be rich.
Thou other man of care,the wretch in love,Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove;Who,as the boughs all temptingly project,Measur'st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck-Or,where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd,thou silly,moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.
To sum up all,be merry,I advise;
And as we're merry,may we still be wise.
Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell "Praise Woman still,"his lordship roars,"Deserv'd or not,no matter?"But thee,whom all my soul adores,Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter:
Maria,all my thought and dream,Inspires my vocal shell;The more I praise my lovely theme,The more the truth I tell.