Page images

Three stormy nights and stormy days

We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save ;

But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,

My heart was fill’d with love for thee :
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!
O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more !"
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said,

“Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !"


GEORGE HALKET, died 1756.

OLOGIE O' Buchan, O Logie the laird !
They ha’e ta’en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma',
They ha’e ta’en awa’ Jamie, the flower o' them a'.

He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa’;
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite of them a'.

gang awa’;

Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;
Yet I'd tak’ mine ain lad wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him wi' the houses and land.

He said, Think na lang, &c.

My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor :
Though I lo’e them as weel as a daughter should do,
They're na haef sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.

He said, Think na lang, &c.

I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ;
He had but ae saxpence, he brak' it in twa,
And gi’ed me the haef o't when he gade awa'.

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa';
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And ye'll come back and see me in spite o' them a'.

Mr. Peter Buchan states that this song was written by a schoolmaster at Rathen in Aberdeenshire, of the name of George Halket, who died in 1756. Mr. Halket was & Jacobite, and wrote some squibs after the “ Forty-five," which gave such offence to the Duke of Cumberland, that he offered a reward of 1001. for the author's head. The poet, however, escaped the danger, and died peaceably in his bed. The hero of the piece was a James Robertson, gardener at Logie.

[ocr errors][merged small]

JAMES CARNEGIE. From “ The Lark,” a collection of Scottish Songs, 1765.

My daddie is a cankert carle,

He'll no twine wi' his gear ;
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife,
Hauds a' the house asteer.
But let them say, or let them do,

It's a' ane to me;
For he's low doun, he's in the brume,

That's waitin' on me :
Waitin' on me, my love,

He's waitin' on me:
For he's low doun, he's in the brume,

That's waitin' on me.

My auntie Kate sits at her wheel,

And sair she lightlies me;
But weel ken I it's a' envy,
For ne'er a joe has she.

But let them say, &c,

My cousin Kate was sair beguiled

Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen;
And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware
O’fause deluding men !

But let them say, &c.

Gleed Sandy he cam' wast yestreen,

And speir'd when I saw Pate; And aye sinsyne the neebors round They jeer me air and late.

But let them say, &c.



WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,
glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss : Even years shall ne'er destroy our love,

But only gi’e us change o' bliss.

Hae I a wish | it's a' for thee!

I ken thy wish is me to please ; Our moments pass sae smooth away,

That numbers on us look and gaze ; Weel pleased they see our happy days,

Nor envy's sel’ finds aught to blame; And aye when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there and tak’ my rest;

And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away,

And beg her not to drop a tear.

Hae I a joy? it's a’ her ain !

United still her heart and mine;
They're like the woodbine round the tree,

That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

The author of this beautiful song was the friend and correspondent of Robert Burns. In his “Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish bard," dated April 1st, 1785, Burns pays

his predecessor the following fine compliment:

There was ae sang amang the rest,
Aboon them a'it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:
It thirl'd the heart-strings through the breast

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught described sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark?'
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin fain to heart,
And sae about him there I spiert;
Then a' that ken't him round declared

He had ingine,
That nane excell'd it, few cam neart,

It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he'd made himsel',

Or witty catches,
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale

He had few matches.

Then up I gat an' swoor an aith,
Though I should pawn my plengh an' graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death

At some dyke-back,
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith

To your crack. "Lapraik,” says Burns, “was a very worthy facetious old fellow, late of Dalfram near Muirkirk, which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some persons concerned in that villanous bubble, “the Ayr Bank. He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting over their misfortunes." Lapraik died in 1807.


[graphic][merged small][merged small]

'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,

In the rosy time of the year ;
Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo'd his dear.

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and gay,

Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay: The lassie blush'd, and frowning cried, “No, no, it will not do ; cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to.”

Jocky was a wag that never would wed,

Though long he had follow'd the lass : Contented she earn’d and eat her brown bread, And merrily turn’d up the grass.

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily : Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cried, “No, no, it will not do; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to."

But when he vow'd he would make her his bride,

Though his flocks and herds were not few, She

gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, And vow'd she'd for ever be true.

« PreviousContinue »