Skip to main content

Full text of "Complete songs and poems of Robert Tannahill, with life and notes"

See other formats 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/completesongspoeOOtann 


T 


ANNAHILL  S 


Songs   and    Poems 


Jl^H^^-  J^yh^aXt^^^ 


Complete  Songs  and  Poems 


Robert  Tannaktll, 


WITH   LIFE   AND   NOTES. 


Tamnahill's  Birthplace. 


PAISLEY: 

Published  by  Wm.  Wilson,  Bookseller  and  Stationer. 

1877. 


Pr? 


^ift  of  Bobert  ^iinnahill 


0  OBERT  TANNAHILL  was  born  in  Paisley  on  the  3rd 

^  of  June,  1774.  The  Cottage,  No.  32  Castle  Street, 
is  now,  from  very  conclusive  evidence,  believed  to  be  the 
birth-place  of  the  poet ;  and  on  the  anniversary  of  his  birth, 
3rd  June,  1872,  a  memorial  stone  inserted  in  the  front  of 
the  building  (largely  through  the  instrumentality  of  the 
late  Bailie  J.  J.  Lamb)  was  unveiled  by  Provost  Murray  in 
presence  of  the  Tannahill  Club,  and  a  large  concourse 
of  people.      The   following   is   the    inscription  upon   the 

tablet : — 

Birth  Place 

OF 

ROBERT    TANNAHILL, 
BoEN  3rd  Junk,  1774. 
"  Here  nature  first  waked  me  to  rapture  and  love, 
And  taught  me,  her  beauties  to  sing." 

His  father  was  a  James  Tannahill,  who  came  originally  from 
Kilmarnock,  and  his  mother,  Janet  Pollock,  the  daughter  of 
a  farmer  near  Beith.  Both  parents  were  of  most  respect- 
able character ;  and  his  mother,  in  particular,  was  gifted 
with  an  intelligence  above  her  station.  He  was  the  fourth 
of  a  family  of  seven,  and  his  education  was  very  elementary, 
being  limited  to  the  three  "  R's,"  and  in  these  even  his 
advancement  was  not  great.  The  education,  however,  of 
one  who  is  born  a  poet,  does  not  altogether  depend  on 
schools  and  schoolmasters.  Even  in  his  school-days  he 
showed  a  love  for  verse  writing.  When  only  ten  years  of 
age  Tannahill  began  the  writing  of  short  pieces  in  verse, 
which  were  generally  com})osed  upon  some  "queer"  char- 
acter living  in  the  neighbourhood,  or  upon  some  rare  cir- 
cumstance which  had  taken  place.  After  leaving  school  he 
was  apprenticed  for  five  years  to  the  hand-loom  weaving, 
and  it  was  while  sitting  at  his  loom  that  the  greater  part 
of  his  pieces  were  composed.  That  his  literary  pursuits 
might  not  encroach  on  his  daily  occupations,  he  had  a  small 


487SJ;:5 

EMGUSH 


IV  LIFE   OF   TANNAIIILL. 

rougli  plank  board  attached  to  ilw  side  of  his  loom  which 
he  used  as  a  writing  desk ;  so  tliat  when  lie  had  a  verse 
composed  he  could  jot  it  down  witliout  waste  of  much  time. 
In  this  way,  it  is  said,  some  of  his  best  songs  were  com- 
posed. With  the  exception  of  a  short  residence  in  Loch- 
winnoch  (where  Alexander  "Wilson  the  poet  and  ornitho- 
logist was  then  too  weaving),  and  two  years  in  Bolton, 
Lancashire,  his  life  was  spent  in  Paisley.  He  and  his 
brother  went  to  England,  tempted  perhaps  by  the  report  of 
great  wages  given  beyond  the  Border  for  figured  work,  for 
which  Paisley  was  then  justly  noted,  or  more  probably  by 
a  desire  to  see  the  country.  The  suddeij  and  serious  illness 
of  his  father  recalled  him  to  Paisley  where  he  ever  after- 
wards resided,  living  ^v•ith,  and  dutifully  supporting  his 
wddowed  mother. 

Although  he  doubtless  composed  many  pieces  in  his 
younger  days,  none  of  them,  with  the  exception  of  a  song 
in  praise  of  Ferguslie  Wood,  where  he  used  frequently  to 
wander,  Avere  printed.  Soon  after  his  return  from  Eng- 
land the  poet  had  the  good  fortune  to  becojne  acquainted 
with  E.  A.  Smith,  the  well-known  composer  of  music, 
(also  a  Paisley  man,  and  then  leader  of  psalmody  in  the 
Abbey),*  who  composed  original  music  for  many  of  his 
songs,  while  various  others  he  set  to  music  ;  and  so  beauti- 
fully do  the  Avords  and  the  music  suit  one  another,  that 
Tannahill  and  Smith,  as  household  words,  go  together. 

By  the  advice  of  Mr.  Smilh,  and  other  friends,  Tanna- 
hill published  the  first  edition  of  his  poems  in  1807.  He 
superintended  it  himself,  and  occasionally  gave  the  printer's 
Devil  a  shilling  to  push  on  the  work.  It  was  dedicated  to 
his  bosom  friend,  William  M'Laren,  in  tlieso  terms  : — 

"  To  Mr.  William  M'Laren, 
Sir, 
With  gratitude  I  reflect  on  the  happy  hours  wo  have 
spent  together,  and  in  testimony  of  the  high  regard  I  en- 
tertain for  your  many  wortliy  and  amiable  qualities,  I  take 

*  A  magnificent  organ  has  lately  been  placed  in  the  Abbey  Church, 
several  fine  memoriiil  windows  have  replaced  the  old  plain  glass  ones,  and 
the  old  houses  forming  the  cast  side  of  Abbey  Close  have  been  removed, 
nnd  a  fine  wide  street  formed,  thua  improving  that  locality,  and  expoaing 
to  view  the  venerable  pile. 


LIFE   OF   TANNAniLL.  ▼ 

the  liberty  of  inscribing  to  you  this  little  volume.  Several 
of  the  pieces  contained  in  it  you  have  already  seen,  and  if 
the  others  afford  you  any  pleasure,  it  will  add  much  to  the 
happiness  of, 

Dear  Sir, 

With  true  respect  and  sincerity, 
Your  friend, 

Robert  Tannahill." 

Tlie  following  is  the  very  modest  preface  of  this  same 
edition  : — 

"  The  author  of  the  following  poems,  from  a  hope  that 
they  possess  some  little  merit,  has  ventured  to  publish 
them  ;  yet,  fully  sensible  of  that  blinding  partiality  with 
which  ■\vTiters  are  apt  to  view  their  own  productions,  he 
offers  them  to  the  public  with  unfeigned  diffidence.  AMien 
tlie  man  of  taste  and  discrimination  reads  them,  he  will,  no 
doubt,  find  many  passages  that  might  have  been  better,  but 
his  censures  may  be  qualified  with  the  remembrance  that 
they  are  the  effusions  of  an  unlettered  mechanic,  Avhose 
hopes,  as  a  poet,  extend  no  further  than  to  be  reckoned 
respectable  among  the  minor  bards  of  his  country. 

Several  of  the  songs  have  been  honoured  with  original 
music  by  Mr.  Ross,  of  Aberdeen,  and  others  by  Mr.  Smith, 
Paisley  ;  the  remainder  were  mostly  written  to  suit  fiivour- 
ite  Scotch  and  Gaelic  airs  that  particularly  pleased  the 
Author's  fancy. 

The  "Interlude"  was  undertaken  by  desire  of  the  late 
Mr.  Archibald  Pollock,  comedian,  but,  alas  !  ere  it  was  well 
begun,  his  last  act  was  played.  He  was  a  worthy  man,  and 
di^d  deeply  regretted  by  all  who  knew  him. 

The  author  returns  his  sincere  thanks  to  his  numerous 
subscribers,  particularly  to  those  friends  who  have  so  warmly 
interested  themselves  in  promoting  the  present  publication, 
and  with  a  due  sense  of  their  favours,  he  lias  only  further 
to  solicit  their  indulgence  in  the  perusal  of  his  volume, 
assuring  them  that  their  kindness  in  the  present  instance, 
shall  long  be  felt  with  gratitude  and  ever  (esteemed  among 
the  first  pleasures  of  the  memory. 

Tile  Author." 


VI  LIFE    OF    TANNAHILL. 

The  little  voluiiK!  was  well  receiv(Ml,  many  of  his  songs 
beeoniint,'  highly  popular.  Tannahill,  lujwever,  was  not 
l)uire(l  up,  hut  on  the  contrary  asserted  that  the  work  had 
many  imperfections.  "I  am  confident,"  said  he,  "had  I 
waited  a  few  years  lon<:;er,  I  would  have  presented  a  volume 
less  exceptionable."  He  therefore  soon  set  al)0ut  correcting 
his  productions,  and  fre<[U('ntly  adding  a  new  piece,  with  a 
view  to  a  fresh  issue.  Love  and  Nature  were  his  subjects. 
The  former  he  looked  upon  with  the  eye  of  a  poet,  and 
described  her  features  with  fidelity,  beauty,  and  grace. 
His  ready  access  at  all  times  to  the  "  J3onnic  Woods  of 
Craigielea,"  to  the  "  Newton  Wood,  the  "  Birks  o'  Stanley 
Shaw,"  and  the  "  Gleniffcr  Braes,"  afi'orded  him  many  advan- 
tages in  pourtraying  so  beautifully  and  truthfully  rural 
scenery. 

Some  of  the  fair  objects  of  his  love  strains  are  supposed 
to  have  been  imaginary,  yet,  in  most  cases  they  were  drawn 
from  originals.  Ijeing  well  acquainted  Avith  the  tender 
feelings  of  love  and  domestic  attachment,  as  well  as  with 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people  of  Scotland,  his 
verses  not  only  gave  great  pleasure  to  the  reader,  but  sank 
deep  into  the  heart,  and  were  calculated,  fiir  beyond  any 
other  means  to  give  a  perfect  picture;  of  the  scenes  and 
characters  they  described.  In  Tannahill's  poetry,  imagina- 
tion is  seldom  employed  to  interest  the  feelings  ;  but  his 
pictures  are  drawn  from  real  life,  hence  the  easy  access  his 
verses  have;  to  the  heart.  "  And  in  no  case  does  he  over- 
step the  limits  of  delicacy,  or  express  a  sentiment  olfensive 
to  the  ear  of  modesty."  It  would  not,  indeed,  l)e  an}'  easy 
task  to  give  the  merits  of  one  like  Tannahill,  who,  wiiile 
earning  his  daily  bread,  by  hard  manual  lalxtur,  has  attained 
a  position,  inferior  to  few  of  the  bards  of  our  country. 

The  success  which  the  first  publication  of  his  poems  ftnd 
songs  obtained,  made  his  acquaintance  courted  by  many 
who  were  his  .superiors  in  station  ;  and  it  is  gratifying  to 
know  that  the  poet  lived  to  witness  the  extensive  popularity 
of  his  songs,  which  were  pronounced  to  be  "  the  very  per- 
fection of  song  writing,"  and  to  hear  them  sung,  both  in  cot- 
tage and  in  hall. 

But  his  mind,  which  was  naturally  })rone  to  despondency, 
and  despairing  of  ever  bein^  able  to  raise  himself  above  the 


IIFE   OF   TATOTAniLL.  vii 

obscurity  of  liis  original  condition,  soon  gave  way  to  a  habit 
of  coufiniK'J  melancholy.  Uesides,  his  constitution  was 
never  strong.  Consumption  seemed  to  bo  a  hereditary 
disease  of  the  family  ;  his  ftither,  sister,  and  three  brothers 
having  died  of  it.  lie,  himself,  often  suffered  from  a  pain 
in  the  chest,  ami  he  seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  there- 
fore, that  he  too  would  die  of  this  disease.  His  countenance 
assumed  a  pale  and  (>maciated  look  ;  nevertheless  he  worked 
hard  at  the  correction  of  his  first  edition,  and  also  continued 
to  add  fresh  compositions.  While  in  this  melancholy  state, 
the  refusal  of  Mr.  Constable— whose  hands  were  already  too 
full — to  undertake  the  publication  of  his  Second  Edition, 
greatly  added  to  the  depression  of  his  spirits,  and  he  re- 
solved to  destroy  everything  which  he  had  written.  Thus, 
a  hundred  of  his  songs,  most  of  which  had  never  been 
printed,  he  burned,  l)esides  all  those  in  which  he  had  been 
engaged  correcting  for  are-issue;  and  so  bent  was  he  on 
his  work  of  destruction,  that  he  requested  his  friends  and 
acquaintances,  to  whom  he  had  lent  or  given  pieces,  to  return 
the  manuscripts,  so  that  nothing  might  be  left  after  his 
death.  Among  those  who  visited  liim  at  this  time  was  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd.  After  a  night  spent  in  delightful  con- 
geniality of  sentiment,  Tannahill  convoyed  Mr  Hogg  as  far 
as  the  "  Half- Way  "  house  between  Glasgow  and  Paisley. 
When  they  parted,  Tannahill  mournfully  exclaimed  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "  Farewell,  we  shall  never  meet  again,"  a 
presentiment  which  was  but  too  truly  verified. 

The  day  previous  to  his  death  he  went  to  Glasgow,  but 
his  eyes  then  were  wild  and  disordered,  his  pulse  beat  with 
violent  agitation,  and  he  complained  of  the  treachery  of  his 
friends,  the  decay  of  his  frame,  and  the  unsupportable 
misery  of  his  life,  Such  unequivo'cal  proofs  of  mental 
derangement  did  he  display  that  one  of  his  friends  con- 
sidered it  necessary  to  accompany  him  home  to  Paisley. 
His  brothers  hearing  of  his  state  hurried  to  his  mother's 
house,  and  finding  him  already  gone  to  bed,  and  apparently 
asleep,  they  left  him  thinking  that  next  day  he  would  be 
much  better.  One  of  the  brothers,  however,  returned  in 
about  an  hour  after,  and  was  greatly  alarmed  to  find  tho 
door  open  and  his  brother  gone.  A  search  was  immediately 
made,  and  in  the  dusk  of  the  morning  the  coat  of  the  poet 


Vill  tTFE   OF  TANTTAniLI,. 

was  found  lyin,!:^  by  tli(»  side  of  the  Maxwelton  Bum  wliert 
the  Glasgow,  Paisley,  and  Johnstone  Canal  crosses,  by  an 
aqueduct,  the  little  stream.  Vvtcr  Burnet*  dived  into  the 
pool  and,  to  the  intense  grief  of  all,  brought  up  the  lifeless 
body  of  Tannahill.  Thus  died,  17th  May,  1810,  the  poet 
in  his  thirty-sixth  year. 

While  Ave  hurry  over  his  melancholy  end,  we  cannot  but 
heave  a  sigh  that  such  a  gifted  life  should  set  in  so  dark  a 
cloud.  Rather  would  we  muse  on  the  wonderful  composi- 
tions of  this  Scottish  son  of  toil,  who  has  taught  us  many 
lessons  of  purest  morality,  who  has  left  a  name  as  a  song 
writer  little  short  of  his  great  contemporary  Burns,  and 
whose  memory  will  never  be  forgotten  so  long  as  Scotland's 
rugged  mountains  tower  to  the  sky. 
•  *  #  #  « 

One  hundred  years  have  now  nearly  come  and  gone  since 
Tannahill  first  saw  the  light  in  "  Seestu."  Many  gala  days 
during  the  cych;  have  been  held  in  the  quaint  old  town ; 
but  the  Centenary  of  the  poet's  birth — the  3rd  June,  1874 
— promises  to  outstrip  them  all.  A  holiday  has  been  pro- 
claimed— the  Freemasons  and  the  various  Trades  have  made 
arrangements  for  a  procession,  which  is  to  end  in  a  pic-nic 
at  "  Tannahill's  Well"  on  the  "  Braes" — houses  and  streets 
are  to  be  decorated — in  the  afternoon  a  Banquet  is  to  be 
held  in  the  Abercorn  Rooms,  presided  over  by  Provost 
Murray,  Chairman  of  the  Tannahill  Club ;  and  in  the 
evening  a  Concert,  chiefly  of  Tannahill's  Songs,  is  to  take 
place  in  the  Drill  Hall,  at  which  Thomas  Coats,  Esq.,  ot 
Ferguslie,  will  be  Chairman ;  and  it  is  hoped  that  one  result 
of  all  this  may  be  an  enduring  monument  worthy  of  the 
Poet,  and  worthy  of  the  toAvn  which  gave  him  birth. 

The  portrait  of  our  author  annexed  to  this  volume  is  said 
to  be  one  of  the  best.  Of  course  an  oil  painting  was  be- 
yond his  reach  or  thought,  and  photography  Avas  not 
then  discovered.  There  was  no  portrait  of  him  taken 
during  his  life,  but  after  his  death  a  sketch  of  his  features 
was  taken,  and  it  is  from  this  that  all  the  portraits  hav€ 
tmanated. 

*  Peter  Hurnet,  or  Black  Peter  as  ho  was  called  in  the  district,  was  an 
American  Negro,  and  an  acijuaintance  of  one  of  Tannahill's  brothers.  Th« 
relations  of  the  poet  eyer  afterwards  showed  him  many  attentions. 


NOTES  ON  SONGS  AND  POEMS. 


"Jessie,  the  Flower  of  Dumbl.vne,"  is  one  of  tlie  most 
popular  of  Scottish  Songs.  He  who  wrote  it  was  an  observer 
of  nature.  The  Music  is  by  the  poet's  friend,  Mr.  11,  A.  {-^mith, 
and  is  worthy  of  tlie  Song.  Jessie  is  now  believed  to  have  been 
an  imaginary  fair  one. 

"  The  Lass  o'  Arranteenie." — This  song  was  written  upon  a 
young  woman  whom  a  friend  of  Tannaliill's  met  at  Arranteenie,  or 
Ardentinny,  a  beautiful  spot  on  Loch  Long,  well  kno^vn  to  Glasgow 
and  West  Country  people.     Some  of  the  lines  remind  us  of 

"  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathomed  cavei  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen 
And  waste  its  sweetness  in  the  desert  air." 

— The  Music  is  by  Mr  Ross,  of  Aberdeen. 

"  The  Braes  o'  Gleniffer  "  contains  some  splendid  touches  of 
nature,  and  is  certainly  among  TannahiU's  best.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, so  ■well  known  as  it  deserves  to  be.  The  Braes  were  a  great 
haunt  of  Tannahill.  Within  two  miles  of  Paislej%  and  containing 
as  they  do  a  variety  of  beautiful  scenery,  they  are  much  resorted 
to  by  lovers  of  nature  from  Paisley  and  the  West  of  Scotland 
generally.  From  the  summit  of  the  Braes  you  have  a  most  exten- 
sive prospect,  and  Mr  Fulton,  the  proprietor  at  Glenfield,  is  most 
willing  to  allow  all  decent  peoi)le  to  enter  his  part  of  them.  The 
ruins  of  Stanley  Castle— the  "  Auld  Castle" — lies  at  the  base  of  the 
liills,  and  is  now  surroundeel  by  the  water  of  Stanley  Dam. 

"  OcH,  Hey,  Johnnie  Lad."— The  scene  of  this  trysting  place 
is  at  the  south  side  of  the  "  Newton  Woods."  It  is  a  very  romantic 
spot.  Formerly  there  stood  here  a  small  house  with  garden 
attached,  called  the  Screechhill,  which  was  given  by  tlie  Laird, 
Mr  Spiers,  to  one  of  his  old  servants  named  Caldwell,  along  with 
a  portion  of  ground  to  graze  a  cow,  as  long  as  he  lived.  Along  the 
Newton  Wouds  was  a  favourite  walk  of  the  Poet's — and  many  a  fine 
evening  found  him  seated  on  the  beer  or  old  malt  stone  at  the  side 
of  old  Caldwell's  door  with  his  note  book  in  hand — whence  he  could 
see  every  spot  mentioned  in  the  song  — "Newton  Woods,"  the 
"Firs  sao  green,"  "Whinny  Knowe  "— and  at  no  other  place 
around  Paisley  could  whins  be  seen  blooming  in  such  perfection. 
The  "Spunkie  Howe"  was  a  piece  of  ground  not  fit  to  be  culti- 
vated. It  Mas  while  sitting  on  the  stone  at  Caldwell's  door 
that  Tannahill  wrote  this  truly  humourous  song.  He  gave  it 
to  Mrs  Caldwell.     The  subjects  of  it  were  her  daughter  Janet  aad 


X.  NOTES. 

Iier  lad,  Joliu  Stewart,  whom,  doubtless,  the  Poet  had  often  met  in 
his  walks  in  the  district,  and  wliose  case  it  suited  so  welL  Janet 
Caldwell  an  I  Stewart  were  afterwards  married,  and  lived  ia 
Screechhill  for  sixty  years.  Only  a  few  years  since,  after  Mrs. 
Stewart  died,  was  the  farmer  allowed  to  take  oil'  the  roof. 

"  Poor  Tom,  Fare-thee-well."— In  these  lines  the  Poet 
denounces  in  withering  terms,  the  neglect,  in  old  age,  by  the  purse- 
proud,  of  those  wiio  have  spent  their  strength  in  their  country's 
service. 

"  Ear  RorysOK's  Bonnet." — Most  of  the  persons  described  by 
Tannaiiill  were  real,  and  it  is  believed  that  the  model  of  this  witty 
and  humorous  song  was  either  M'Neil,  of  Barra,  or  Riddell,  of 
Lochwiunoch . 

"Lassie  taic  the  Lad  ye  like."— No  doubt  the  Poet  had 
.'wme  of  his  Paisley  acquaintances  in  view  in  penning  these  lines. 
Instances  could  not  but  be  common,  then  as  now,  of  a  couple  com- 
Tuencing  housekeeping  in  a  small  way,  and,  by  industry  and 
economy,  attaining  to  comfort  and  even  aflluencc.  This  song  and 
his  "  Irish  Farmer"  prove  that  "  True  happiness  has  no  localities." 

"On!  are  ye  Sleepinq  Maggie."— This  is  dcscr^•edly  a 
popular  song — music  being  well  fitted  to  the  words.  A  wild 
■winter's  night  is  most  truthfully  pictured  out.  Maggie  is  believed 
to  have  been  a  cousin  of  the  Poet's  who  lived  near  BeitlL 

"  Wallace's  Lament."—  Tliis  song  tries  to  describe  the  feelings 
of  the  great  hero  after  his  terrible  defeat  by  the  English  at  Falkirk. 
Though  certainly  far  short  of  Burns'  lines,  we  think  they  have  been 
much  underrated.  Elderslie,  the  birtli])lace  of  WalLico,  is  about 
two  miles  west  of  Paisley.  In  I'aisley  Fountain  Gardens  may  be 
seen  a  young  tree  grown  from  au  acorn  of  Wallace's  tree  which 
grew  at  Elderslie. 

"  Accuse  Me  Not." — It  is  believed  that  the  Poet  ira.s  in  love 
with  some  young  woman,  and  that  she  proved  false.  Hence  this 
song. 

"  The  Dusky  Glen." — The  Glen  here  described  wius  either  the 
AJtpatrick  Burn,  near  Elderslie,  or  the  burn  at  Glcnfield,  near 
wliich  is  the  well  called  "Tannahill's  WcU." 

"Through  Cruikston  Castle's  Lonely  Wa's."— This  old 
Castle  stands  on  a  commanding  eminence  about  midway  between 
Glasgow  and  Paisley,  near  the  banks  of  the  Canal.  C^ueen  Mary 
of  Scotland  iiere  awaited  tlie  issue  of  the  battle  of  l^angside. 
Fortunately  this  old  castle  lias  found  a  preserver  in  its  ])roprietor, 
Sir  Joliu  .\iaxwell.  It  is  a  favourite  spot  for  pic-nic  parties  from 
Glasgow  and  I'aisley. 


NOTES.  XI. 

"  Gloomy  Winter's  Nog  Awa." — This  song  for  a  considcnilile 
time  enjoj'ed  great  popularity.  It  then  l)ecanie  comparatively  for- 
gotten until  the  splendid  singing  of  it  by  INliss  E.  Paton  brought 
it  once  again  into  favour,  and  it  has  continued  ever  since  to  be  a 
favourite.  All  the  places  named  and  described  in  it  are  Avithiu 
easy  range  of  "  Seestu." 

"From  Hill  to  Hill"  was  written  on  the  threatened  invasion 
by  Napoleon,  and  is  really  a  very  good  warlike  song — a  class  of 
which  we  are  not  particularly  well  possessed.  Take  away  the 
Jacobite  songs,  and  we  have  few  of  real  merit. 

"  Thou  Bonnie  Wood  o'  Craigielee."— Just  outside  Paisley, 
and  near  the  present  Gas  Work  was  the  wood.  Not  a  vestige  of  it 
now  remains  to  show  us  the  spot  where  Tannahill  and  his  young 
friends,  tlic  "West  End  Callans,"  went  a  bird  nesting.  While, 
however,  the  wood  has  gone,  the  song  lives,  and  WILL  as  long  as  a 
true  heart  beats  in  a  Scottisli  breast.  It  appeals  not,  however,  to 
country — but,  like  all  true  poetry,  to  humanity. 

"Lowlan'  Lassie  Wilt  Thou  go,"  is  a  truly  good  song,  and 
deserves  to  be  more  widely  known.  The  music  was  arranged  by 
Mr  Ross. 

"The  COGGlfi"is  a  good  convivial  song,  and  maybe  favour- 
ably compared  with  some  of  Burns'  of  the  same  class. 

"Come  Hame  to  Your  Lingels." — Tannahill  here  describes 
scenes  which  unfortunately  were  too  common  then  as  now,  and  all 
caused  by  "  Muuonday's  Yill." 

"  The  Soldier's  Return."— It  may  at  once  be  admitted  that 
this  play  has  not  been  a  success,  though  the  careful  reader  Avill 
find  in  it  many  lines  of  high  merit.  The  scene  is  laid  at  Altpatrick 
Burn,  and  the  Dramatis  Fersonw  were  people  known  at  the  time. 
It  was  written  at  the  request  of  the  Poet's  friend,  Mr  Archibald 
Pollock,  comedian,  who  died  just  as  it  was  commenced,  and  thus 
Tannahill  lost  the  assistance  of  him  who  could  have  been  of  great 
use  in  his  new  and  untried  field. 

"  Oh  !  Death,  it's  no  Thy  Deeds  I  Mourn,"  was  written  on 
Alexander  Wilson  emigrating  to  America.  Wilson  was  born  in 
the  Seedhill  of  Paisley,  and  like  his  contemporary,  Tannahill,  was 
brought  up  to  the  weaving  trade.  While  at  the  loom,  like  Tanna- 
hill, he  took  to  writing  verse,  but,  unfortunately,  in  one  of  his  pieces, 
he  assaulted  the  private  character  of  one  of  the  Manufacturers.  In 
legal  proceedings  which  were  taken  against  him,  he  found  himself 
much  humiliated,  and  this,  together  with  discontentment  at  his  lot. 
induced  him  to  emigrate  to  America.  Some  of  his  pieces  are  of 
uncommon  merit,  but  the  best  knoAvn  of  all  is,  perhaps,  "Watty 
and  Meg."  For  a  description  of  character  in  that  sphere  it  is  un- 
surpassed,     Alexander    Wilson's   great    work,    however,  is  his 


Xll.  NOTES. 

"  American  Ornithology."  lie  dieil  ut  J*hil;ulelphia,  1813.  Avery 
fine  statue  of  him  in  l)ronze  and  mounted  on  a  pedestal  was  set 
up  within  the  Taialey  Abbey  gates  in  187-1. 

"The  Negro  Girl"  is  a  very  pathetic  piece,  picturing  out 
very  feelingly  the  miseries  slavery  inflicted  on  the  Negro. 

"The  Wandering  Bard."— The  Poet  here  describes  the 
reception  wliich  a  wandering  minstrel  got  at  an  inn.  At  that  time 
Khymers  used  to  travel  the  country  and  repeat  their  pieces. 

"  The  Flowek  o'  Levern  Side." — The  Levern  is  a  tributary  of 
the  Cart,  joining  it  near  Cruikston  Castle.  "The  Sunny  Braes 
that  skirt  the  ('lyde"  mentioned  in  this  ])iece  refer  to  the  Kilpatrick 
Hills,  -which  Tannahill  could  see  from  Gleuitler  Braes 

"The  Dirge  of  Carolan."— Carolan  was  the  last  of  the 
Irish  bards,  and  tlie  most  famous  of  them  all.  He  died  poor. 
Nearly  every  country  has  had  its  bards,  and  those  acquainted 
with  history  will  remember  that  the  charge  of  murdering  the 
Welsh  bards,  lest  they  should  keep  alive  the  independent  spiri, 
among  the  people,  is  brought  against  Edward  I.  Scotland  ha 
hers  too— such  as  Blind  Harry.     France  had  her  Troubadours,  &c^ 

"The  Kebbuckston  Wedding,"  is  a  very  Ixappy  efFusion,  an</ 
])ictures  out  the  customs  prevalent  at  marriages  in  Scotland  at  that 
time.  Watty,  the  hero,  was  nobody  knows  who,  but  Willie 
Gall)raith  was  a  well  known  fiddler  in  Kilbarchan,  who  did  good 
service  at  all  surrounding  convivial  parties. 

"  The  Trifler's  Sabbath  Day"  is  a  capital  picture,  and  true 
to  the  life,  of  many  who  desecrate  the  Sabbath. 

"  The  Portrait  of  Guilt,"  is  in  imitation  of  Mr.  Lewis,  a 
romance  writer,  wlio  was  contemporary  with  Tannahill.  The 
pictm-e  is  a  dreadful  one. 

"The  Epistle  to  Alexander  Borland."— It  was  ^Ir.  Bor- 
land whom  Tannahill  was  visiting  in  (Uasgow  when  it  was  noticed 
that  his  mind  was  deranged.     Mr  Borland  accompanied  him  home. 

"TOWSER — A  Tale,"  was  written  on  the  death  of  the  Poet's 
dog,  which  used  to  accompany  him  in  all  his  rambles  on  Gleuitler 
Braes,  in  Newton  Woods,  by  Cruikston  Castle,  &c. 


1 


TAJSTNAHILL'S    SONGS. 


^^l^-S- 


Music  by  E.  A.  Smith. 


fi=i=i==p 


[ — n L./ — ^ — ^ — ^ — z — 5- 


:1»!=::^- 


i 


The      sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the     lof  -  ty  Ben  -  lo-mond,  And 


5 


::fi_-K_^=^ 


? — »— a-9=F^^^-^^. 


5— v^ — ' --r_i.  V- 


_.e- 


left      the  red  clouds  to    pre  -  side  o'er  the  scene ;  While  lane-ly      I 


S 


_i ^^ 2 I*. 


^— iJr 


stray    in    the    calm  sim-mer  gloam-in',  To    muse  on  sweet  Jes-sie'  the 


=?=5fe^ 


^p-p: 


1^=:^ 


tik!: 


flow'r    o'  Dum-blane.   How  sweet  is   the   brier,  wi'   its    saft  fauld-ing 


^C=^ 


::^ 


ya 


som,  And  sweet  is      the  birk,  wi'    its   man  -  tie    o'   green ;  Yet 


:P=: 


er    an'   fair  -  er,    an' dear    to   this    bo  -  som,    Is  love -ly  young 

Espress.  ^^ 


F=^ 


==?^ 


^^=S: 


i=^: 


zjtq^p^?; 


sie,    the  flow'r  o'  Dum-blane.     Is      love  -  ly  young  Jes-sie,    Is 
Tem^jo. 


^r=.   _^_i4l 


love  •  ly  young  Jes-sie,  Is  love  •  ly  young  Jes-sie,  the  riow'r  o'  Dumbla&A. 


2  TAinS"AHILT,'s    SONGS. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blythe  as  she's  bonnie, 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain; 
And  far  he  the  villain,  divested  o'  feeling, 

Wha'd  blii^ht  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 
Sinf?  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the  e'ening, 

Thou'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen; 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 

IIow  lost  were  my  days  till  T  met  wi'  my  Jessie, 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain, 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  could  ca'  my  dear  lassie, 

Till  charmed  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane, 
Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  grandeur. 

Amidst  its  profusion  I'd  languish  in  pain  ; 
And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o'  its  splendour. 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 


Wil^xk  lire  ^XRia-'jQmxantti  'gnxh 

While  the  gray-pinioned  lark  eai'ly  mounts  to  the  skies, 

And  cheerily  hails  the  sweet  ('awn, 
And  the  sun,  newly  risen,  sheds  the  mist  from  his  eyes, 

And  smiles  over  mountain  and  lawn, 
Delighted  I  stray  by  the  fairy-wood  side. 

Where  the  dewdrops  the  crowflowers  adorn. 
And  nature  ai'rayed  in  her  midsunnner's  pride, 

Sweetly  smiles  to  the  smile  of  the  morn. 

Ye  dark  waving  plantings,  ye  green  shady  bowers, 

Your  charms  ever  varying  I  view ; 
My  soul's  dearest  ti-ansports,  my  happiest  hours. 

Have  owed  half  their  phiasures  to  you. 
Sweet  Ferguslie,  hail !  thou'rt  the  dear  sacred  gi'ove. 

Where  first  my  young  muse  spread  her  wing; 
Here  nature  first  waked  me  to  rai)tnre  and  love, 

And  taught  me  her  beauties  to  sing. 


TANNAHILL'S   SONGS.  "3 

|^0ub0n's  gcrnntc  Moobs  nnH  gracs. 

Air — "Earl  Moira's  strathspey." 

[The  hero  and  heroine  of  this  song  were  the  Earl  and  Countess  of 
Moira,  afterwards  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Hastings.] 

Loudon's  bonnie  woods  and  braes, 

I  maun  lea'  them  a'  lassie  ; 
Wha  can  thole  when  Britain's  faes 

Would  gie  Britons  law,  lassie  ? 
Wha  would  shun  the  field  o'  danger  ? 
Wha  frae  fame  wad  live  a  stranger  1 
Now  when  freedom  bids  avenge  her, 

Wha  would  shun  her  ca'  lassie  ? 
Loudon's  bonnie  woods  and  braes 
Ha'e  seen  our  happy  bridal  days, 
And  gentle  hope  shall  soothe  thy  waes, 

When  I  am  far  awa',  lassie. 

Hark  !  the  swelling  bugle  sings, 

Yielding  joy  to  thee,  laddie  ; 
But  the  doleful  bugle  brings 

Waefu'  thoughts  to  me,  laddie. 
Lonely  I  maun  climb  the  mountain, 
Lonely  stray  beside  the  fountain, 
Still  the  weary  moments  countiu', 

Far  frae  love  and  thee,  laddie. 
O'er  the  gory  fields  o'  war. 
When  vengeance  drives  his  crimson  car, 
Thou'lt  maybe  fa',  frae  me  afar. 

And  nane  to  close  thy  e'e,  laddie. 

Oh,  resume  thy  wonted  smile ! 

Oh,  suppress  thy  fears,  lassie  ! 
Glorious  honour  crowns  the  toil 

That  the  soldier  shares,  lassie. 
Heaven  will  shield  thy  faithful  lover, 
Till  the  vengeful  strife  is  over. 
Then  we'll  meet,  nae  mair  to  sever, 

fill  the  day  we  die,  lassie  : 


TANlTAeitL  S    SONGE 


'Midst  our  l)oi>nio  woods  and  braes, 
We'll  spend  ouf  ])eaccful,  lia|)[)y  days, 
As  blytho's  yon  lightsome  lamb  that  plays 
On  Loudon's  flowery  lea,  lassie. 


Air — "  The  lass  o'  Arranteenie." 

Fab  lone,  amang  the  Highland  hills, 

'Midst  nature's  wildest  grandeur, 
By  rocky  dens  and  woody  glens, 

With  weary  steps  I  wander  : 
The  langsome  way,  the  darksome  day, 

The  mountain  mist  sae  rainy, 
Are  nought  to  me  when  gaun  to  thee, 

Sweet  lass  o'  Arranteenie. 

Yon  mossy  rosebud  down  the  howe, 

Just  opening  fresh  and  bonnie, 
Blinks  sweetly  'neatli  the  hazel  bough, 

And's  scarcely  seen  by  ony  : 
Sae  sweet  amid  her  native  hills. 

Obscurely  blooms  my  Jeanie  ; 
Mair  fair  and  gay  than  rosy  May, 

The  flower  o'  Arranteenie. 

Now,  from  the  mountain's  lofty  brow, 

I  view  the  distant  ocean  ; 
There  avarice  guides  the  bounding  prow, 

Ambition  courts  promotion. 
Let  fortune  pour  her  golden  store, 

Her  laurelled  favours  many  ; 
Give  me  but  this,  my  soul's  first  wish, 

The  lass  o'  Arranteenie. 


CIjc  gracs  0'  (Slcntfcr. 

Ail" — "  Saw  ye  my  wee  thing.'' 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  the  braes  0'  Glenifier, 
The  auld  castle's  turrets  are  covered  wi'  snaw ; 

How  changed  frae  the  time  when  I  met  wi'  my  lover 
Amang  the  broom  bughes  by  Stanley  green  shaw  ; 


\ 


TANNAHILL  S   SOKGS.  0 

The  wi]d  flowers  o'  simmer  were  spread  a'  sae  bonnie, 
The  mavis  sung  sweet  frae  the  green  birken  tree  ; 

But  f^xr  to  the  camp  they  ha'e  marched  my  dear  Johnnie, 
And  now  it  is  winter  wi'  nature  and  me. 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blythesome  and  cheerie, 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonnie  and  braw  ; 
Now  naething  is  heard  but  the  wind  whistling  dreary, 

And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide-spreading  snaw. 
The  trees  are  a'  bare,  and  the  birds  mute  and  dowie ; 

They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings  as  they  flee. 
And  chirp  out  their  plaints,  seeming  wae  for  my  Johnnie ; 

'Tis  winter  wi'  them  and  'tis  winter  wi'  me. 

Ton  cauld  sleety  cloud  skiffs  alang  the  bleak  mountain. 

And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep  rocky  brae, 
While  down  the  deep  glen  bawls  the  snaw-flooded  fountain, 

That  murmured  sae  sweet  to  my  laddie  and  me. 
'Tis  no  its  loud  roar  on  the  wint'ry  wiiid  swellin', 

'Tis  no  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  i'  my  e'e, 
For,  oh,  gin  I  saw  but  my  bonnie  Scots  callan. 

The  dark  days  o'  winter  were  simmer  to  me  ! 


Air — "  The  lasses  of  the  ferry." 
OcH,  hey  !  Johnnie,  lad, 

Ye're  no  sae  kind's  ye  should  ha'e  been  ; 
Och,  hey  !  Johnnie,  lad, 

Ye  didna  keep  your  tryst  yestreen  : 
I  waited  lang  beside  the  wood, 

Sae  wae  and  weary,  a'  my  lane ; 
Och,  hey  !  Johnnie,  lad, 
Ye're  no  sae  kind's  ye  should  ha'e  been. 

I  looked  by  the  whinny  knowe, 

I  looked  by  the  firs  sae  green, 
I  looked  o'er  the  spuukie  hwwve, 

And  aye  I  thought  you  would  ha'e  been. 
The  ne'er  a  supper  crossed  my  eraig, 

The  ne'er  a  sleep  has  closed  fliy  e'en  ; 
Och,  hey  !  Johnnie,  lad, 

Ye're  no  sae  kind's  ye  should  ha'e  been. 


Tanttahtll's  sottcs. 

Gin  ye  were  waiting;  by  the  wood, 
Then  I  was  Availing  by  the  thorn, 

I  thought  it  was  the  place  we  set, 

And  waited  maist  till  dawning  mom. 

Sae  be  na  vexed,  my  bonnie  lassie, 
Let  my  waiting  stand  for  thine. 

We'll  awa'  to  Craigton  shaw, 

And  seek  the  joys  we  tint  yestreen. 


^ht  llrncs  of  gnlqubitbcr. 

Air — "The  three  carles  o'  Buchanan." 

Lft  us  go,  lassie,  go 

To  the  braes  of  Balquhither, 
Where  the  blaeberries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather  ; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  rae, 

Lightly  bounding  together, 
Sport  the  lang  simmer  day 

On  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower, 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 
And  I'll  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flowers  o'  the  mountain. 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds, 

And  tlie  deep  glens  sae  dreary, 
And  return  wi'  their  spoils, 

To  the  bower  o'  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling  ; 
80  merrily  we  will  sing. 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us, 
"rill  the  dear  shoeliug  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 


TAFNAHILLS   SONGS. 

Now  the  simmer  is  in  prime, 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming  ; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes  • 

Let  us  journey  together, 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns, 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 


Jflw  im  k  some  JItscrt  Jfsle. 

Yly  we  to  some  desert  isle, 

There  we'll  pass  our  days  together, 

Shun  the  world's  derisive  smile, 

AVandering  tenants  of  the  heather  ; 

Sheltered  in  some  lowly  glen, 

Far  removed  from  mortal  ken, 

Forget  the  selfish  ways  o'  men. 

Nor  feel  a  wish  beyond  each  other. 

ThouQ;h  my  friends  deride  me  still, 
Jamie  I'll  disown  thee  never  ; 

Let  them  scorn  me  as  they  will, 
I'll  be  thine,  and  thine  for  ever. 

What  are  a'  my  kin'  to  me, 

A'  their  pride  of  pedigree  1 

What  were  life,  if  wanting  thee, 

And  what  were  death  it  we  maun  sever  ? 


snir  d  xm  lljc  toitltss  bjblj. 

Oh,  sair  I  rue  the  witless  wish, 

That  gar'd  me  gang  wi'  you  at  e'en ; 
And  sair  I  rue  the  birken  bush. 

That  screened  us  wi'  its  leaves  sae  green : 
And  though  you  vowed  you  would  be  mine, 

The  tear  o'  grief  aye  dims  my  e'e  ; 
For,  oh  !  I'm  feared  that  I  may  tine 

The  love  that  you  ha'e  promised  me  I 


TAOTTAHILL  S    80X09. 

While  itlicrs  seek  their  e'ening  sports, 

I  wander  dowie,  a'  my  lane, 
For  when  T  join  my  glad  resorts, 

Their  dading  gi'es  me  meiklc  pain. 
Alas,  it  was  na  sae  short  syne, 

When  a'  my  nights  were  spent  wi'  glee; 
But,  oh !  I'm  feared  that  I  may  tine 

The  love  that  you  ha'c  promised  me. 

Dear  lassie,  keep  thy  heart  aboon, 

For  I  ha'e  waired  my  winter's  lee  ; 
Fve  coft  a  bonnie  silken  gown. 

To  be  a  bridal  gift  for  thee. 
And  sooner  shall  the  hill  fa'  down. 

And  mountain  high  shall  stand  the  sea, 
Ere  I'd  accept  a  gouden  crown. 

To  change  that  love  I  bear  for  thee. 


The  breeze  of  the  night  fans  the  dark  mountain's  breast, 
And  the  light  bounding  deer  have  all  sunk  to  their  rest; 
The  big  sullen  waves  lash  the  loch's  rocky  shore, 
And  the  lone  drowsy  fisherman  nods  on  his  oar. 
Though  pathless  the  moor,  and  though  starless  the  skies, 
The  star  of  my  heart  is  my  Kitty's  bright  eyes ; 
And  joyful  I  hie  over  glen,  brake,  and  fell, 
In  secret  to  meet  my  sweet  Kitty  Tyrell. 

Ah!  long  we  have  loved  in  her  father's  despite, 
And  oft  we  have  met  at  the  dead  hour  of  night. 
When  hard-hearted  vigilance,  sunk  in  repose. 
Grave  love  one  sweet  hour  its  fond  tale  to  disclose. 
These  moments  of  transport,  to  me,  oh,  how  dear ! 
And  the  fate  that  would  part  us,  alas,  how  severe ! 
Although  the  rude  storm  rise  with  merciless  swell, 
This  night  I  shall  meet  my  sweet  Kitty  Tyrell. 

Ah !  turn,  hapless  youth  !  see  the  dark  cloud  of  death. 
Comes  rollics:  in  jrloom  o'er  the  wild  haunted  heath; 
Deep  groans  the  scathed  oak  on  the  glen's  cliffy  brow, 
A.nd  the  sound  of  the  torrent  seems  heavy  with  woe. 


taiwahill's  songs.  9 

Away,  foolish  seer,  with  thy  fancies  so  wild, 
Go,  tell  thy  weak  dreams  to  some  credulous  child ; 
Love  guides  my  light  steps  through  the  lone  dreary  dell, 
And  I  fly  to  the  arms  of  sweet  Kitty  Tyrell. 


Sine  mn  ^tixx  ^omtho^^. 

Air—"  Were  I  obliged  to  beg." 

"When  gloaming  treads  the  heels  of  day, 
And  birds  sit  cowering  on  the  spray, 
Alang  the  flowery  hedge  I  stray, 
To  meet  mine  ain  dear  somebody. 

The  scented  brier,  the  fragrant  bean, 
The  clover  bloom,  the  dewy  green, 
A'  charm  me  as  I  rove  at  e'en, 
To  meet  mine  ain  dear  somebody. 

Let  warriors  prize  the  hero's  name, 
Let  mad  ambition  tower  for  fame, 
I'm  happier  in  my  lowly  hame, 
Obscurely  bless'd  wi'  somebody. 


g^sp airing  ITIarir. 

Mart,  why  thus  waste  thy  youthtime  in  sorrow? 

yee  a'  around  you  the  flowers  sweetly  blaw ; 
Blythe  sets  the  sun  o'er  the  wild  clifls  of  Jura, 

Blythe  sings  the  mavis  in  ilka  green  shaw  ! 
How  can  this  heart  ever  mair  think  of  pleasure. 

Simmer  may  smile,  but  delight  I  ha'e  nane  ; 
Cauld  in  the  grave  lies  my  heart's  only  treasure, 

Nature  seems  dead  since  my  Jamie  is  gane. 

This  kerchief  he  gave  me,  a  true  lover's  token, 

Dear,  dear  to  me  was  the  gift  for  his  sake ' 
I  wcar't  near  my  heart,  but  this  poor  heart  :s  broken, 

Hope  died  with  Jamie,  and  left  it  to  break. 
Sighing  for  him  I  lie  down  in  the  e'ening. 

Sighing  for  him  I  awake  in  the  morn ; 
Spent  are  my  days  a'  in  secret  repining, 

Peace  to  this  bosom  can  never  return. 


10  TA.IfNAHILL's    SONGS. 

Oft  have  we  wandered  in  sweetest  retirement, 

Telling  our  loves  'neath  the  moon's  silent  beam  ; 
Sweet  were  our  meetings  of  tender  endearment. 

But  fled  are  these  joys  like  a  fleet  passing  dream. 
Cruel  romembran(?e,  ah  !  why  wilt  thou  rack  me? 

Brooding  o'er  joys  that  for  ever  are  flown  ; 
Cruel  remembrance,  iu  pity  forsake  me, 

Flee  to  some  bosom  where  grief  is  unknown  ! 

|l0or  ^om,  Jfarc-tljct-txrcK. 

'MoxGST  life's  many  cares  there  is  none  so  provoking, 

As  when  a  brave  seaman,  disabled  and  old, 
Must  crouch  to  the  worthless,  and  stand  the  rude  mocking 

Of  those  who  have  nought  they  can  boast  but  their  gold  : 
Poor  Tom,  once  so  high  on  the  list  of  deserving. 

By  captain  and  crew  none  so  dearly  were  prized, 
At  home  now  laid  up,  worn  with  many  years'  serving, 

Poor  Tom  takes  his  sup,  and  poor  Tom  is  despised. 

Yet,  care  thrown  a-lee,  see  old  Tom  in  his  plory, 

Placed  snug  with  a  shipmate,  whose  life  once  he  saved, 
Recounting  the  feats  of  some  bold  naval  story. 

The  battles  they  fought,  and  the  storms  they  had  braved. 
In  his  country's  defence  he  has  dared  every  danger, 

His  valorous  deeds  he  might  boast  undisguised  ; 
Yet  honie-iiearted  landsmen  hold  Tom  as  a  stranger, 

Poor  Tom  loves  his  suj),  and  poor  Tom  is  depised. 

Myself,  too,  am  old,  rather  rusted  for  duty, 

Yet  still  I'll  prefer  the  wide  ocean  to  roam  ; 
I'd  join  some  bold  corsair,  and  live  u])on  booty, 

Beibre  I'd  be  gibed  by  these  sucklings  at  home. 
Poor  Tom,  fare-thee-well !  for,  by  heaven,  'tis  provoking, 

When  thus  a  brave  seaman,  disabled  and  old, 
Must  crouch  to  the  worthless,  and  stand  the  rude  mocking. 

Of  those  who  Jiave  nought  they  can  boast  but  their  gold. 


'gavrocb;in  iiean. 

Air— "  Johnnie  M'Gill." 

'Tis  ha'ena  ye  heard,  man,  o'  Barroclian  Jean  ? 
And  ha'ena  ye  heard,  man,  o'  Barrochau  Jean? 


tannahill's  songs.  11 

How  death  and  starvation  cam'  o'er  the  whole  nation, 
She  wroufjht  sic  mischief  wi'  her  twa  pawky  een. 

The  lads  and  the  lasses  were  dyinp;  in  dizzens, 

The  ane  killed  with  love,  and  the  tither  wi'  spleen ; 

The  plouf^hing,  the  sawing,  the  shearing,  the  mawing, 
A'  wark  w^as  forgotten  for  Barrochan  Jean. 

Frae  the  south  and  the  north,  o'er  the  Tweed  and  the  Forth, 

Sic  coming  and  ganging  there  never  was  seen ; 
The  comers  were  cheerie,  the  gangers  were  blearie. 

Despairing  or  hoping  for  Barrochan  Jean. 
The  carlins  at  hame  were  a'  girning  and  graning. 

The  bairns  were  a'  greeting  frae  morning  till  e'en ; 
They  get  naething  for  crowdy  but  runts  boiled  to  sowdy, 

For  naething  got  growing  for  Barrochan  Jean. 

The  doctors  declared  it  was  past  their  describing, 

The  ministers  said  'twas  a  judgment  for  sin  ; 
But  they  looked  sae  blae,  and  their  hearts  were  sae  wae, 

I  was  sure  they  were  dying  for  Barrochan  Jean. 
The  burns  on  road-sides  were  a'  dry  wi'  their  drinking, 

Yet  a'  wadna  sloken  the  drouth  i'  their  skin  ; 
A'  round  the  peat-stacks,  and  alangst  the  dyke  backs, 

E'en  the  winds  were  a'  sighing,  sweet  Barrochan  Jean  1 

The  timmer  ran  done  wi'  making  o'  coffins, 

Ivirkyards  o'  their  sward  were  a'  howkit  fu'  clean ; 
Dead  lovers  were  packed  like  herring  in  barrels. 

Sic  thousands  were  dyiug  for  Barrochan  Jean. 
But  mony  braw  thanks  to  the  laird  o'  Glenbrodie, 

The  grass  owrc  their  graves  is  now  bonuie  and  green ; 
He  stole  the  proud  heart  o'  our  wanton  young  lady, 

And  spoiled  a'  the  harms  o'  her  twa  pawky  een. 


Air — "  The  auld  wife  o'  the  glen." 

Te'll  a'  ha'e  heard  tell  o'  Eab  Eoryson's  bonnet, 
Te'll  a'  ha'e  heard  tell  o'  Eab  Koryson's  bonnet; 
'Twas  no  for  itsel',  'twas  the  head  that  was  in  it, 
Gar'd  a'  bodies  talk  o'  Bab  Eoryson's  bonnet. 


12  TANTTAnTLL's    SOTTGS. 

This  bonnet,  that  thcekit  his  wonderl'u'  head, 
"Was  his  shelter  iu  winter,  in  simmer  his  shade; 
And  at  kirk,  or  at  market,  or  bridals,  I  ween, 
A  braw  gawcier  bonnet  there  never  was  seen. 

"Wi'  a  round  rosy  tap,  like  a  meikle  blackboyd, 

It  was  slouched  just  a  kenning  on  ither  hand  side  ; 

Some  maintained  it  was  black,  some  maintained  it  was  blue, 

It  had  something  o'  baith,  as  a  body  may  trow. 

But,  in  sooth,  I  assure  you,  for  ought  that  I  saw, 
Still  his  bonnet  had  naething  uncommon  ava'; 
Tliough  the  whole  parish  talked  o'  Rab  Eoryson's  bonnet, 
'Twas  a'  for  the  marvellous  head  that  was  in  it. 

That  head,  let  it  rest,  it  is  now  in  the  mools, 
Though  in  life  a'  the  warld  beside  it  were  fools ; 
Tet  o'  what  kind  o'  wisdom  his  head  was  possessed, 
Kane  e'er  kenned  but  himsel',  sae  there's  nane  that  will 
miss't. 


Wi^tix  loljtt  anb  mc  [xitxt  marrrcb'. 

Air — "  Clean  pease  strae." 

When  John  and  me  were  married, 

Our  hadding  was  but  sma', 
For  my  minnie,  cankered  carling. 

Would  gi'e  us  nought  ava': 
I  wair't  my  fee  wi'  cannie  care, 

As  far  as  it  would  gae, 
But  weel  I  wat  our  bridal  bed 

Was  clean  pease  strae. 

Wi'  working  late  and  early. 

We're  come  to  what  you  see; 
For  fortune  thrave  aneath  our  liand, 

Sae  eydent  aye  were  we. 
The  lowe  o'  love  made  labour  light, 

I'm  sure  ye'U  find  it  sae. 
When  kind  ye  cuddle  down  at  e'en, 

'Mang  clean  pease  strae. 


TAirtTAHILL's  SOKGS.  13 

The  rose  blooms  gay  on  cairney  brae, 

As  weel's  in  birken  shaw, 
And  love  will  lowe  in  cottage  low, 

As  weel's  in  lofty  ha'; 
Sae,  lassie,  tak'  the  lad  ye  like, 

Whate'er  your  minnie  say, 
Though  you  should  mak'  your  bridal  bed 

O'  clean  pease  strae. 


Air — "  Sir  John  Scott's  favourite." 

Dear  Judy,  when  first  we  got  married, 

Our  fortune  indeed  was  but  small, 
Por  save  the  light  hearts  that  we  carried, 

Our  riches  were  nothing  at  all : 
I  sung  while  I  reared  up  the  cabin, 

Te  powers  give  me  vigour  and  health. 
And  a  truce  to  all  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Tor  love  is  Pat  Mulligan's  wealth. 

Through  summer  and  winter  so  dreary, 

I  cheerily  toiled  on  the  farm, 
Nor  ever  once  dreamed  growing  weary, 

For  love  gave  my  labour  its  charm. 
And  now,  though  'tis  weak  to  be  vauuty, 

Yet  here  let  us  gratefully  own, 
"We  live  amidst  pleasure  and  plenty, 

As  happy' s  the  king  on  the  throne. 

We've  Murdoch,  and  Patrick,  and  Connor, 

As  fine  little  lads  as  you'll  see, 
And  Kitty,  sweet  girl,  'pon  my  honour. 

She's  just  the  dear  picture  of  thee. 
Though  some  folks  may  still  underrate  us. 

Ah,  why  should  we  mind  them  a  fig  ? 
We've  a  large  swinging  field  of  potatoes, 

A  good  driminduath*  and  a  pig. 

•Driminduatli  is  a  general  name  in  Inland  for  the  cow. 


14  tannahill's  songs. 


§ 


tnr  Jubn. 


Dear  Judy,  I've  taken  a-thinting, 

The  children  their  letters  must  learn, 
And  we'll  send  for  old  Father  0'Jenkin>];, 

To  teach  them  three  months  in  the  barn! 
For  learning's  the  way  to  promotion, 

'Tis  culture  brings  fruit  frona  the  sod, 
And  books  give  a  fellow  a  notion 

How  matters  are  doing  abroad. 

Though  father  neglected  my  reading, 

Kind  soul,  sure  his  spirit's  in  rest! 
For  the  very  first  part  of  his  breeding, 

Was  still  to  relieve  the  distressed. 
And,  late,  when  the  traveller  benighted, 

Besought  hospitality's  claim, 
He  lodged  him  till  morning,  delighted, 

Because  'twas  a  lesson  to  them. 
The  man  that  wont  feel  for  another, 

Is  just  like  a  colt  on  the  moor, 
He  lives  without  knowing  a  brother. 

To  frighten  bad  luck  from  his  duor. 
But  he  that's  kind-hearted  and  steady. 

Though  wintry  misfortune  should  come, 
He'll  still  find  some  friend  who  is  ready 

To  scare  the  old  witch  from  his  home. 
Success  to  old  Ireland  for  ever ! 

Tia  just  the  dear  land  to  my  mind, 
Her  lads  are  warm-hearted  and  clever, 

Her  girls  are  all  handsome  and  kind. 
And  he  that  her  name  would  bespatter, 

By  wishing  the  French  safely  o'er. 
May  the  de'il  blow  him  over  the  water. 

And  make  him  cook  frogs  for  the  core. 


^bc  Digbliinbcr's  JfiibitixtoT. 

Air — "  Will  ye  come  to  the  bower  ?" 
"Will  you  come  to  the  board  I've  prepared  for  yout 
Your  driiik  shall  be  good,  of  the  true  Highland  blue 


tannahtll's  songs.  16 

"Will  you,  Donald,  will  you,  Callum,  como  to  the  board? 
There  each  shall  be  great  as  her  own  native  lord. 

There'll  be  plenty  of  pipe,  and  a  plorious  supply 
Of  the  good  snee'^sh-tebacht,  and  the  fine  cut-and-dry: 
Will  you,  Donald,  will  you,  Callum,  come  then  at  e'en  1 
There  be  some  for  the  stranger,  but  more  for  the  frien'. 

There  we'll  drink  foggy  care  to  his  gloomy  abodes, 
And  we'll  smoke  till  we  sit  in  the  clouds  like  the  gods  : 
"Will  you,  Donald,  will  you,  Callum,  wont  you  do  sol 
'Tis  the  way  that  our  forefathers  did  long  ago. 

And  we'll  drink  to  the  Cameron,  we'll  drink  to  Lochiel, 
And,  for  Charlie,  we'll  drink  all  the  French  to  the  de'il  : 
"Will  you,  Donald,  will  you,  Callum,  driuk  there  until 
There  be  heads  lie  like  peats  if  hersel'  had  her  will. 

There  be  groats  on  the  land,  there  be  fish  in  the  sea, 
And  there's  fouth  in  the  coggie  for  friendship  and  me : 
Come  then,  Donald,  come  then,  Callum,  come  then  to-night, 
Sure  the  Highlander  be  first  in  the  fuddle  and  the  fight. 


an  m  SIccpmcr,  Staggh? 

Air—"  Sleepy  Maggie." 

Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie  1 
Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie  ] 
Let  me  in,  for  loud  the  linn 
Is  roaring  o'er  the  warlock  craigie. 

Mirk  and  rainy  is  the  night, 

No  a  starn  in  a'  the  carry, 
Lightnings  gleam  athwart  the  lift, 

And  winds  drive  wi'  winter's  fury. 

Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie  1  &c. 

Fearful  soughs  the  boortree  bank, 

The  rifted  wood  roars  wild  and  dreary, 

Loud  the  iron  yett  does  clank, 

And  cry  of  howlets  mak's  me  eerie. 

Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie  1  &c. 


IG  TANT!^  AH  ILL'S    SOXGS, 

Aboon  my  breath  I  daurna  speak, 

For  fear  I  rouse  your  waukrit'c  daddie, 

Caulds  the  blast  upon  my  cheek, 
Oh,  rise,  rise,  my  bonuy  lady. 

Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie  ?  &c. 

She  oped  the  door,  she  let  him  in, 
He  cuist  aside  his  dreeping  plaidie  : 

"  Blaw  your  warst,  ye  rain  and  win', 
Since,  Maggie,  now  I'm  in  aside  ye." 

Now  since  ye're  waking,  Maggie, 
Now  since  ye're  waking,  Maggie, 
What  care  I  for  howlet's  cry, 
Per  boortree  bank,  or  warlock  craigie. 


e  ^iimcnt  0f  ^^Tiillatc  uftcr  ih  1  attic 
0f  Jfiillvirh. 

Air — "Maids  of  Arrochar." 

Tnou  dark-winding  Carron,  once  pleasing  to  see, 
To  me  thou  canst  never  give  pleasure  again ; 

My  brave  Caledonians  lie  low  on  the  lea. 

And  thy  streams  are  deep-tinged  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain. 

Ah  !  base-hearted  treachery  has  doomed  our  undoing, 
My  poor  bleeding  country,  what  more  can  I  do  ? 

Even  valour  looks  pale  o'er  the  red  field  of  ruin, 
And  freedom  beholds  licr  best  warriors  laid  low. 

Parewell,  ye  dear  partners  of  peril  !  farewell ! 

Though  buried  ye  lie  in  one  wide  bloody  grave. 
Your  deeds  shall  ennoble  the  place  where  you  fell. 

And  your  names  be  enrolled  with  the  sons  of  the  bravo. 

But  I,  a  poor  outcast,  in  exile  must  wander. 

Perhaps  like  a  traitor  ignobly  must  die  ! 
On  thy  wrongs,  oh,  my  country  !  indignant  I  ponder; 

Ah  !  woe  to  the  hour  when  thy  Wallace  must  fly. 


TANNAn ill's  songs.  17 


at  Mont  Solbkr. 

The  Qneensfeny  boatie  rows  light, 

And  light  is  the  heart  that  it  bears, 
For  it  brings  the  poor  soldier  safe  bac':  to  his  home. 

From  many  long  toilsome  years. 

How  sweet  are  his  green  native  hills, 
As  they  smile  to  the  beams  of  the  west, 

But  sweeter  by  far  is  the  sunshine  of  hope 
That  gladdens  the  soldier's  breast. 

I  can  well  mark  the  tears  of  his  joy, 

As  the  wave-beateu  pier  he  ascends, 
For  already,  in  fancy,  he  enters  his  home, 

'Midst  the  greetings  of  tender  fxiends. 

But  fled  are  his  visions  of  bliss. 

All  his  transports  but  rose  to  deceive, 

He  found  the  dear  cottage  a  tenantles.5  waste. 
And  his  kindred  all  sunk  in  the  grave. 

Lend  a  sigh  to  the  soldier's  grief, 

For  now  he  is  helpless  and  poor. 
And  forced  to  solicit  a  slender  relief. 

He  wanders  from  door  to  door. 

To  him  let  our  answers  be  mild. 

And,  oh  !  to  the  sufferer  be  kind  ! 
For  the  look  of  indifference,  the  frown  of  disdain, 

Bear  hard  on  a  generous  mind. 


^^t    gnxtixitll 

Air — "  Lord  Gregory." 

Accuse  me  not,  inconstant  fair, 

Of  being  false  to  thee. 
For  I  was  true,  would  still  been  so, 

Hadst  thou  been  true  to  me. 


18  T.\NXAnTI,T,'s    SONGS. 

But  when  I  knew  thy  plighted  lips 
Once  to  a  rival's  pressed, 

Love-smothered  independence  rose, 
And  spurned  thee  from  my  breast. 

The  fairest  flower  in  nature's  field 

Conceals  the  rankling  thorn  ; 
So  thou,  sweet  flower  !  as  false  as  fair, 

This  once  kind  heart  hath  torn. 
'Twas  mine  to  prove  the  fellest  pangs 

That  slighted  love  can  feel ; 
'Tis  thine  to  weep  that  one  rash  act 

Wliich  bids  this  long  farewell. 


Ml  imxdxx  fcitrt. 

Air — "  Swoct  Annie  frae  tlic  sea-beacli  came." 

Wi'  waefu'  heart  and  sorrowing  e'e 

I  saw  my  Jamie  sail  awa', 
Oh  I  'twas  a  fatal  day  to  me, 

That  day  he  passed  the  Berwick  Law  ; 
How  joyless  now  seemed  all  behind  ! 

I  lingering  strayed  along  the  shore  ; 
Dark  boding  fears  hung  on  my  mind 

That  I  might  never  see  him  more. 

The  night  came  on  with  heavy  rain, 

Loud,  fierce,  and  wild  the  tempest  blew  ; 
In  mountains  rolled  Ihe  awful  main  : 

Ah,  hapless  maid  !  my  fears  how  true  ! 
The  landsmen  heard  their  drowning  cries, 

The  wreck  was  seen  with  dawning  day  ; 
My  love  was  found,  and  now  he  lies 

Low  in  the  isle  of  gloomy  May. 

0  boatman,  kindly  waft  me  o'er  ! 

The  caverned  rock  shall  be  my  home ; 
'Twill  ease  my  buidcned  heart  to  pour 

Its  sorrows  o'er  his  grassy  tomb  ; 
With  sweetest  flowers  I'll  deck  his  grave, 

And  tend  them  through  the  langsome  year ; 
I'll  water  them,  ilk  morn  and  eve, 

With  deepest  sorrow's  warmest  tear. 


taiwahill's  songs.  19 


Written  to  an  ancient  Highland  Air. 

AuLD  "Watty  o'  Kebbuckston  brae, 

Wi'  lear  and  reading  o'  books  auld  farren, 
What  think  ye  !  the  body  came  owre  the  day, 

An  tauld  lis  he's  gaun  to  be  married  to  Mirren. 
"We  a'  got  a  bidding  to  gang  to  the  wedding, 

Baith  Johnnie  and  Sandie,  and  Nellie  and  Nannie ; 
And  Tarn  o'  the  Knowes,  he  swears  and  he  vows, 

At  the  dancing  he'll  face  to  the  bride  wi'  his  grannie. 

A'  tlie  lads  ha'e  trysted  their  joes  ; 

Slee  "Willie  cam'  up  and  ca'd  on  Nelly ; 
Although  she  vras  hecht  to  Geordie  Bowse, 

She's  gien  him  the  gunk,  and  she's  gaun  wi'  "Willie. 
"Wee  collier  Johnnie  ha?  y  jked  his  pony, 

An's  afF  to  the  town  lOi  a  lading  o'  nappy  ; 
Wi'  fouth  o'  good  meat  to  serve  us  to  eat, 

Sae  wi'  fuddling  and  feasting  we'll  a'  be  fu'  happy. 

"Wee  Patie  Brydie's  to  say  the  grace, 

The  body's  aye  ready  at  dredgies  and  weddings  ; 
And  flunkie  M'Fee,  of  the  Skiverton  place, 

Is  chosen  to  scuttle  the  pies  and  the  puddings. 
For  there'll  be  plenty  o'  ilka  thing  dainty, 

Baith  lang  kail  and  haggis,  and  everything  fitting  ; 
Wi'  luggies  o'  beer,  our  wizzens  to  clear, 

Sae  the  de'il  fill  his  kyte  wha  gaes  clung  frae  the  meeting. 

Lowrie  has  coft  Gibbie  Cameron's  gun. 

That  his   auld  gutcher  bore  when  he  followed  Prince 
Charlie  ; 
The  barrel  was  rusted  as  black  as  the  grun'. 

But  he's  ta'en't  to  the  smiddy,  an's  fettled  it  rarely. 
Wi'  wallets  o'  pouther  his  musket  he'll  shouther, 

And  ride  at  our  head,  to  the  bride's  a-parading ; 
At  ilka  farm  toun  he'll  fire  them  three  roun', 

Till  the  hale  kintra  ring  wi'  the  Kebbuckston  wedding. 


20  TANX-VIIILL'S    SONGS. 

Jamie  and  Johnnie  maun  ride  the  brouse, 

i'or  few  like  these  can  sit  in  the  saddle; 
And  Willie  Cobreath,  the  best  o'  bows. 

Is  trystcd  to  jis  in  the  barn  \vi*  his  fiddle. 
AVi'  whisking  and  flisking,  and  reeling  and  wheeling, 

The  young  anes  are  like  to  loup  out  o'  the  body, 
And  Xeilie  M'Nairn.  though  sair  forfairn, 

Pie  vows  that  he'll  wallop  twa  sets  wi'  the  howdie. 
Sauney  M'Nab,  wi'  his  tartan  trews, 

Has  hccht  to  come  down  in  the  midst  o'  the  caper. 
And  gi'e  us  three  wallo]is  o'  merry  shan  trews, 

Wi'  the  true  Highland  fling  o'  Macrimmon  the  piper. 
Sic  hipping  and  skipping,  and  springing  and  flinging, 

I'se  wa  1  that  there  nane  in  the  Lawlands  can  waft  it! 
Faith !  Willie  maun  fiddle,  and  jirgum  and  diddle. 

And  screed  till  the  sweat  fa'  in  beads  frae  his  haffet. 
Then  gi'e  me  your  hand,  my  trusty  good  frien', 

And  gi'e  me  your  word,  my  worthy  auld  kimmer, 
Ye'U  baith  come  owre  on  Friday  bedeen, 

And  join  us  in  ranting  and  tooming  the  timmer. 
With  fouth  o'  good  liquor,  we'll  baud  at  the  bicker, 

And  lang  may  the  mailing  o'  Kebbuckston  flourish; 
For  Watty's  sae  free,  between  you  and  me, 

I'se  warrant  he's  bidden  the  half  o'  the  parisL 


Air — "  We're  a'  noddin'." 

"Weel,  wha's  in  the  bouroch,  and  what  is  your  cheer? 

The  best  that  ye'll  find  in  a  thousand  year. 

And  we're  a'  noddin',  nid  nid  noddin', 
W^e're  a'  noddin'  fu'  at  e'en. 

There's  our  ain  Jamie  Clark,  frae  the  hall  o'  Argyle, 
*Tis  his  leal  Scottish  heart,  and  his  kind  open  smile. 

And  we're  a'  noddin',  &c. 
There  is  Will  the  guid  fallow,  wha  kills  a'  our  care 
Wi'  his  sang  and  his  joke,  and  a  mutchkin  mair. 

And  we're  a'  noddin',  &e. 


tannahill's  t  jngs.  21 

There  is  blytlie  Jamie  Ba^-r,  frae  St.  Barchan's  town, 
When  wit  gets  a  kiugdom  he's  sure  o'  the  crown. 

And  we're  a'  noddin',  &c. 
There  is  Eah,  frae  the  snvith,  wi'  his  fiddle  and  his  flute; 
I  could  list  to  his  t.augs  till  the  s^arns  fa'  out. 

And  we're  a'  noddin',  Arc. 
Apollo,  for  our  comfoi-t,  has  furnished  the  1  owl, 
And  here  is  my  hardship,  as  blind  as  an  owl. 

For  we're  a  noddin',  &c. 


[The  first  verse  and  chorus  by  Tannahill,  the  other  two  verses  by 
William  Motherwell.] 

Though  simmer  smiles  on  hank  and  brae, 
And  n-ature  bids  the  heart  be  gay, 
Tet  a'  the  joys  o'  flowery  May 
Wi'  pleasure  ne'er  can  move  me. 

Hey,  Donald  !  how,  Donald  ! 

Think  upon  your  vow,  Donald  ; 

Mind  the  heathery  knoWe,  Donald, 

"Where  you  vowed  to  love  me. 
The  budding  rose  and  scented  brier, 
The  siller  fountain  skinkling  clear. 
The  merry  lav'rock  whistling  near, 
Wi'  pleasure  ne'er  can  move  me. 

Hey,  Donald !  &c. 

I  downa  look  on  bank  and  brae, 
I  downa  greet  whare  a'  are  gay, 
But  oh  !  my  heart  will  break  wi'  wae. 
Gin  Donald  cease  to  love  me. 
Hev,  Donald !  &c. 

gleg  q'  lljt  6Uit. 

Air — "  When  she  cam'  ben  she  bobbit." 
[The  first  t\vo  verses  by  Tannahill,  the  second  two  by  Motherwell.] 
Meg  o'  the  glen  set  aff"  to  the  fair, 
Wi'  rufilcs,  and  ribbons,  and  meikle  prepare  ; 
Her  heart  it  was  heavy,  her  head  it  was  light, 
For  a'  the  lang  way  for  a  wooer  she  sighed. 


22  taxnaitti-t/s  songs. 

She  spak'  to  the  la!s,  but  the  lads  .slipped  by, 
She  s|)iik'  to  the  lasses,  the  lasses  were  shj  ; 
She  thought  she  might  do,  but  she  didna  weel  ken, 
For  nane  seemed  to  care  for  poor  Meg  o'  the  glen. 

"  But  wot  ye,  what  was't  made  the  lads  a'  gae  by  1 
And  wot  ye,  what  was't  made  the  lassies  sae  shy  1 
Poor  Meg  o'  the  glen  had  nae  tocher  ava. 
And  therefore  could  neither  be  bonnie  nor  braw  : 

"  But  an  uncle  wha  lang  in  the  Indies  had  been, 
Foreseeing  death  coming  to  close  his  auld  een. 
Made  his  will,  left  her  heiress  o'  thousand  pounds  ten, 
Now,  wha  is  mair  thought  o'  than  Meg  o'  the  glen?" 


Mt  father  wad  ha'e  me  to  marry  the  miller, 

My  mither  wad  ha'e  me  to  marry  the  laird, 
But  brawly  I  ken  it's  the  love  o'  the  siller, 

That  brightens  their  fancy  to  oiiy  regard. 
The  miller  is  crooked,  the  miller  is  crabbed. 

The  laird,  though  he's  wealthy,  he's  lyai't  and  lean  ; 
He's  auld,  and  he's  cauld,  and  he's  blin',  and  he's  bald, 

And  he's  no  for  a  lassie  o'  merry  eighteen. 

"  But  oh,  there's  a  laddie  wha  tells  me  he  lo'es  me. 

And  him  I  lo'c  dearly,  ay,  deai-ly  as  life ; 
Though  father  and  mither  should  scold  and  abuse  me, 

Nae  ither  sliall  ever  get  me  for  a  wife. 
Although  he  c:-in  boast  na  o'  land,  nor  yet  siller. 

He's  worthy  to  match  wi'  a  duchess  or  queen; 
For  his  heart  is  sae  warm,  and  sae  stately  his  form, 

And  then,  like  mysel',  he's  just  merry  eighteen. " 


^]^,  goli)  can  ^)ou  gang,  ^assie  ? 

Air — "  Tlie  bonniest  lassie  in  a'  the  warld." 

On,  hiw  can  you  gang,  lassie,  how  can  you  gang. 
Oh  how  can  you  gang  sae  to  grieve  me? 


TA>"NAII1Ll's    S0N09,  23 

"Wl'  your  beauty  and  your  art,  ye  liao  broken  my  heart, 
For  I  never,  never  dreamed  ye  could  leave  me. 

"  Ah,  wha  wad  ha'e  thought  that  sae  bonnie  a  face 
Could  e'er  wear  a  smile  to  deceive  me  ? 

Or  that  i^uile  in  that  fair  bosom  could  e'er  find  a  place. 
And  that  you  wad  break  your  vow  thus,  and  leave  me  1 

"  Oh,  have  you  not  mind  when  our  names  you  entwined 

111  a  wreath  round  the  purse  you  did  weave  me  ? 
Or  ha'e  you  now  forgot  the  once  dear  trysting  spot. 

Where  so  soft  you  pledged  your  faith  ne'er  to  leave  mel 
But,  changing  as  the  wind  is  your  light,  fickle  mind, 

Your  smiles,  tokens,  vows,  all  deceive  me  ; 
No  more,  then,  I'll  trust  to  such  frail  painted  dust, 

But  bewail  my  fate  till  kind  death  relieve  me. 

*'  Then  gang,  fickle  fair,  to  your  new-fangled  jo, 

Tes,  gang,  and  in  wretchedness  leave  me ; 
But  alas  !  should  you  be  doomed  to  a  wedlock  of  woo, 

Ah,  how  would  your  unhappiness  grieve  me  ! 
For,  Mary  !  all  faithless  and  false  as  thou  art, 

Thy  spell-binding  glances,  believe  me, 
So  closely  are  entwined  round  this  fond  foolish  heart, 

That  the  grave  alone  of  them  can  bereave  me." 


^j)c  passes  a  %n\c^h. 

Air — "Kissed  yestreen." 

The  lasses  a'  leugh,  a_id  the  carlin  flate, 
But  Maggie  was  sitting  fu'  eerie  and  blate, 
The  auld  silly  gawkie,  she  couldna  contain. 
How  brawly  she  was  kissed  yestreen; 

Kissed  yestreen,  kissed  yestreen. 
How  brawly  she  was  kissed  yestreen: 
She  blethered  it  round  to  her  fae  and  her  frien'^ 
How  brawly  she  was  kissed  yestreen. 

"  She  loosed  the  white  napkin  frae  'bout  her  dun  neck, 
And  cried,  The  big  sorrow  tak'  lang  Greordie  Flei  k; 
D'ye  pee  what  a  scart  I  gat  frae  a  preen, 
By  his  towsliug  and  kissing  at  me  yestreen ; 


24 


TA.NNAHILL  S    SONGS. 


At  me  yestrcon,  at  me  yestreen, 
By  liis  towsling  and  kissini;  at  me  yestreen  : 
I  canna  conceive  what  the  fellow  could  mean, 

By  kissing  sae  meikle  at  me  yestreen. 

"  Then  she  pu'd  up  her  sleeve,  and  shawed  a  blae  mark, 
Quoth  she,  I  u;at  that  frae  young  Davy,  our  clerk  ; 
l>ut  the  creature  had  surely  forgat  himscl'  clean. 
When  he  nipped  me  sae  hard  for  a  kiss  yestreen ; 

For  a  kiss  yestreen,  for  a  kiss  yestreen, 
"When  he  nipped  me  sae  hard  for  a  kiss  yestreen  : 
I  wonder  what  keepit  my  nails  frae  his  een, 

When  he  nipped  me  sae  hard  for  a  kiss  yestreen 

"  Then  she  held  up  her  cheek,  and  cried,  Foul  fa'  the  laird, 
Just  look  what  I  gat  \vi'  his  black  birsie  beard  ! 
The  vile  filthy  body  !  was  e'er  the  like  seen? 
To  rub  me  sae  sair  for  a  kiss  yestreen  ; 

For  a  kiss  yestreen,  for  a  kiss  yestreen, 
To  rub  me  sae  sair  for  a  kiss  yestreen  ; 
I'm  sure  that  nae  woman  o'  judgment  need  grien, 

To  be  rubbed,  like  me,  for  a  kiss  yestreen. 

"  Syne  she  tauld  what  grand  offers  she  afteu  had  had, 
But  wad  she  tak'  a  man  ?  na,  she  wasna  sac  mad  : 
For  the  whole  o'  the  sex  she  cared  no  a  preen, 
And  she  hated  the  way  she  was  kissed  yestreen  ; 

She  was  kissed  yestreen,  she  was  kissed  yestreen, 
And  she  hated  the  way  she  was  kissed  yestreen  ; 
'Twas  a  mercy  that  naething  mair  serious  had  been, 

For  it's  dangerous,  whiles,  to  be  kissed  at  e'en." 


Our  bonnie  Scots  lads  in  their  green  tartan  plaids. 

Their  blue-bcltcd  bonnets,  and  feathers  sae  braw, 
Ranked  up  on  the  green  were  f  lir  to  be  seen. 

But  my  bonnie  young  laddie  was  fairest  of  a' ; 
His  cheeks  were  as  red  as  the  sweet  heather-bell. 

Or  the  red  western  cloud  looking  down  on  the  snaw; 
His  lang  yellow  hair  o'er  his  braid  shoulders  fell, 

And  the  een  o'  the  lassies  were  fixed  on  him  a', 


tannahill's  songs.  25 

My  heart  siinTc  wi'  wae  on  the  wearifu'  day, 

When  t(5rn  fi-ae  my  bosom  they  marched  him  awa', 
He  bade  me  farewell,  he  cried,  "  Oh,  be  leal !" 

And  his  red  cheeks  were  wet  wi'  the  tears  that  did  fa'. 
Ah  !  Harry,  my  love,  though  thou  ne'er  shouldst  return, 

Till  life's  latest  liour  I  thy  absence  will  mourn; 
And  memory  shall  fade  like  a  leaf  on  the  tree. 

Ere  my  heart  spare  ae  thought  on  anither  but  thee. 


W[t*ll  meet  besiibc  tlje  guslin  6Icrt. 

"We'el  meet  beside  the  dusky  glen,  on  yon  burn  side, 
Where  the  bushes  form  a  cozie  den,  on  yon  burn  side  ; 
Though  the  broomy  knowes  be  green,  yet,  there  we  may  be 

seen, 
But  we'el  meet,  we'el  meet  at  e'en  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

I'll  lead  thee  to  the  birken  bower,  on  yon  burn  side, 
Sae  sweetly  wove  wi'  woodbine  flower,  on  yon  burn  side  ; 
There  the  "busy  prying  eye  ne'er  disturbs  the  lover's  joy, 
While  in  ither's  arms  they  lie,  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

Awa',  ye  rude  unfeeling  crew,  frae  yon  burn  side. 
Those  Vairy  scenes  are  no  for  you,  by  yon  burn  side  ; 
There  fancy  smoothes  her  theme,  by  the  sweetly  murmuring 

stream. 
And  the  rock-lodged  echoes  skim,  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

Now  the  planting  taps  are  tinged  wi'  goud  on  yon  burn  side, 
And  gloamin'  draws  her  foggy  shroud  o'er  yon  burn  side ; 
Far  frae  the  noisy  scene,  I'll  through  the  fields  alane. 
There  we'el  meet,  my  ain  dear  Jean !  down  by  yon  burn  side. 


Te  sunny  braes  that  skirt  the  Clyde, 
Wi'  simmer  flowers  sae  braw, 

There's  ae  sweet  flower  on  Levern  side, 
That's  fairer  than  them  a' : 


26  TA  NX  All  ill's    songs. 

Yet  aye  it  droops  its  head  iu  wao, 
Ke<j;ardless  o'  the  sunr.y  ray, 
And  wastes  its  sweets  frae  day  to  day, 
Beside  the  lonely  shavv. 

Wi'  leaves  a'  steeped  in  sorrow's  dew, 
Fause,  cruel  man,  it  seems  to  rue  : 
Wha  aft  tlie  sweeter  power  will  pu'. 

Then  rend  its  heart  in  twa. 
Thou  bonnie  flower  on  Levern  side, 

Oh,  gin  thou'lt  be  but  mine  ; 
I'll  tend  thee  wi'  a  lover's  pride, 

Wi'  love  that  ne'er  shall  tine. 

I'll  tak'  thee  to  my  shelterini;-  bower, 
And  shield  thee  frae  the  Ideating  shower. 
Unharmed  by  aught,  thoul't  bloom  secure 

Frae  a'  the  blasts  that  blaw : 
Thy  charms  surpass  the  crimson  dye 
That  streaks  the  glowing  western  sky  ; 
But,  here,  unshaded,  soon  thoul't  die, 

And  lone  will  be  thy  fa'. 


Cruihstait  Castle's  l^oncln  M;i's 

Through  Cruikston  Castle's  lonely  was 

The  wintry  wind  howls  wild  and  dreary  ; 
Though  mirk  the  cheerless  e'ening  fa's. 

Yet  I  ha'e  vov.'ed  to  meet  my  Mary  ; 
Yes,  IMary,  though  the  wind  should  rave 

Wi'  jealous  spite  to  kei^p  me  frae  thee, 
The  darkest  stormy  night  I'd  brave, 

For  ae  sweet  secret  moment  wi'  thee. 

Loud  o'er  Cardonald's  rocky  steep, 

Rude  Cartha  pours  in  boundless  measure; 
But  I  will  ford  the  Avhirling  deep. 

That  roars  between  me  and  my  treasure ; 
Yes,  ]\Iary,  though  the  torrent  rave 

Wi'  jealous  spite  to  keep  me  frae  thee, 
Its  deepest  flood  I'd  bauldly  brave, 

For  ac  sweet  secret  moment  v,-i'  thee. 


tannahill's  songs.  27 

The  watch-clog's  howling  loads  the  blast, 

And  makes  the  nightly  v.-;indcrer  eerie, 
But  Avhen  the  lonesome  way  is  past, 

I'll  to  this  bosom  clasp  my  Mary. 
Yes,  Mary,  though  stern  winter  rave, 

Wi'  a'  his  storms  to  keep  me  frae  thee, 
The  wildest  dreary  night  I'd  brave, 

For  ae  sweet  secret  moment  wi'  thee. 


I'll  Iju  mt  to  tlje  SbtHhrg  fill. 

Air — "  Ghillie  Galium." 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  sheeling  hill, 

And  bide  amang  the  braes,  Galium  ; 

Ere  I  gang  to  Crochan  mill, 

I'll  live  on  hips  and  slaes,  Callam. 

Wealthy  pride  but  ill  can  hide 

Your  lunkly  mcasled  shins,  Galium  ; 

Lyart  pow,  as  white's  the  tow, 
'  And  beard  as  rough's  the  Avhins,  Galium. 

Wily  woman  aft  deceives, 

Sae  ye'll  think,  I  ween,  Galium  ; 
Trees  may  keep  their  withered  leaves. 

Till  ance  they  get  green,  Galium. 
Blythe  young  Donald's  won  my  heart 

Has  my  willing  vow,  Galium ; 
Kow,  for  a'  your  couthy  art, 

I  winna  marry  you,  Galium. 


Fill  the  merry  bowl, 

Drown  corrosive  care  and  sorrow, 
Why,  why  clog  the  soul, 

By  caring  for  to-morrow  1 
Fill  your  glasses,  toast  your  lasses, 

Blythe  Anacreon  bids  you  live  ; 
Love  with  friendship  far  surpasses 

All  the  pleasure  life  can  give. 


28 


TAOTTAHIIJ/S   SOXGS. 

Riii.c;,  ring  the  enlivening  hell, 

The  merry  dirge  of  care  and  sorrow, 
Why  leave  them  life  to  tell 
Their  heavy  tales  to-morrow  ? 
Come,  join  the  social  glee, 

Give  the  reins  to  festive  pleasure  ; 
While  fiinc}',  liglit  and  free, 

Dances  to  the  measure. 
Love  and  wit,  with  all  the  graces, 

Revel  round  in  fairy  ring. 
Smiling  joy  adorns  our  faces. 

While  with  jocund  hearts  we  sing. 

Now,  since  our  cares  are  drowned, 
Spite  of  what  the  sages  tell  us, 

Hoary  time,  in  all  his  round, 
Ne'er  saw  such  happy  fellows. 


Compantmt  of  nm  iroutbful  spart^ 

Air—"  Gilderoy." 

Companion  of  my  youthful  sports, 

From  love  and  friendship  torn, 
A  victim  to  the  pride  of  courts, 

Thy  early  death  I  mourn. 
Unshrouded  on  a  foreign  sliore, 

Thou'rt  mouldering  in  the  clay, 
While  here  thy  weeping  friends  deplore 

Corunna's  fatal  day. 

How  glows  the  youthful  warrior's  mind 

With  thoughts  of  laurels  won, 
But  ruthless  ruin  lurks  behind, 

"  And  marks  him  for  her  own." 
How  soon  the  meteor  ray  is  shed. 

"  That  lures  him  to  his  doom," 
And  dark  oblivion  veils  his  head, 

In  everlasting  gloom  1 


tannahill's  songs.  29 

The  cold  wind  blows  o'er  the  drifted  snows, 
Loud  howls  the  rain-washed  naked  wood, 
Weary  I  stray  on  my  lonesome  way, 

And  my  heart  is  faint  with  want  of  food. 
Pity  a  wretch  left  all  forlorn. 
On  life's  wide  wintry  waste  to  mourn ; 
The  gloom  of  night  fast  veils  the  sky, 
And  pleads  for  your  humanity. 

On  valour's  bed  my  Henry  died, 

In  the  cheerless  desert  is  his  tomb : 
Now  lost  to  joy,  with  my  little  boy, 
In  woe  and  want  I  wander  home. 
Oh,  never,  never  will  you  miss 
The  boon  bestowed  on  deep  distress, 
For  dear  to  Heaven  is  the  glistening  eye, 
That  beams  benign  humanity. 


Air — "  The  lass  that  wears  green." 

Cite  night  in  my  youth  as  I  roved  with  my  merry  pipe, 

Listening  the  echoes  that  rang  to  the  tune, 
I  met  Kitty  More  with  her  two  lips  so  cherry  ripe, 

Phelim,  says  she,  give  us  Ellen  Aroon  ! 
Dear  Kitty,  says  I,  thou'rt  so  charmingly  free  ! 

Now  if  thou  wilt  deign  thy  sweet  voice  to  the  measure 
'Twill  make  all  the  echoes  run  giddy  with  pleasure, 

For  none  in  fair  Erin  can  sing  it  like  thee. 

My  chanter  I  plied  with  my  heart  beating  gaily, 
I  piped  up  the  strain,  while  so  sweetly  she  sung ; 

The  soft  melting  melody  filled  all  the  valley. 
The  green  woods  around  us  in  harmony  rung. 

Methought  that  she  verily  charmed  up  the  moon  ! 
Now,  still,  as  I  wander  in  village  or  city, 
When  good  people  call  for  some  favourite  ditty, 
give  theri  sweet  Kitty,  and  Ellen  xiroon. 


no  TANNAnTTJi's   RONOS. 

Coggic,  ihoxx  ht:xb  mc. 

Dorothy  sits  i'  the  cauld  in^le  nook, 

Her  red  rosy  neb's  like  a  labster  tae, 
\Vi'  girnin'  her  mou's  like  the  gab  o'  the  fluke, 

Wi'  smoking,  her  teeth's  like  the  jet  o'  the  slae. 
And  aye  she  sings  weels  me,  aye  she  sings  weels  me, 
Coggie,  thou  heals  me  !  ooggie  thou  heals  me  ! 
Aye  my  best  friend  when  there's  onything  ails  me, 
Ne'er  shall  we  part  till  the  day  that  I  die. 

Dorothy  anee  was  a  weel  tochered  lass, 

Had  charms  like  her  neighbours,  and  lovers  enew, 
T)ut  she  spited  them  sae,  wi'  her  pride  and  her  sauce, 

They  left  her  for  thirty  lang  simmers  to  rue. 
Then  aye  she  sang  waes  me,  aye  she  sang  waes  me. 
Oh,  I'll  turn  crazy,  oh,  I'll  turn  crazy, 
Naething  in  a'  the  svide  world  can  ease  me, 
De'il  tak'  the  wooers,  oh,  what  shall  I  do  ] 

Dorothy,  dozen'd  wi'  living  her  lane, 

Pu'd  at  her  rock,  wi'  the  tear  in  her  e'e  ; 
She  thought  on  the  braw  merry  days  that  were  gane, 

And  coft  a  wee  coggie  for  company. 
Now  aye  she  sings  weels  me,  aye  she  sings  weels  mc, 
Coggie,  thou  heals  me  !  coggie,  thou  heals  me  ! 
Aye  my  best  friend  when  there's  onything  ails  me, 
Ne'er  shall  wc  part  till  the  day  that  I  die. 


€lhix  ItTorc. 

The  sun  had  kissed  green  Erin's  waves, 

The  dark  blue  mountains  towered  between, 
Mild  evening's  dews  refreshed  the  leaves, 

The  moon  unclouded  rose  serene, 
When  Ellen  wandered  forth  unseen. 

All  lone  her  sorrows  to  deplore  ; 
False  was  her  lover,  false  her  friend,* 

And  false  was  hope  to  Ellen  More. 

Young  Henry  was  fair  Ellen's  love, 
Young  Emma  to  her  heart  was  dear ; 


TANITAHTLl's    SOTn'OS.  31 

Nor  Aveal  nor  woe  did  Ellen  prove, 

But  Emma  ever  seemed  to  share  : 
Yet  envious  still,  she  spread  the  wile, 

That  sullied  Ellen's  virtues  o'er ; 
Her  faithless  Henry  spurned  the  while. 

His  fair,  his  faithful  Ellen  More. 

She  wandered  down  Loch-Mary  side. 

Where  oft  at  evening  hour  she  stole. 
To  meet  her  love  Avith  secret  pride  ; 

Now  deepest  anguish  wrung  her  soul. 
O'ercome  with  grief,  she  sought  the  steep 

Where  Tarrow  falls  with  sullen  roar  ; 
Oh,  pity  !  veil  thy  eyes  and  weep, 

A  bleeding  corpse  lies  Ellen  More. 

The  sun  may  shine  on  Tarrow  braes. 

And  woo  the  mountain  flowers  to  bloom. 
But  never  can  his  golden  rays 

Awake  the  flower  in  yonder  tomb  : 
There  oft  young  Henry  strays  forlorn. 

When  moonlight  gilds  the  abbey  tower; 
There  oft  from  eve  till  breezy  morn, 

He  weeps  his  faithful  Ellen  More. 


^xnn  Ifnismcrrc. 

Air—"  The  Leitrim  Couuty." 

How  light  is  my  heart  as  we  journey  along. 

Now  my  perilous  service  is  o'er, 
I  think  on  sweet  home,  and  I  carol  a  song, 

In  remembrance  of  her  I  adoie  ; 
How  sad  was  the  hour  when  I  bid  her  adieu  ! 
Her  tears  spoke  her  grief,  though  her  words  were  but  few; 
She  hung  on  my  bosom,  and  sighed,  Oh,  be  true, 
When  you're  far  from  the  green  luismore ! 

Ah,  Eveleen,  my  love,  hadst  thou  seen  this  fond  breast, 

How,  at  parting,  it  bled  to  its  core. 
Thou  hadst  there  seen  thine  image  so  deeply  impressed, 

That  thou  ne'er  couldst  have  doubted  me  more, 


32  tanxahill's  songs. 

For  my  kinir  and  my  country  undaunted  I  fought, 
And  braved  all  the  hardsiiip«  of  war  as  1  ought, 
But  the  day  never  rose  saw  thee  strange  to  my  thought 
Since  I  left  thee  in  green  Inismore. 

Ye  dear  native  mountains  that  tower  in  my  view, 

AVhat  joys  to  my  mind  ye  restore  ; 
The  ])ast  happy  scenes  to  my  life  ye  renew, 

And  ye  ne'er  seemed  so  charming  before. 
In  the  rapture  of  fancy  already  I  spy 
My  kindred  and  friends  crowding  round  me  with  joy, 
But  my  Eveleen,  sweet  girl,  there's  a  far  dearer  tie, 

Binds  this  heart  to  the  green  Inismore. 


2^j)c  glibgcs  gmtcc  %hoon  ih  gum. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn, 

The  dews  begin  to  fa', 
The  paitricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  evening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  tlie  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  sliaw, 
While  Hitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  gokhni  gloaming  sky. 

The  mavis  mends  lier  lay. 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains, 

To  charm  the  lingering  day  : 
While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn. 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell, 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry. 
The  simple  joys  that  nature  yields 

Ai"e  dearer  far  to  me. 


TAimAHTLL  S   SOKQS. 


33 


^loomvf  Winter's  noto  iitoa . 

Air — "  Lord  Balgounio's  Favourite." 


i 


ies 


1S=S=*: 


w 


■5 j-J — / / — / 1^ S — f » 


Gloom  -  y  Win  -  ter's  now    a  -  wa',     Saft     the  west  -  lin'  breei  -  as   blaw; 


i 


-j^-^-p^— ^=^ 


^ 


5 


Z^--M 


S3SF.i 


'Mang  the   birks    o'   Stan  -  ley   shaw  The     ma  -  vis  sings  fu'   cheer-ie,    0. 


-N \- 


?^^=N^^^" 


:1!=3-- 


\j   bell,    Decks  Glen  -  if  -  fer's  dew 


Sweet  the  craw-flower's  ear 


dell, 


Come,     my     las  -  sie,    let      us    stray,    O'er  Glen  -  kil-loch's  sun  -  ny     brae. 


Blyih  -  ly    spend  the   gow  -  den  day,  'Mid'st  joys  that  nev  -  er  wear  -  ry,   0. 


Tow'ring  o'er  the  Newton  woods, 
Lav'rocks  fan  the  snaw- white  clouds, 
Siller  saughs,  wi'  downy  buds, 

Adorn  the  bank,  sae  briery,  0. 
Round  the  sylvan  fairy  nooks, 
Feath'ry  breckans  fringe  the  rocks, 
'Neath  the  brae  the  burnie  jouks, 

And  ilka  thing  is  cheerie,  0. 
Trees  may  bud,  and  birds  may  sing, 
Flowers  may  bloom,  and  verdure  spring, 
Joy  to  me  they  canna  bring, 

XInless  with  thee,  my  dearie,  0. 


84:  TA2fNAHILL*8  SONGS. 


Chill  the  wintry  -winds  were  blowing, 
Foul  the  murky  night  was  snowing, 
Through  the  storm,  the  minstrel,  bowing, 

Sought  the  inn  on  yonder  moor  : 
All  within  was  warm  and  cheerie, 
All  without  was  cold  and  dreary. 
There  the  wanderer,  old  and  weary, 

Thought  to  pass  the  night  secure. 

Softly  rose  his  mournful  ditty. 
Suiting  to  his  tale  of  pity ; 
But  the  master,  scoffing  witty. 

Checked  his  strain  with  scornful  jeer : 
"  Hoary  vagi-ant,  frequent  comer, 
Canst  thou  guide  thy  gains  of  summer? 
No,  thou  old  intruding  thrummer, 

Thou  canst  have  no  lodging  here." 

Slow  the  bard  departed,  sighing  ; 
Wounded  worth  forbade  replying  ; 
One  last  feeble  effort  trying. 

Faint  he  sunk,  no  more  to  rise; 
Through  his  harp,  the  breeze  sharp  ringing, 
Wild  his  dying  dirge  was  singing, 
While  his  soul,  from  insult  springing, 

Sought  its  mansion  in  the  skies. 

Now,  though  wintry  winds  be  blowing, 
Night  be  foul,  with  raining,  snowing, 
Still  the  traveller,  that  way  going. 

Shuns  the  inn  upon  the  moor. 
Though  within  'tis  wai-m  and  cheerie, 
Though  without  'tis  cold  and  dreary. 
Still  he  minds  the  minstrel  weary, 

Spurned  from  th£(.t  unfriendly  door, 


tannahill's  songs.  35 

Mtnte  tot'  Ms  Cloubn  JBroto. 

Air — "Forneth  house." 
Now  winter  wi'  his  cloudy  brow, 

Is  far  ayont  yon  mountains, 
And  spring  beholds  her  azure  sky 

Reflected  in  the  fountains. 
Now  on  the  budding  slaethorn  bank, 

She  spreads  her  early  blossom. 
And  woos  the  mirly-breasted  birds 

To  nestle  in  her  bosom. 
But  lately  a'  was  clad  wi'  snaw, 

See  dai'ksome,  dull,  and  dreary, 
Now  laverocks  sing  to  hail  the  spring, 

And  nature  a'  is  cheerie. 

Then  let  us  leave  the  town,  my  love, 

And  seek  our  country  dwelling, 
Where  waving  woods  and  spreading  flowers, 

On  every  side  are  smiling. 
We'll  tread  again  the  daisied  green. 

Where  first  your  beauty  moved  me; 
We'll  trace  again  the  woodland  scene, 

Where  first  ye  owned  ye  loved  me : 
We  soon  will  view  the  roses  blaw 

In  a'  the  charms  of  fancy; 
For  doubly  dear  these  pleasui'es  a', 

When  shared  with  thee,  my  Nancy. 


J^niigmcnt  of  a  Srotfblj  Ballatr. 

Air — "  Fingal's  lamentation." 
Wild  drives  the  bitter  northern  blast, 

Fierce  whirling  wide  the  crispy  snaw, 
Toung  lassie,  turn  your  wandering  steps. 

For  evening's  gloom  begins  to  fa'. 
I'll  tak'  you  to  my  father's  ha', 

And  shield  you  from  the  wintry  air; 
For  wandering  through  the  drifting  snaw, 

I  fear  you'll  sink  to  rise  nae  mair. 

Ah  !  gentle  lady,  airt  my  way 
Across  this  langsome  lonely  moor. 


36  tannahill's  soicqs. 

For  he  wha's  clearest  to  my  heart, 
Now  waits  me  on  the  western  shore. 

With  morn  he  spreads  his  outward  sail, 
This  night  I  vowed  to  meet  him  there, 

To  take  ae  secret  fond  fareweel ; 
We  maybe  part  to  meet  nae  mair. 

Dear  lassie,  turn  !  'twill  be  your  dead  1 

The  dreary  waste  lies  far  and  wide ; 
Abide  till  morn,  and  then  ye'll  ha'e 

My  father's  herdboy  for  your  guide. 
No,  lady,  no  !  I  maunna  turn, 

Impatient  love  now  chid  js  my  stay  ; 
Yon  rising  moon,  with  kindly  beam, 

Will  light  me  on  my  weary  way. 

***** 
Ah !  Donald,  wherefore  bounds  thy  heart  ? 

Why  beams  with  joy  thy  wishful  e'e  t 
Yon's  but  thy  true  love's  fleeting  form, 

Thy  true  love  mair  thou'lt  never  see. 
Deep  in  the  hollow  glen  she  lies, 

Amang  the  snaw,  beneath  the  tree ; 
She  soundly  sleeps  in  death's  cauld  arms, 

A  victim  to  her  love  for  thee. 


|.|^I  Shtla^,  ilmxxi  mi)  garlmg. 

Air — "  Nancy  Vemy." 

Ah  !  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling. 

The  golden  image  of  my  heart, 
How  cheerless  seems  this  morning. 

It  brings  the  hour  when  we  must  part : 
Though  doomed  to  cross  the  ocean, 

And  face  the  proud  insulting  foe, 
Thou  hast  my  soul's  devotion, 

My  heart  is  thine  where'er  I  go ! 
Ah,  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling. 

My  heart  is  thine  where'er  I  go ! 
When  tossed  upon  the  billow, 

And  angry  tempests  round  mc  blow, 


TAIfNAHILLS   SONGS.  37 

Let  not  the  gloomy  willow 

O'ershade  thy  lovely  lily  brow  ; 
But  mind  the  seaman's  story, 

Sweet  William  and  his  charming  Sue ; 
I'll  soon  return  -with  glory, 

And,  like  sweet  William,  wed  thee  too. 
Ah,  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling. 

My  heart  is  thine  where'er  I  go ! 

Think  on  our  days  of  pleasure. 

While  wandering  by  the  Shannon  side, 
When  summer  days  gave  leisure 

To  stray  amidst  their  flowery  pride ; 
And  while  thy  faithful  lover 

Is  far  upon  the  stormy  main, 
Think,  when  the  wars  are  over, 

These  golden  days  shall  come  again ! 
Ah,  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling, 

These  golden  days  shall  come  again ! 

Farewell,  ye  lofty  mountains. 

Your  flowery  wilds  we  wont  to  rove ; 
Ye  woody  glens  and  fountains, 

The  dear  retreats  of  mutual  love. 
Alas,  we  now  must  sever  ; 

Oh,  Sheelah,  to  thy  vows  be  true, 
My  heart  is  thine  for  ever  ; 

One  fond  embrace,  and  then  adieu  ! 
Ah,  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling, 

One  fond  embrace,  and  then  adieu  ! 


gtoUg,  mw  bear. 

The  harvest  is  o'er,  and  the  lads  are  so  funny, 

Their  hearts  lined  with  love,  and  their  pockets  mth  money, 

From  morning  till  night  'tis  "  My  jewel,  my  honey, 

Och,  go  to  the  north  with  me,  IMolly,  my  dear." 
Young  Dermot  holds  on  with  his  sweet  botheration, 
And  swears  there  is  only  one  flower  in  the  nation ; 
"  Thou  rose  of  the  Shannon,  thou  pink  of  creation, 

Och,  go  to  the  north  with  me,  Molly,  my  dear." 


38  tanwahill's  songs, 

"The  sun  courts  thy  smiles  as  he  sinks  in  the  ocean, 
The  moon  to  tliy  charms  veils  her  face  in  devotion, 
And  I  my  poor  self,  och,  so  rich  is  my  notion, 

Would  pay  down  the  world  for  sweet  Molly,  my  dear." 

Though  Thady  can  match  all  the  lads  with  his  blarney, 
And  sings  me  love-songs  of  the  lakes  of  Killarney, 
In  worth  from  my  Dermot  he's  twenty  miles'  journey, 
My  heart  bids  me  tell  him  I'll  ne'er  be  his  dear. 


Air— "Paddy  O'Rafferty." 

Oil,  could  I  fly  like  the  green-coated  fairy, 

I'd  skip  o'er  the  ocean  to  dear  Tipperary, 

"Where  all  the  young  fellows  are  l)lythesonie  and  merry, 

While  here  I  lament  my  sweet  Peggy  O'Katferty. 
How  could  I  bear  in  my  bosom  to  leave  her. 
In  absence  I  think  her  more  lovely  than  ever ; 
With  thoughts  of  her  beauty  I'm  all  in  a  fever. 

Since  others  may  woo  my  sweet  Peggy  O'Rafferty. 

Scotland,  thy  lasses  are  modest  and  bonnie. 
But  here  every  Jennie  has  got  her  own  Johnnie, 
And  though  I  might  call  them  my  jewel  and  honey. 

My  heart  is  at  home  with  sweet  Peggy  O'Rafferty  : 
Wistful  I  think  on  my  dear  native  mountains. 
Their  green  shady  glens  and  their  crystalline  fountains. 
And  ceaseless  I  heave  the  deep  sigh  of  repentance. 

That  ever  I  left  my  sweet  Peggy  O'Rafferty. 

Fortune,  'twas  thine  all  the  light  foolish  notion, 
That  led  me  to  rove  o'er  the  wide  rolling  ocean, 
But  what  now  to  me  all  the  hopes  of  promotion, 

Since  I  am  so  far  from  sweet  Peggy  O'Rafferty. 
Grant  me  as  many  thirteens  as  will  carry 
Me  down  through  the  country  and  over  the  ferry, 
I'll  hie  me  straight  home  into  dear  Tipperary, 

And  never  more  leaye  my  sweet  Peggy  O'Rafferty. 


tanttahill's  songs.  3D 

i^  Jfrknblu  Stars. 

Air — "  Gamby  Ora." 
Ye  friendly  stars  that  rule  the  night, 

And  hail  my  glad  returning, 
Ye  never  shone  so  sweetly  bright, 
Since  gay  St.  Patrick's  morning. 
My  life  hung  heavy  on  my  mind, 
Despair  sat  brooding  o'er  me ; 
Now  all  my  cares  are  full  behind, 
And  joy  is  full  before  me. 
Gamby  ora,  gamby  ora, 

How  my  heart  approves  me  ; 
Gamby  ora,  gamby  ora, 

Kathleen  owns  she  loves  me. 

"Were  all  the  flowery  pastures  mine. 

That  deck  fair  Limerick  county, 
That  wealth,  dear  Kathleen,  should  be  thine, 

And  all  should  share  our  bounty : 
But  fortune's  gifts  I  value  not. 

Nor  grandeur's  highest  station  ; 
I  would  not  change  my  happy  lot 

For  all  the  Irish  nation. 

Gamby  ora,  gamby  ora,  «fec. 


From  hill  to  hill  the  bugles  sound 

The  soul-arousing  strain. 
The  war-bred  coursers  paw  the  ground, 

And  foaming,  champ  the  rein. 
Their  steel-clad  riders  bound  on  high, 

A  bold  defensive  host ; 
With  valour  fired,  away  they  fly, 

Like  lightning,  to  the  coast. 

And  now  they  view  the  wide-spread  lines 

Of  the  invading  foe  ; 
Now  skill  with  British  bravery  joins, 

To  strike  one  final  blow. 


40  taitwahill's  songs. 

Now  on  they  rusli  with  giant  stroke ; 

Ten  thousand  victims  bleed  ; 
They  trample  on  the  iron  yoke 

Which  Franco  for  us  decreed. 

Now  view  the  trembling  vanquished  crew 

Kneel  o'er  their  prostrate  arms, 
Implore  respite  of  vengeance  due 

For  all  these  dire  alarms. 
Now,  while  humanity's  warm  glow. 

Half  weeps  the  guilty  slain, 
Let  conquest  gladden  every  brow. 

And  godlike  mercy  reign. 

Thus  fancy  paints  that  awful  day : 

Yes,  dreadful,  should  it  come  ; 
But  Britain's  sons,  in  stern  array. 

Shall  brave  its  darkest  gloom. 
Who  fights,  his  native  rights  to  save, 

His  worth  shall  have  its  claim ; 
The  bard  will  consecrate  his  grave, 

And  give  his  name  to  fame. 


^bim,  jje  rljterful  nni'ibt  jjlams. 

Air — "  The  green  woods  of  Treugli." 

Adieu,  ye  cheerful  native  plains, 

Dungeon  glooms  receive  me, 
Nought,  alas,  for  me  remains, 
Of  all  the  joys  ye  gave  me. 
All  are  flown  ! 
Banished  from  thy  shores,  sweet  Erin, 
I  through  life  must  toil  despairing, 

Lost  and  unknown. 
Howl,  ye  winds  !  around  my  cell. 

Nothing  now  can  wound  me  ; 
Mingling  with  your  dreary  swell, 
Prison  groans  surround  me  : 
Bodings  wild  ! 
Treachery,  thy  ruthless  doing, 
Long  I'll  mourn  in  hopeless  ruin, 
Lost  and  exiled ! 


tattnahill's  songs.  41 


Cbc  girgc  jof  Carnlmt. 


fCarolan  is  the  most  celebrated  of  all  the  modern  Irish  bards.  He 
was  born  in  the  village  of  Nobber,  County  of  VVostmeatli,  1G70,  and  died 
in  1739.  He  never  regretted  the  loss  of  his  sight,  but  used  gaily  to  say, 
"  My  eyes  are  only  transported  into  my  ears."  It  has  been  said  of  his 
music,  by  O'Connor,  the  celebrated  historian,  who  knew  him  intimately, 
that  so  happy,  so  elevated  was  he  in  some  of  his  compositions,  he  attained 
the  approbation  of  that  great  master,  Geminina,  who  never  saw  him.  His 
execution,  too,  on  the  harp,  was  rapid  and  impressive,  far  beyond  that  of 
all  the  professional  competitors  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  The  charms 
of  woman,  the  pleasures  of  couvivinlity,  and  the  power  of  poetry  and  music, 
were  at  once  his  theme  and  iuspiiaiion  ;  and  his  life  was  an  illustration 
of  his  theory ;  for  until  his  lasc  ardour  was  chilled  by  death,  he  loved, 
drank,  and  sung.  While  in  the  fervour  of  composition,  he  was  constantly 
heard  to  pass  sentence  on  his  own  effusions,  as  they  rose  on  his  harp,  or 
breathed  from  his  lips :  blaming  and  praising,  with  equal  vehemence,  the 
unsuccessful  effort  and  felicitous  attempt.  He  was  the  welcome  guest  of 
every  house,  from  the  peasant  to  the  prince,  but  in  the  true  wandering 
spirit  of  his  profession,  he  never  stayed  to  exhaust  that  welcome.  He 
lived  and  died  poor. — Lady  Morgan.] 

Air — "  Ballymoney." 

Ye  maids  of  green  Erin,  why  sigh  ye  so  sad  ? 
The  Slimmer  is  smiling,  all  nature  is  glad. 
The  summer  may  smile,  and  the  shamrock  may  bloom, 
But  the  pride  of  green  Erin  lies  cold  in  the  tomb  ; 
And  his  merits  demand  all  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
Though  they  ne'er  can  awaken  the  slumbering  dead  ; 
Yet  still  they  shall  flow — for  dear  Carolan  we  mourn, 
For  the  soul  of  sweet  music  now  sleeps  in  his  urn. 

Ye  bards  of  our  isle,  join  our  grief  with  your  songs, 

For  the  deepest  regret  to  his  memory  belongs  ; 

In  our  cabins  and  fields,  on  our  mountains  and  plains, 

How  oft  have  we  sung  to  his  sweet  melting  strains. 

Ah  !  these  strains  shall  survive,  long  as  time  they  shall  last, 

Yet  they  now  but  remind  us  of  joys  that  are  past ; 

And  our  days,  crowned  with  pleasure,  can  never  return. 

For  the  soul  of  sweet  music  now  sleeps  in  his  urn. 

Yes,  thou  pride  of  green  Erin !  thy  honours  thoul't  have, 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  we  shall  weep  round  thy  grave  ; 
And  th)^  harp  that  so  oft  to  our  ditties  has  rung. 
To  the  lorn-sighing  breeze  o'er  thy  grave  shall  be  hung ; 
And  the  song  shall  ascend  thy  bright  worth  to  proclaim. 
That  thy  shade  may  rejoice  in  the  voice  of  thy  fame  ; 
But  our  days,  crowned  with  pleasure,  can  never  return, 
For  the  soul  of  sweet  music  now  sleeps  in  thine  urn. 


42  tannahill's  soiras. 

gin  glarg. 

Air — "  Invercauld's  reel." 

My  Mary  is  a  bonnie  lassie, 

Sweet  as  dewy  morn, 

When  fancy  tun<3S  her  rural  reed 

Beside  the  upland  thorn. 
She  lives  ahint  yon  sunny  knowe, 
Where  flowers  in  wild  profusion  grow, 
Where  spreading  birks  and  hazels  throw 

Their  shadows  owre  the  burn. 

'Tis  no  the  streamLit-skirted  wood, 

Wi'  a'  its  leafy  bowers, 
That  gars  me  wait  in  solitude 

Among  the  wild  spring  flowers  ; 
But  aft  I  cast  a  hanging  e'e, 
D(iwn  frae  the  bank,  out  owre  the  lea, 
There,  haply,  I  my  lass  may  see. 

As  through  the  broom  she  scours. 

Yestreen  I  met  my  bonnie  lassie 

Comin  frae  the  town. 
We  raptured  sunk  in  ither's  arms. 

And  pressed  the  breckans  down  : 
The  paitrick  sung  his  e'ening  note. 

The  rye  craik  risped  his  clamorous  throat, 
Wliile  there  the  heavenly  vow  I  got, 

That  earled  her  mv  own. 


Lowland  lassie  wilt  thou  go 

Where  the  hills  are  clad  with  snow  ; 

Where,  beneath  the  icy  steep, 

The  hardy  shepherd  tends  his  sheep  1 

111  nor  wae  shall  thee  betide. 

When  rowed  within  my  Highland  plaid. 

Soon  the  voice  of  cheerie  spring 

Will  gar  a'  our  plantin's  ring  ; 

Soon  our  bonnie  heather  braes, 

Will  put  on  their  simmer  claes : 


tannahill's  songs.  43 

On  the  mountain's  sunny  side, 
We'll  lean  us  on  my  Highland  plaid. 

When  the  simmer  spreads  the  flowers, 
Busks  the  glen  in  leafy  bowers, 
Then  we'll  seek  the  caller  shade, 
Lean  us  on  the  primrose  bed ; 
While  the  burning  hours  preside, 
I'll  screen  thee  wi'  my  Highland  plaid. 

Then  we'll  leave  the  sheep  and  goat, 
I  will  launch  the  bonnie  boat, 
Skim  the  loch  in  canty  glee. 
Rest  the  oars  to  pleasure  thee. 
When  chilly  breezes  sweep  the  tide, 
I'll  hap  thee  wi'  my  Highland  plaid. 

Lowland  lads  may  dress  mair  fine, 
Woo  in  words  mair  saft  than  mine ; 
Lowland  lads  ha'e  mair  of  art, 
A'  my  boast's  an  honest  heart, 
Whilk  shall  ever  be  my  pride  : 
Oh,  row  thee  in  my  Highland  plaid ! 

Bonnie  lad,  ye've  been  sae  leal. 
My  heart  would  break  at  our  fareweel, 
Lang  your  love  has  made  me  fain  : 
Tak'  me,  tak'  me  for  your  ain ! 
'Cross  the  frith  away  they  glide, 
Young  Donald  and  his  Lowland  bride. 

Air — "  My  time,  0  ye  muses." 
Eesponsive,  ye  woods,  wing  your  echoes  along. 
Till  nature,  all  sad,  weeping,  listen  my  song. 
Till  flocks  cease  their  bleating,  and  herds  cease  to  low, 
And  the  clear  winding  rivulet  scarce  seems  to  flow.^ 
Por  fair  was  the  flower  that  once  gladdened  our  plains. 
Sweet  rosebud  of  virtue,  adored  by  our  swains ; 
But  fate,  like  a  blast,  from  the  chill  wintry  wave, 
Has  laid  my  sweet  flower  in  yon  cold  silent  grave. 

Her  warm  feeling  breast  did  with  sympathy  glow, 
In  innocence  pure  as  the  new  mountain  snow ; 


44  tannahill's  songs. 

Her  face  was  more  fair  than  the  mild  apple  bloom, 

Her  voice  sweet  as  hope,  whispering  pleasures  to  come. 

Oh,  Mary,  my  love,  wilt  thou  never  return  1 

'Tia  thy  William  who  calls!  burst  the  bands  of  thy  urn! 

Together  we'll  wander — poor  wretch,  how  I  rave ! 

My  Mary  lies  low  in  the  lone  silent  grave. 

Yon  tall  leafy  planes  throw  a  deep  solemn  shade 

O'er  the  dear  holy  spot  where  my  Mary  is  laid, 

Lest  the  light  wanton  sunbeams  obtrude  on  the  gloom, 

That  lorn  love  and  friendship  have  wove  round  her  tomb. 

Still  there  let  the  mild  tears  of  nature  remain, 

Till  calm  dewy  evening  weep  o'er  her  again  ; 

There  oft  I  will  wander — no  boon  now  I  crave, 

But  to  weep  life  away  o'er  the  dark  silent  grave. 

Je  tr^ar  rnmitnlk  Sfjabcs. 

Air  — "  Mrs.  Hamilton  of  Wisliaw's  strathspey." 

Par  from  the  giddy  court  of  mirth, 

Where  sickening  follies  reign. 
By  Levern  banks  I  wander  forth 

To  hail  each  sylvan  scene. 
All  hail,  ye  dear  romantic  shades  ! 
Te  banks,  ye  woods,  and  sunny  glades  ! 
Here  oft  the  musing  poet  treads 

In  Nature's  riches  great : 
Contrast  the  country  with  the  town, 
Makes  Nature's  beauties  all  his  own ; 
And,  borne  on  fancy's  wings,  looks  down 

On  empty  pride  and  state. 
By  dewy  dawn,  or  sultry  noon. 

Or  sober  evening  gray, 
I'll  often  quit  the  dinsome  town, 

By  Levern  banks  to  stray  : 
Or  from  the  uplands  mossy  brow 
Enjoy  the  fancy-pleasiug  view 
Of  streamlets,  woods,  and  fields  below, 

A  sweetly  varied  scene. 
Give  riches  to  the  miser's  care, 
Let  folly  shine  in  fashion's  glare, 
Give  me  the  wealth  of  peace  and  health, 

With  all  their  happy  train. 


tannahill's  song  3.  46 

S)l^0U0br  bumbU  mg  lof. 

Air — "  Her  sheep  bad  in  clusters." 

"Whuhe  primroses  spring  on  the  green-tufted  brae, 

Aud  the  rivulet  runs  murmuring  below, 
Oh,  fortune  !  at  morning,  or  noon,  let  me  stray, 

And  thy  wealth  on  thy  votaries  bestow : 
For,  oh !  how  enraptured  my  bosom  does  glow 

As  calmly  I  wander  alone, 
Where  wild  woods,  and  bushes,  and  primroses  grow, 

And  a  streamlet  enlivens  the  scene. 

Though  humble  my  lot,  not  ignoble's  my  state. 

Let  me  still  be  contented  though  poor; 
What  destiny  brings,  be  resigned  to  my  fate, 

Though  misfortune  should  knock  at  my  door. 
I  care  not  for  honour,  preferment,  nor  wealth, 

For  the  title  that  affluence  yields. 
While  blythely  I  roam  in  the  heyday  of  health, 

'Midst  the  charms  of  my  dear  native  fields. 


§0itnk  toinsom^  iEtarg. 

Gaelic  A.ir. 

FoETUNE,  fro-wning  most  severe, 
Forced  me  from  my  native  dwelling, 
Parting  with  my  friends  so  dear. 
Cost  me  many  a  bitter  tear: 
But,  like  the  clouds  of  early  day, 
Soon  my  sorrows  fled  away. 
When,  blooming  sweet  and  smiling, 
I  met  my  winsome  Mary. 

Wha  can  sit  with  gloomy  brow. 
Blessed  with  su-  a  charming  lassie  ? 
Native  scenes,  I  think  on  you. 
Yet  the  change  I  canna  rue  ; 
Wandering  many  a  weary  mile. 
Now  fortune  seemed  to  lower  the  while. 
But  she's  gi'en  me,  for  the  toil, 
My  bonnie  winsome  Mary. 


46  TANNAKILT/S    SON'OS. 

Thouph  our  riclies  are  but  few, 
Faitlitul  love  is  aye  a  treasure  ; 
Ever  cheerie,  kind,  and  true, 
Nane  but  her  I  e'er  can  lo'e. 
Hear  me,  a'  ye  powers  above, 
Powers  of  sacred  truth  and  love ! 
While  I  live  I'll  constant  prove 
To  my  dear  winsome  Mary. 


C^e  Canute's  Song, 

Hark  !  'tis  the  poor  maniac's  song ; 

She  sits  on  yon  wild  craggy  steep, 
And  while  the  winds  mournfully  whistle  along, 

She  wistfully  looks  o'er  the  deep  : 
And  aye  she  sings,  "  Lullaby,  lullaby,  lullaby  !" 

To  hush  the  rude  billows  asleep. 

She  looks  to  yon  rock  far  at  sea, 

And  thinks  it  her  lover's  white  sail ; 

The  warm  tear  of  joy  glads  her  wild  glistening  e'e, 
As  she  reckons  his  vessel  to  hail ; 

And  aye  she  sings  ''  Lullaby,  lullaby,  lullaby  !" 
And  frets  at  the  boisterous  gale. 

Poor  Susan  was  gentle  and  fair. 

Till  the  seas  robbed  her  heart  of  its  joy  ; 

Then  her  reason  was  lost  in  the  gloom  of  despair, 
And  her  charms  then  did  wither  and  die  : 

And  now  her  sad  "  lullal)y,  lullaby,  lullaby  !" 
Oft  wakes  the  lone  passenger's  sigh. 


^t  ^cljocs  thixt  IJlhtg. 

Ye  echoes  that  ring  round  the  woods  of  Bowgreen, 
Say,  did  ye  e'er  listen  sae  melting  a  strain. 

When  lovely  young  Jessie  gaed  wandering  unseen, 
And  sung  of  her  laddie,  the  pride  of  the  plain. 

Ayt;  she  sung,  Willie,  my  bonnie  young  Willie  ! 

There's  no  a  sweet  flower  on  the  mountain  or  valley, 

Mild  blue  spritled  crowfiower,  or  wild  woodland  lily, 
But  tines  ^'  its  sweets  in  my  bonny  young  swain. 


tannautll's  songs.  47 

Thou  goddess  of  love,  keep  him  constant  to  me. 
Else,  withering  in  sorrow,  poor  Jessie  shall  die  ! 

Her  laddie  had  strayed  through  the  dark  leafy  wood, 
His  thoughts  were  a'  fixed  on  his  dear  lassie's  charms, 

He  heard  her  sweet  voice,  all  transported  he  stood, 
'Twas  the  soul  of  his  wishes — he  flew  to  her  arms. 

No,  my  dear  Jessie  !  my  lovely  young  Jessie  ! 

Through  summer,  through  winter,  I'll  doat  and  caress  thee, 

Thou'rt  dearer  than  life  !  thou'rt  my  ae  only  lassie  ! 
Then,  banish  thy  bosom  these  needless  alarms, 

Yon  red  setting  sun  sooner  changeful  chall  be, 

Ere  wavering  in  falsehood  I  wander  frae  thee. 


C^^  'SitQXO  (iirl. 

Yon  poor  negro  girl,  an  exotic  plant. 

Was  torn  from  her  dear  native  soil  ; 
Reluctantly  borne  o'er  the  raging  Atlant, 

Then  brought  to  Britannia's  isle. 
Though  Fatima's  mistress  be  loving  and  kind. 

Poor  Fatima  still  must  deplore  ; 
She  thinks  on  her  parents,  left  weeping  behind, 

And  sighs  for  her  dear  native  shore. 

She  thinks  on  her  Zadi,  the  youth  of  her  heart, 

Who  from  childhood  was  loving  and  true  ; 
How  he  cried  on  the  beach  when  the  ship  did  depart  ] 

'Twas  a  sad  everlasting  adieu. 
The  shell-woven  gift  which  he  bound  round  her  arm, 

The  rude  seaman  unfeelingly  tore. 
Nor  left  one  sad  relic  her  sorrows  to  charm, 

When  far  from  her  dear  native  shore. 

And  now,  all  dejected,  she  wanders  apart. 

No  friend  save  retirement  she  seeks  ; 
The  sigh  of  despondency  bursts  from  her  heart. 

And  tears  dew  her  thin  sable  cheeks. 
Poor  hard-fated  girl,  long,  long  she  may  mourn  ! 

Life's  pleasure's  to  her  all  are  o'er  ; 
Far  fled  every  hope  that  she  e'er  should  return 

To  revisit  her  dear  native  shore. 


48 


Pg  heart  b  satr  foi'  l^^afag  ran. 

Air — "  The  rosy  brier." 

My  heart  is  sair  wi'  heavy  care, 

To  think  on  friendship's  fickle  smile  ; 

It  blinks  a  wee  wi'  kindly  e'e, 

"When  world's  thrift  runs  weel  the  while. 

But  let  misfortune's  tempests  lower, 

It  soon  turns  cold,  it  soon  turns  sour ; 
It  looks  sae  high  and  scornfully, 

It  winna  ken  a  poor  man's  door. 

I  ance  had  siller  in  my  purse, 

I  dealt  it  out  right  frank  and  free, 

And  hoped,  should  fortune  change  her  course. 
That  they  would  do  the  same  for  me : 

But,  weak  in  wit,  I  little  thought 

That  friendship's  smiles  were  sold  and  bought. 
Till  ance  I  saw,  like  April  snaw, 

They  waned  awa'  when  I  had  nought. 

It's  no  to  see  my  threadbare  coat, 

It's  no  to  see  my  coggie  toom, 
It's  no  to  wair  my  hindmost  groat, 

Thnt  gars  me  fret  and  gars  me  gloom : 
But  'tis  to  see  the  scornful  pride 
That  honest  poortith  aft  maun  bide 

Frae  selfish  slaves,  and  sordid  knaves, 

What  strut  with  fortune  on  their  side. 

But  let  it  gang,  what  de'il  care  I ! 

Wi'  eydent  thrift  I'll  toil  for  mair  ; 
I'll  half  my  mite  with  misery, 

But  fient  a  ane  o'  them  shall  share. 
With  soul  unbent  I'll  stand  the  stour, 
And  while  they're  fluttering  past  my  door, 

I'll  sing  with  glee  and  let  them  see 
An  honest  heart  can  ne'er  be  poor. 


TANITAHILL  S   80NG8. 


40 


Moderate, 


Jionnb  ^^lootr  of  Craigiclce. 


The  broom,  the  brier,  the   bir  -  ken  bush.  Bloom  bon  -  uie  o'er    thy    flow'ry    lea ;  And 


spent  life's  ear  -  ly    day,  And  won 


Far  ben  thy  dark  green  plantin's  shade, 
The  cushat  croodles  am'roiisly, 

The  mavis  down  thy  bughted  glade, 
Gars  echo  ring  frae.ev'ry  tree. 
Thou  bonnie  wood,  &c. 

Awa',  ye  thoughtless  murd'ring  gang, 
AVha  tear  the  nestlings  ere  they  flee ! 

They'll  sing  you  yet  a  canty  sang, 
Then,  oh !  in  pity  let  them  be ! 
Thou  bonnie  wood,  &c. 

When  winter  blaws  in  sleety  showers, 
Frae  afF  the  norlan'  hills  sae  hie, 

He  lightly  skiffs  thy  bonnie  bow'rs. 
As  laith  to  harm  a  flow'r  in  thee. 
Thou  bonnie  wood,  &c. 

Though  fate  should  drive  me  south  the  line, 

Or  o'er  the  wide  Atlantic  sea, 
The  happy  hours  I'll  ever  miu', 

That  I  in  youth  ha'e  spent  in  thee. 
Thou  bonnie  wood,  &c. 


50  taknahill's  songs. 

J  mnrhci>  :x  6em  of  iJcurlg  Qchj. 

I  MAKKED  a  gem  of  pearly  clew, 

While  wandering  near  yon  misty  mountain, 
Which  bore  the  tender  flower  so  low, 

It  droi)ped  off  into  the  fountain. 
So  thou  hast  wrung  this  gentle  heart, 

"Which  in  its  core  was  proud  to  wear  thee, 
Till,  drooping  sick  beneath  thy  art. 

It  sighing  found  it  could  not  bear  thee  ! 

Adieu,  thou  faithless  fair  !  unkind  ! 

Thy  falsehood  dooms  that  we  must  sever ; 
Thy  vows  were  as  the  passing  wind. 

That  fans  the  flower,  then  dies  for  ever. 
And  think  not  that  this  gentle  heart. 

Though  iu  its  core  'twas  proud  to  wear  thee, 
Sliall  longer  droop  beneath  thy  art ; 

No,  cruel  fair  !  it  cannot  bear  thee  ! 


C^ie  §arj>  oi  ^kmxllin. 


Though  my  eyes  are  grown  dim,  and  my  locks  are  turned 

grey, 
I  feel  not  the  storms  of  life's  bleak  wintry  day. 
For  my  cot  is  well  thatched,  and  my  barns  are  full  stored, 
And  cheerful  content  still  presides  at  my  board : 
Warm-hearted  benevolence  stands  at  my  door, 
Dispensing  her  gifts  to  the  wandering  poor ; 
The  glow  of  the  heart  does  my  bounty  repay, 
And  lightens  the  heart  of  life's  bleak  wintry  day. 

From  the  summit  of  years  I  look  down  on  the  vale, 
Where  age  pines  in  sorrow,  neglected  and  pale  : 
Where  the  sunshine  of  ft)rtune  scarce,  deigns  to  bestow 
One  heart-cheering  smile  to  the  wand'rers  below. 
From  the  sad  dreary  prospect  this  lesson  I  drew, 
That  those  who  are  helpless  are  fricuided  by  few, 
So  with  vigorous  industry  I  smoothed  the  rough  way 
That  leads  through  the  vale  of  life's  bleak  wintry  day. 


TANNAHILL'g  SOl^QS,  61 

» 

Then,  my  son,  let  the  bard  of  Glenullin  advise, 

For  years  can  give  counsel,  experience  makes  wise  ; 

'Midst  thy  wanderings  let  honour  for  aye  be  thy  guide. 

O'er  thy  actions  let  honesty  ever  preside. 

Then,  though  hardships  assail  thee,  in  virtue  thoul't  smile, 

For  light  is  the  heart  that's  untainted  with  guile; 

But,  if  fortune  attend  thee,  my  counsels  obey. 

Prepare  for  the  storms  of  life's  bleak  wintry  day, 


Air — "  Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen." 

When  poortith  cauld,  and  sour  disdain, 

Hang  owre  life's  vale  sae  foggie. 
The  sun  that  brightens  up  the  scene, 
Is  friendship's  kindly  coggie. 

Then,  oh  revere  the  coggie,  sirs  ! 
The  friendly  social  coggie  ! 
It  gars  the  wheels  of  life  run  light. 
Though  e'er  so  doilt  and  cloggie. 

Let  pride  in  fortune's  chariots  fly, 

Sae  empty,  vain,  and  voggie  ; 
The  source  of  wit,  the  spring  of  joy, 
Lies  in  the  social  coggie. 

Then,  oh  !  revere  the  coggie,  sirs  ! 
The  independent  coggie  ! 
And  never  smool  beneath  the  frown 
Of  ony  selfish  roggie. 

Poor  modest  worth,  wi'  cheerless  e'e, 

Sits  hurkling  in  the  boggie, 
Till  she  asserts  her  dignity. 
By  virtue  of  the  coggie. 

Then,  oh  !  revere  the  coggie,  sirs  ! 
The  poor  man's  patron  coggie. 
It  warsels  care,  it  fights  life's  faughts, 
And  lifts  him  frae  the  boggie. 


62  tannahill's  songs. 

Gi'e  feckless  Spain  her  -wealv  snail  broo, 

Gi'e  France  her  weel-spiced  fVoggio, 
Gi'e  brother  John  his  luncheon  too, 
But  gi'e  to  us  our  coggie. 

Then,  oh  !  revere  tlie  coggie,  sirs, 
Our  soul-warm  kindred  coggie; 
Hearts  doubly  knit  in  social  tie, 
When  just  a  wee  thought  groggie. 

In  days  of  yore  our  sturdy  sires, 
Upon  their  hills  sac  scroggie, 
Glowed  with  true  freedom's  warmest  fires, 
And  fought  to  save  their  coggie. 

Then,  oh  !  revere  the  coggie,  sirs, 
Our  brave  forefathers'  coggie  ; 
It  roused  them  up  *  o  doughty  deeds, 
O'er  which  we'll  lang  be  vo^e. 

Then  here's  may  Scotland  ne'er  fa'  down, 

A  cringing,  coward  doggie, 
But  bauldly  stand  and  bang  the  loon, 
Wha'd  reave  her  of  her  coggie ! 

Then,  oh  !  protect  the  coggie,  sirs,  • 
Our  good  auld  mother's  coggie ! 
Nor  let  her  luggie  e'er  be  drained 
By  any  foreign  roggie. 


gabic  Citlbtlj's  '§om\u  ^alg. 

Datie  Tulloch's  bonnie  Katy, 

Davie's  bonnie,  blythesome  Katy, 
Tarn  the  laird  cam'  down  yestreen. 

Ho  sought  her  love,  but  gat  her  pity. 
"Wi'  trembling  grip  he  squeezed  her  hand, 

AVhile  his  auld  heart  gaed  pitty-patty  ; 
Aye  he  thought  his  gear  and  laucl 

"Wad  win  the  love  o'  bonnie  Katy. 

Davie  Tulloch's  bonnie  Katy, 

Davie's  bonnie,  blythesome  Katy ; 

Aye  she  smiled  as  Davie  wiled : 

Her  smile  was  scorn,  yet  mixed  wi'  pity. 


taitntahill's  songs.  53 

hWxt,  ran  gnu  leiitr^  \m? 

Oh,  laddie,  can  you  leave  me? 

Alas,  'twill  break  this  constant  heart ; 
There's  nought  on  earth  can  grieve  me 

Like  this,  that  we  must  part : 
Think  on  the  tender  vow  you  made 

Beneath  the  secret  birkeu  shade  ; 
And  can  you  now  deceive  me ! 

Is  a'  your  love  but  art  1 


I'll  h\y  mc  on  the  Ixiintrg  lea. 

I'll  lay  me  on  the  wintry  lea, 

And  sleep  anfidst  the  wind  and  weet ; 
And  ere  another's  bride  I  be. 

Oh,  bring  me  to  my  winding  sheet  ? 
"What  can  a  helpless  lassie  do, 

When  ilka  friend  wad  prove  a  foe  : 
"Wad  gar  her  break  her  dearest  vow. 

To  wed  wi'  ane  she  canna  lo'e  1 


Jfair-Ijairetr  ganng. 

Full  eighteen  summers  up  life's  brae, 

I  speeded  on  fu' .canny,  0, 
Till  sleeky  love  threw  in  my  way 

Young  bonnie  fair-haired  Nanny,  0. 
I  wooed  her  soon,  I  won  her  syne, 

Our  vows  o'  love  were  many,  0  ; 
And,  oh  !  what  happy  days  were  mine, 

Wi'  bonnie  fair-haired  Nannie,  0. 


Mm  ^t  at  guntotljcr  gurn. 

AiTD  were  ye  at  Duntocher  burn  ? 

And  did  ye  see  them  a',  man  1 
And  bow's  my  wifie  and  the  bairns  1 

I  ha'e  been  lang  awa',  man. 


6i  tannahill's  songs. 

This  hedp^er  wark's  a  weary  trade, 
It  doesna  siiit  ava',  man  ; 

Wi'  lanely  house  and  lanely  bed 
My  comforts  are  but  sma',  man. 


Caulb  gloomn  febtrlviar. 

Thou  cauld  gloomy  Feberwar, 

Oh,  gin  thou  wert  awa'  ; 
I'm  wae  to  hear  thy  soughing  winds, 

I'm  wae  to  see  thy  snaw  : 
For  my  bonnio  brave  young  Iliglilander, 

The  hid  T  hVe  so  dear, 
Has  voweil  to  come  and  see  me, 

In  the  spring  o'  the  year. 


I^Iarron,  brn  ijcritr  icnrfu'  t't. 

Now  Marion,  dry  your  tearfu'  e'e, 
G-ae  break  your  rock  in  twa, 

For  soon  your  gallant  sons  ye'll  see, 
Returned  "in  safety  a'. 

Oh,  vow,  guidman,  my  heart  is  fain  ! 

And  shall  I  see  my  bairns  again  ? 

A'  seated  round  our  ain  hearthstanc, 
Nae  mair  to  gang  awa'  ? 


€onxt  biimc  to  nour  (tngcls. 

Air     "  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad." 

Come  hame  to  your  lingels,  ye  ne'er-do-weel  loon, 
Tou're  the  king  of  the  dyvoiirs,  the  talk  o'  the  to\/n. ; 
Sae  soon  as  the  Munonday  morning  comes  in, 
Your  wearifu'  daidling  again  maun  begin ! 
Guidwife,  ye're  a  skillet,  your  tongue's  just  a  bell, 
To  the  peace  o'  guid  fellows  it  brings  the  death-kncll ; 
But  clack  till  ye  deafen  auld  Batiiaby's  mill. 
The  souter  shall  aye  ha'e  his  Munonday's  yill. 


tannahill's  songs.  55 

Come  hame  to  your  lapstanc,  come  hame  to  your  last, 
It's  a  bouuie  affair  that  your  family  mavin  fast, 
While  you  and  your  crew  here  a  guzzlinj^  maun  sit, 
Ye  dazed,  drunken,  guid-for-nocht  heir  o'  the  pit : 
Just  look,  how  I'm  gaun  without  stocking  or  shoe, 
Tour  bairns  a'  in  tatters,  and  fatherless  too, 
And  yet,  quite  content,  like  a  sot,  ye'll  sit  still. 
Till  your  kyte's  like  to  crack,  wi'  your  Muuonday'a  yill. 

I'll  tell  you,  guidwife,  gin  ye  haudna  your  clack, 
I'll  lend  you  a  reestle  wi'  this,  ovvre  your  back ; 
Maun  we  be  abused  and  aftVonted  by  you, 
Wi'  sican  foul  names  as  loon,  dyvour,  and  crew  ? 
Come  hame  to  your  lingels,  this  instant  come  hame, 
Or  I'll  redden  your  face,  gin  ye've  yet  ony  shame. 
For  I'll  bring  a'  the  bairns,  and  we'll  just  ha'e  our  fill, 
As  weel  as  yoursel',  o'  your  Muuonday's  yill. 

Gin  that  be  the  gate  o't,  sirs,  come  let  us  stir, 
What  need  we  sit  here  to  be  pestered  by  her? 
For  she'll  plague  and  aflVont  us  as  far  as  she  can  : 
Did  ever  a  woman  sae  bother  a  man  1 
IVae  yill-house  to  yill-house  she'll  after  us  rin, 
And  raise  the  whole  town  wi'  her  yelpin'  an'  din  ; 
Come  !  ca'  the  guidwife,  bid  her  bring  in  her  bill : 
I  see  I  maun  quat  takin'  Munon day's  yill. 


Ml^m  gnste  toas  fait^fitl. 

Written  on  reading  ''  The  Harper  of  Mull,"  a  Highland  etory. 

When  Ilosie  was  faithful,  how  happy  was  I, 

Still  gladsome  as  summer  the  time  glided  by  ; 

I  played  my  harp  cheerie,  while  fondly  I  sang 

Of  the  charms  of  my  Eosie  the  winter  nights  lang. 

But  now  I'm  as  waefu'  as  waefu'  can  be, 

Come  summer,  come  winter,  'tis  a'  ane  to  me : 

For  the  dark  gloom  of  falsehood  sae  clouds  my  sad  soul, 

That  cheerless  for  aye  is  the  harper  of  Mull. 

I  wander  the  glens  and  the  wild  woods  alane, 
In  their  deepest  recesses  I  make  my  sad  mane ; 
My  harp's  mournful  melody  joins  in  the  strain, 
While  sadly  I  sing  of  the  days  that  are  gant* 


56  tanitahtll's  soxgs. 

Thou;;!!  Ensic  is  faithless,  slic's  no  the  less  fair, 
An.d  the  thou,c;ht  of  her  beauty  but  feeds  my  despair; 
WHh  painful  remembrance  my  bosom  is  full, 
And  weary  of  life  is  the  liarper  of  Mull. 

As  slumberiup:  I  lay  by  the  dark  mountain  stream, 
My  lovely  youn<2:  "Rosie  appeared  in  my  dream  : 
I  thought  her  still  kind,  and  I  ne'er  was  sae  blessed. 
As  in  fancy  I  clasped  the  dear  nymph  to  my  breast. 
Thou  false'tleetiug  \-isiou,  too  soon  thou  wert  o'er, 
Thou  wak'dst  nu;  to  tortures  unequalled  before  ; 
But  death's  silent  slumbers  my  <j;riefs  soon  shall  lull, 
And  the  green  grass  wave  over  the  harper  of  Mull. 


Mllrii  (Llnite  to  liimisb  (Tare. 

Why  unite  to  banish  care  1 
Let  him  come  our  joys  to  share  ; 
Doubly  blessed  our  cup  shall  flow, 
AVhen  it  soothes  a  brother's  woe  ; 
'Twas  for  this  the  powers  divine 
Crowned  our  board  ^vith  generous  wine. 

Far  be  hence  the  sordid  elf 
Who'd  claim  enjoyment  for  himself; 
Come,  the  hardy  seaman,  lame, 
The  gallant  soldier  robbed  of  fame. 
Welcome  all  who  bear  the  woes 
Of  various  kind  that  merit  knows. 

"  Patriot  heroes,  doomed  to  sigh 
Idle  'neath  corru})tion's  eye  ; 
Honest  tradesmen,  credit  worn, 
Pining  under  fortune's  scorn, 
Wanting  wealth,  or  lacking  fame. 
Welcome  all  that  worth  can  claim. 

"  Come,  the  hoary-headed  sage, 
Suffering  more  from  want  than  age  ; 
Come  the  proud,  though  needy  bard, 
Serving  'midst  a  world's  regard  : 
Welcome,  welcome,  one  and  all 
That  feel  on  this  unfeeling  ball" 


tannahill's  songs.  C7 

grabc  f  ttok  |Idi|. 

Gaelic  air. 
Bfave  Lewie  Eoy  was  the  flower  of  our  Highlandmen, 

Tall  as  the  oak  on  the  lofty  Benvoirlich, 
Fleet  as  the  light-hounding  tenants  of  Fillin  glen, 

Dearer  than  life  to  his  lovely  neen  voiiich  * 
Lone  was  his  biding,  the  cave  of  his  hiding, 

When  forced  to  retire  with  our  gallant  Prince  Charlie, 
Though  manly  and  fearless,  his  bold  heart  was  cheerless, 

Away  from  the  lady  he  aye  loved  so  dearly. 

"  But  woe  on  the  bloodthirsty  mandates  of  Cumberland, 

Woe  on  the  bloodthirsty  gang  that  fulfilled  them  ; 
Poor  Caledonia  !  bleeding  and  plunder'd  land, 

Where  shall  thy  children  now  shelter  and  shield  them  1 
Keen  prowl  the  cravens  like  merciless  ravens, 

Their  prey  the  devoted  adherents  of  Charlie  ; 
Brave  Lewie  Roy  is  ta'en,  cowardly  hacked  and  slain, 

Ah  !  his  neen  vciuch  will  mourn  for  him  sairly." 


PjI  gear  Ijigblmib  f  abbb,  #. 

Air — "  Momeen  I  gaberland." 

BlyTHE  was  the  time  when  he  fee'd  \vi'  my  father,  0. 
Happy  were  the  days  when  we  herded  thegither,  0, 
Sweet  were  the  hours  when  he  rowed  me  in  his  plaidie,  0, 
And  vowed  to  be  mine,  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  0. 

But  ah  !  waes  me  !  wi'  their  sodgering  sae  gaudy,  0, 
The  laird's  wysed  awa'  my  braw  Highland  laddie,  0, 
Misty  are  the  glens,  and  the'dark  hills  sae  cloudy,  0, 
That  aye  seemed  sae  blythe  wi'  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  0. 

The  blaeberry  banks  now  are  lonesome  and  dreary,  0, 
Muddy  are  the  streams  that  gushed  down  sae  clearly,  0, 
Silent  are  the  rocks  that  echoed  sae  gladly,  0, 
The  wild  melting  strains  of  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  0. 
*  Beautiful  maid. 


68  tannahill's  sonos. 

Farewell  my  ewes  !  and  farewell  my  doggie,  O, 
Farewell  ye  knowcs  !  now  sae  cheerless  and  scroggie,  0, 
Farewell  Glenfeoch  !  my  maniinie  and  my  daddie,,  0 
I  will  lea'  you  a'  for  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  0. 


|ran0  Snnc,  bcsibc  tl)c  MaoLrlanb  ^\mx. 

Lang  syne,  beside  the  woodland  burn, 

Amang  the  broom  sae  yellow, 
I  leaned  me  'ncath  the  milkwhite  thorn, 

On  nature's  mossy  pillow  ; 
A'  round  my  seat  the  flowers  were  strewed, 
That  frae  the  wild  wood  I  had  pu'd, 
To  weave  mysel'  a  summer  snood, 

To  pleasure  my  dear  fellow. 

I  twined  the  woodbine  round  the  rose, 

Its  richer  hues  to  mellow, 
Green  spri^^'s  of  fragrant  birk  I  chose, 

To  busk  the  sedge  sae  yellow. 
The  crawHower  blue,  and  meadow-pink, 
I  wove  in  primrose-braided  link  ; 
But  little,  little  did  I  think 

I  should  have  w^ove  the  willow. 

My  bonnie  lad  was  forced  afar, 

Tossed  on  the  raging  billow  ; 
Perhaps  he's  fa'n  in  bluidy  war, 

Or  wrecked  on  rocky  shallow  : 
Tet,  aye  I  hope  for  his  return, 
As  round  our  wonted  haunts  I  mourn, 
And  often  by  the  woodland  burn, 

I  pu'  the  weeping  willow. 


#  ^assie,  bill  van  lah'  n  mait? 

Air — "  Whistle  o'er  tlie  lave  o't." 

O  LASSIE,  will  you  tak'  a  man, 
Rich  in  house,  and  gear,  and  lan'1 
De'il  tak'  the  cash  that  I  should  ban, 
Nae  mair  I'll  be  the  slave  o't. 


ta2Wahill's  songs.  59 

I'll  buy  you  claise  to  busk  you  braw, 
A  riding  pony,  pad  and  a'; 
On  fashion's  tap  we'll  drive  awa', 
TVJiip,  spur,  and  a'  the  lave  o't. 

Oh,  poortith  is  a  wintry  day  ! 
Cheerless,  blirtie,  cauld,  and  blae, 
But  basking  under  fortune's  ray. 

There's  joy  whate'er  ye'd  have  o't. 

Then  gie's  your  han'  ye'll  be  my  wife, 
I'll  mak'  you  happy  a'  your  life  ; 
We'll  row  in  love  and  siller  rife. 
Till  death  wind  up  the  lave  o't. 


Air — "My  laddie  is  gane." 

From  the  rude  bustling  camp  to  the  calm  rural  plain, 
I'm  come,  my  dear  Jeanie,  to  bless  thee  again  ; 
Still  burning  for  honour  our  warriors  may  roam. 
But  the  laurel  I  wished  for,  I've  won  it  at  home  : 
All  the  glories  of  conquest  no  joy  could  impart. 
When  far  from  the  kind  little  girl  of  my  heart ; 
^Is'ow,  safely  returned,  I  will  leave  thee  no  more, 
But  love  my  dear  Jeanie  till  life's  latest  hour. 

The  sweets  of  retirement,  how  pleasing  to  me  ! 
Possessing  all  worth,  my  dear  Jeanie,  in  thee ! 
Our  flocks  early  bleating  will  make  us  to  joy. 
And  our  raptures  exceed  the  warm  tints  in  the  sky; 
In  sweet  rural  pastimes  our  days  still  will  glide. 
Till  time  looking  back  will  admire  at  his  speed. 
Still  blooming  in  virtue,  though  youth  then  be  o'er, 
I'll  love  my  dear  Jeanie  till  life's  latest  hour. 


%\l  IjatI!  ^c  bear  ^lainanttc  Saius. 

All  hail !  ye  dear  romantic  scenes. 
Where  aft,  as  eve  stole  o'er  the  sky, 

Te've  found  me  by  the  mountain  streams, 
Where  bloomiuer  ^vild-flowers  charm  ib<-  eve 


60      .  tankahill's  songs. 

The  sun's  now  sottinf^  in  the  west — 
Mild  are  liis  beams  on  hill  and  plain; 

No  sound  is  hoard  save  Killoch  burn, 
Deep  murmuring  down  its  woody  glen. 

Green  be  thy  hanks,  thou  silver  stream 
That  winds  the  flowery  braes  among, 

Where  aft  I've  woo'd  the  Scottish  muse, 
And  raptur'd  wove  the  rustic  song. 


Air — "  Galium  Brogach." 

Te  wooer  lads  wha  greet  and  grane, 
Wha  preach  and  fleech  and  mak'  a  mane, 
An'  pine  yoursel's  to  skin  and  bane, 

Come  a'  to  Galium  Brogach. 
I'll  learn  you  here  the  only  art 
To  win  a  bonnie  lassie's  heart ; 
Just  tip  wi'  gowd  Love's  siller  dart 

Like  dainty  Galium  Brogach. 

I  ca'd  her  aye  my  sonsie  doo, 

The  fairest  flower  that  e'er  I  knew ; 

Yet,  like  a  souple  spankie  grew, 

She  fled  frae  Galium  Brogach. 
But  soon's  she  heard  the  guinea  ring, 
She  turn'd  as  I  had  been  a  king, 
Wi' — "Tak'  my  hand  or  ony  thing, 

Dear,  dainty  Galium  Brogach ! " 

Its  gowd  can  mak'  the  blind  to  see, 
Can  bring  respect  where  .nane  wad  be, 
And  Gupid  ne'er  shall  want  his  fee 

hVae  dainty  Galium  Brogach. 
Nae  mair  wi'  greetin'  blin'  your  een, 
Nae  mair  wi'  sighin'  warm  the  win', 
But  hire  the.gettlin  for  your  frien', 

Like  dainty  Galium  Brogach. 


tannaiiill's  songs.  61 

^tvinn,  6loomn  ^arc. 

AwAT,  gloomy  care,  there's  no  place  for  thee  here, 

Where  so  many  good  fellows  are  met, 
Thou  would'st  dun  the  poor  bard  ev'ry  day  in  the  year, 

'Yet  I'm  sure  I  am  none  in  thy  debt. 
Go,  soak  thy  old  skin  in  the  miser's  small  beer, 

And  keep  watch  in  his  cell  all  the  night ; 
And  if  in  the  morning  thou  dar'st  to  appear, 

By  Jove,  I  shall  drown  thee  outright. 

%\n  Solbicr's  %Vxm. 

The  weary  sun's  gan'e  doun  the  west, 

The  birds  sit  noddin'  on  the  trjo, 
All  nature  now  inclines  for  rest, 

But  rest  there's  none  allowed  for  mo  : 
The  trumpet  calls  to  war's  alarms, 

The  rattling  drum  forbids  my  stay ; 
Ah  !  I^ancy,  bless  thy  soldier's  arms, 

Ere  morn  I  shall  be  far  away. 


#Ij!  Win^  not,  nm  Ifotrc. 

Oh  !  weep  not,  my  love,  though  I  go  to  the  war, 

For  soon  I'll  return  with  honours  to  thee ; 
The  soul-rising  pibroch  is  sounding  afar. 

And  the  clans  are  assembling  in  Morar-craiglee  : 
Our  flocks  are  all  plunder'd,  our  herdsmen  are  murder'd, 

And,  fir'd  with  oppression,  aveng'd  we  shall  be  ; 
To-morrow  we'll  vanquish  those  ravaging  English, 

And  then  I'll  return  to  thy  baby  and  thee. 


Sing  on,  ihon  stxitet  toiirlrler. 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  warbler,  thy  glad  e'ening  song. 
And  charm  the  lone  echoes  the  green  woods  among ; 
As  dear  unto  thee  is  the  sun's  setting  beam. 
So  dear  unto  me  is  the  soul's  melting  dream : 
The  dark  winter  frowning,  all  pleasure  disowning. 
Shall  strip  thy  green  woods  and  be  deaf  to  thy  moaning; 
But  dark  stormy  winter  is  yet  far  away, 
Then  let  us  be  glad  when  all  nature  is  gay. 


62  TANXAIITTj/a    30NGS. 

$one  in  gon  barh  scqitcstr'tr  6roiji. 

Lone  in  yon  dark  acqucster'd  grove, 

Poor  hapless  Lubin  strays, 
A  prey  to  ill-requited  love, 

He  spends  his  joyless  days. 
Ah,  cruel  Jessie  !  couldat  thou  know 

AVhat  worthy  heart  was  thine, 
Thou  ne'er  hadst  wrong'd  poor  Lubin  so, 

Nor  left  that  heart  to  pine. 


S^teo  Anginal  Saitgs. 
I. 

The  evening  sun's  gaen  down  the  west, 

The  birds  sit  noddin'  on  the  tree  ; 
All  nature  now  prepares  for  rest, 

But  rest  prepared  there's  none  for  me. 
The  trumpet  souuds  to  war's  alarms, 

The  drums  they  beat,  the  fife's  they  play, — 
Come,  Mary,  cheer  me  wi'  thy  charms, 

l^or  the  morn  I  will  be  far  away. 

Good  night  and  joy,  good  night  and  joy, 
Good  night  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a' ; 

For  since  it's  so  that  I  must  go. 
Good  night  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a' ! 

I  grieve.to  leave  my  comrades  dear, 

1  mourn  to  leave  my  native  shore, — 
To  leave  my  aged  parents  here, 

And  the  bonnie  lass  whom  I  adore. 
But  tender  thoughts  maun  now  be  hush'd. 

When  danger  calls  I  must  obey, — 
The  transport  waits  us  on  the  coast. 

And  the  morn  1  will  be  far  away. 
Good  night  and  joy,  &c. 

Adieu,  dear  Scotia's  sea-beat  coast ! 

Though  bleak  and  drear  thy  mountains  be, 
When  on  the  heaving  ocean  tost, 

I'll  cast  a  wishful  look  to  thee ! 


tannahill's  bongs.  63 

And  now,  dear  Mary,  fare  thee  well ! 

May  Providence  thy  guardian  be  ! 
Or  in  the  camp,  or  on  the  field, 

I'll  heave  a  sigh,  and  think  on  thee  ! 
Good  night  and  joy,  <fec. 

II. 

When  I  the  dreary  mountains  pass'd, 

M.J  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 
I  thought  on  thee,  my  bonnie  lass, 

Although  I  wasna  near  thee,  O. 
My  heart  within  me  was  right  sad. 

When  others  they  were  cheerie,  0, 
They  little  kent  I  thought  on  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ! 

But  now  an  I  ha'e  won  till  Ayr, 

Although  I'm  gae  an'  wearie,  0, 
I'll  tak'  a  glass  into  my  han', 

An  drink  to  you,  my  dearie,  0. 
Cheer  up  your  heart,  my  bonnie  lass, 

Aud  see  you  dinna  wearie,  O  ; 
In  twice  three  ooks,  gin  I  be  spared, 

I'se  come  again,  and  see  thee,  O. 

And  row  thee  up,  and  row  thee  down. 

And  row  thee  till  I  wearie,  O, 
And  row  thee  o'er  the  lea  rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ! 


Written  on  reading  an  account  of  Robert  Bums'  funeral 

Let  grief  for  ever  cloud  ths  day, 
That  saw  our  Bard  borne  to  the  clay ; 
Let  joy  be  banished  every  eye. 
And  nature,  weeping,  seem  to  cry — 

"  He's  gone,  he's  gone  !  l.e's  frae  us  torn  ! 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born." 


64  tannauill's  sokgs.  •• 

Let  Sol  resign  his  wonted  powers, 
Let  chilling  north  winds  blast  the  ftowera ; 
That  each  may  drop  its  withering  head, 
And  seem  to  mourn  our  Poet  dead. 
"  He's  gone,  he's  gone  ! "  &c. 

Let  shepherds,  from  the  mountain's  steep, 
Look  down  on  widow'd  Nith,  and  weep; 
Let  rustic;  swains  their  labours  leave, 
And  si.i;hing,  murmur  o'er  his  grave — 
"  He's  gone,  he's  gone  ! "  etc. 

Let  bonny  Doon  and  winding  Ayr 
Their  bushy  banks  in  anguish  tear. 
While  many  a  tributary  stream, 
Pours  down  its  griefs  to  swell  the  theme — 
*'  He's  gone,  he's  gone  !  "  &c. 

All  dismal  let  the  night  descend, 
Let  whirling  storms  the  forests  rend. 
Let  furious  tempests  sweep  the  sky, 
.  And  dreary  howling  caverns  cry — 

"  He's  gone,  he's  gone  !  he's  frae  us  torn  I 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born." 


TANNAHILL'S    POEMS. 


Clje  Soltrkr's  |Ukrn. 

PEESOKS    REPRESENTED. 

The  Laird,  colonel  of  a  Scots  Eegiment. 
Gaffer,  the  laird's  tenant. 
MciRLAND  Willie,  an  old  rich  dotard. 
Harry,  in  love  with  Jean. 
MiUREN,  Gaffer's  wife — a  foolish  old  luoman. 

Jean,  daughter  of  Goffer  wnd  Mirren,  beloved  by  Midrland,  hut  in  love 
with  Harry, 


ACT  L— SCENE  I. 

A  range  of  liills,  o'erhung  wi'  waving  woods, 
That  spread  their  dark  green  bosoms  to  the  clouds, 
And  seem  to  crave  the  tribute  of  a  shower. 
Grateful  to  woodland  plant  and  mountain  flower : 
A  glen  beneath,  frae  whilk  a  bickering  burn 
Strayes  round  the  knowes,  wi'  bnnnio  wimpling  turn, 
Syne  trotting  downwards  through  the  cidtur'd  lauds, 
Runs  by  where  Gaffer's  humble  biggin  stands ; 
His  wife  and  him  are  at  some  family  plea. 
To  hear  what  ails  them,  just  step  in  and  see. 


Gaffer  and  Mirren, 

Mirren.  Love  should  be  free !  my  trouth,  but  ye  craw 
You  a  guidman  and  canua  rule  your  bouse  !  [crouse, 

Had  I  a  father's  power,  I'd  let  her  see 
Wi'  vengeance,  whether  or  no  that  love  be  free. 
She  kens  right  weel  Muirland  has  ilk  thing  ready, 
And's  fit  to  keep  her  busked  like  a  lady ; 


66  TANNAHILL'S    POEMS. 

Yet  soon's  slio  hears  me  mention  Muirland  Willie, 
She  skits  and  flings  like  ony  towmont  lilly. 
De'il  nor  ye'd  broke  your  leg,  gaun  cross  the  hallan, 
That  day  ye  fee'd  the  skelpor  Highland  callan  ; 
We've  fed  him,  clad  him,  what's  our  mcnse  for't  a'  ? 
Base  wretch,  to  steal  our  daughter's  heart  awa' ! 
Love  should  be  free  !  guid  trouth,  a  bonnie  story ! 
That  ^luirland  maun  be  lost  for  Highland  Harry. 
Muirland  comes  down  this  night — to  talk's  nae  use. 
For  she  shall  gi'e  consent  or  lea'  the  house. 
OdsafFs  !  my  heart  did  never  wallop  cadger, 
Than  when  the  laird  took  Harry  for  a  sodger ; 
And  now  she  sits  a'  day,  sae  douff  and  blearie, 
And  sings  love  sangs  about  her  Highland  Harry. 

Gaf.  Indeed,  guidwife,  the  lad  did  weel  enough. 
Was  eydcnt  aye,  and  deftly  held  the  plough  ; 
But  Muirland's  up  in  years,  and  shame  to  tell. 
Has  ne'er  been  married,  though  as  auld's  niysel' ; 
His  locks  are  lyart,  and  his  joints  are  stiff, 
A  staff  wad  set  him  better  than  a  wife. 
Sooner  shall  roses  in  December  blaw. 
Sooner  shall  tulips  flourish  i'  the  snaw. 
Sooner  the  woods  shall  bud  wi'  winter's  cauld, 
Than  lasses  quit  a  young  man  for  an  auld : 
Yet,  she  may  tak'  him  gin  she  likes  for  me, 
My  say  shall  never  mak'  them  disagree. 

Mir.  Ye  hinna  the  ambition  o'  a'  mouse  ; 
She'll  gie  consent  this  night,  or  lea'  the  house. 

Enter  Jean,  in  liaste. 

Jean.  Father,  the  sheep  are  nibblin'  i'  the  corn, 
Wee  Sandy's  chained  auld  Bawtie  to  the  thorn, 
And  bawsen'd  Crummock's  bi'oken  frae  the  sta' ; 
Oh  !  a's  gane  wrang  since  Harry  gaed  awa'. 

Gaf.  A  house  divided,  a'  gangs  to  the  devil.  [^Aside,  exit. 

Mir.  Daughter,  come  here  !  now,  let  us  reason  civil, 
Isn't  siller  mak's  our  ladies  gang  so  braw  ? 
Isn't  siller  buys  their  cloaks  and  bonnets  a'  ? 
Isn't  siller  busks  them  up  wi'  silks  and  satins, 
Wi'  umbrella,  muffs,  clailh  shoon,  and  pattons  1 
Our  lady,  what  is't  gars  us  courtesy  till  her, 


taknahill's  poems.  67 

And  ca'  her  ma'am  ?  why,  just  'cause  she  has  siller : 
Isn't  siller  mak's  our  gentles  fair  and  sappy  ? 
Whilk  lets  us  see,  it's  siller  mak's  folk  ha])py. 

Jean.     Mither,  ae  simple  question  let  me  spier, 
Is  Muirland  fat  or  fair  wi'  a'  his  gear  ] 
Auld  croighlin'  wight,  to  hide  the  ills  o'  age, 
He  capers  like  a  monkey  on  a  stage ; 
And  cracks,  and  sings,  and  giggles  sae  light  and  kittle, 
Wi'  his  auld  beard  slaver'd  wi'  tobacco  spittle. 

Mir.  Peace,  wardless  slut!  oh,  when  will  youth  be  wise! 
Te'll  slight  your  carefu'  mither' s  guid  advice ; 
I've  brought  you  up,  and  made  you  what  ye  are, 
And  that's  your  thanks  for  a'  my  toil  and  care. 
Muirland  comes  down  this  night,  sae  drap  your  stodgin, 
Tor  ye  must  gi'e  consent,  or  change  your  lodgin'.     \Exit. 

Jean.     E'en  turn  me  out,  Muirland  I'll  never  marry : 
What's  wealth  or  life  without  my  dearest  Harry  1 

SONG. 

Our  bonnie  Scots  lads  in  tliuir  green  tartan  plaids, 

Their  blue-belted  bonnets,  and  feathers  sae  brawi 
Ranked  up  on  the  green  were  fair  to  be  seen, 

But  my  bonnie  youna;  laddie  was  fairest  of  a' ; 
His  cheeks  were  as  red  as  the  sweet  heather  bell, 

Or  the  red  western  cloud  looking  down  on  the  snawj 
His  lang  yellow  hair  o'er  his  braid  shoulders  fell. 

And  the  e'en  o'  the  lassies  were  fix'd  on  him  a'. 

My  heart  sunk  wi'  wae  on  the  wearifu'  day, 

When  torn  f rae  ray  bosom,  they  march'd  him  awa' ; 
He  bade  me  farewell,  he  cried,  "  Oh,  be  leal!" 

And  his  red  cheeks  were  wet  wi'  the  tears  that  did  fa'. 
Ak  !  Harry,  my  love,  though  thou  ne'er  shouldst  return. 

Till  life's  latest  hour  I  thy  absence  will  mourn ; 
And  mem'ry  shall  fade  like  a  leaf  on  the  tree. 

Ere  my  heart  spare  ae  thought  on  anither  but  thee. 


SCENE  II. 

Harry  returned,  as  servant  to  the  laird, 
Finds,  for  a  while,  Iiis  presence  may  be  spared, 
And  here,  his  lane,  he  wanders  o'er  each  scene, 
Where  first  he  loved,  and  fondly  woo'd  his  J«aii : 
He  sees  her  cot,  and  fain  would  enter  in, 
But  weel  he  minds  her  mither's  no  his  frien'. 

Harry.  Tir'd  with  the  painful  sight  of  human  ills, 
Hail,  Caledonia  !  hail,  my  native  hills ! 


C8  TANNAHILl's   POETifS. 

PFere  exil'd  virtue  rears  her  hum1)le  cell, 
With  nature's  jocund,  honest  sons  to  uwoU  ; 
And  liospitality,  with  open  door, 
Invites  the  stranger  and  the  wand'ring  poor: 
Though  winter  scowls  along  our  northern  sky, 
In  hardships  rear'd  we  learn  humanity  ; 
Kor  dare  deceit  here  point  her  rankling  dart, 
A  Scotchman's  eye's  the  window  of  liis  heart. 

When  fate  and  adverse  fortune  bore  me  far, 
O'er  field  and  flood,  to  join  the  din  of  war, 
T.ly  young  heart  sicken'd,  gloomy  was  my  mind, 
My  love,  my  friends,  my  country,  all  heliind: 
But  whether  toss'd  upon  the  briny  flood, 
Or  dragg'd  to  combat  in  the  scene  of  blood, 
Hope,  like  an  angel,  charm'd  my  cares  away, 
And  pointed  forward  to  this  happy  day. 
Pull  well  I  mind  yon  bretkan-skirted  thorn. 
That  sheds  its  milk-white  blossoms  by  the  burn  ; 
There  first  my  heart  life's  highest  bliss  did  ])rove — 
'Twas  there  my  Jeanie,  blushing,  own'd  her  love. 
Ton  dark  green  plantings  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
Ton  yellow  whins  and  broomy  knowes  below. 
Bring  to  my  mind  the  happy,  hapjiy  days, 
1  spent  with  her  upon  these  rural  braes ; 
But  while  remembrance  thus  my  bosom  warms, 
I  long  to  clasp  my  charmer  in  my  arms.  [.Exit. 


SCENE  III. 

Now  Mirren's  to  Ihe  burn  to  sine  her  kim, 
Hero  Jeanie  wfiefu'  sits  and  reels  her  pirn, 
While  honest  Gaffer,  aye  for  peace  inclined, 
Is  haflins  vex'd,  and  freely  speaks  his  mind. 

Gaffer.  Thy  mithcr's  gair,  and  set  upon  the  wail', 
It's  ]\[uirland's  gear  that  gars  her  like  the  carl, 
But  nature  bids  thee  spurn  the  silly  tike, 
And  wha  would  wed  wi'  ane  they  canna  likel 
Just  speak  thy  mind,  and  tell  him,  ance  for  a'. 
That  eighteen  ne'er  can  'grec  wi"  sixty-twa; 
A.  mair  disgusting  sight  I  never  knew, 
Than  youthfu'  folly  'ueath  an  auld  gray  pow. 


tanitahill's  poems.  69 

Enter  Mirrk^t,  hh/f/irh/. 

Mir.  Here  comes  our  neebour,  hurrying  irae  the  muir, 
Mak'  a'  things  snod — fy  !  haste,  red  up  the  floor ; 
The  like  o'  him  to  visit  you  and  me 
Eeflects  an  honour  on  our  family  ; 
Now,  lassie,  mind  my  high  command  is  this, 
"Whatever  Muirland  says,  ye'll  answer  yes. 

Jeati.  Whatever  Muirland  says,  it  shall  be  so, 
But  soon  as  morning  comes,  I'll  answer,  no  I  [AsiJo. 

Enter  Muirland. 

Muir.  Peace  to  the  biggin',  he,  he,  he !  how's  a'  ? 

Mir.  Gaily,  I  thank  you— "William,  come  awa', 
And  tell  us  how  ye  fen'  this  night  yourscl'  1 

Muir.  He,  he  !  His  name  be  prais'd,  faith,  unco  weel, 
I  ne'er  was  half  sae  Strang  in  a'  my  days ; 
I'm  grown  sae  fat,  I'm  like  to  burst  my  claes  ! 
Nae  wonder  o  t,  I'm  just  now  at  my  prime  : 
I'm  just  now  five  and  thretty  come  the  time  ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  I  pity  them  wha're  auld, 
Yestreen  I  catch'd  a  wee  bit  croighle  o'  cauld. 

Oaf.  I  might  excuse  a  foolish,  untaught  bairn, 
But  second  childhood,  sure,  will  never  learn.     'lAside,  exit. 

[Mtjielais'D,    half  blind   witli   age,  slips  on  Ms  spectacles 
secretly,  recognizes  Jean,  advances  to  her  and  sings.'\ 

SONG. 

Tune — "Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't." 

Oh,  lassie,  will  you  tak'  a  man, 
Eich  in  house,  and  gear,  and  lau'; 
De'il  tak'  the  cash  that  I  should  ban, 

Nae  mair  I'll  be  the  slave  o't. 
I'll  buy  you  claes  to  busk  you  braw, 
A  riding  pony,  pad,  and  a'; 
0)1  fashion's  tap  we'll  drive  awa', 

Whip,  spur,  and  a'  the  lave  o't. 
Oh,  poortith  is  a  wintry  day, 
Cheerless,  blirtie,  cauld,  and  blae ; 
But  basking  under  fortune's  ray. 

There's  joy  vvhate'er  ye'd  have  o't. 
Then  gie's  your  ban'  ye'll  be  my  wife, 
I'll  niak'  you  happy  a'  your  life ; 
We'll  row  in  love  and  silhr  ;  ifo, 

TiU  death  wind  up  the  lave  o't 


70  tannahill's  poems. 

Mir.  Nae  toilini^  then  to  raise  a  heavy  rent; 
Our  fortuue's  made — oh,  lassie,  gi'e  consent. 

\_Aside  to  Jean, 

Muir.  Te'll  p^ci  a  gouden  ring  and  siller  brooch, 
And  now  and  then  we'll  hurl  in  a  coach  : 
To  shaw  we're  gentle,  when  we  walk  on  fit, 
In  passing  puir  folks,  how  we'll  flucht  and  skit ! 

Jean.  And  tho'  ye're  rather  auld,  I'm  rather  young; 
Our  ages  mixed  will  stop  the  warld's  tongue. 

Muir.  Auld,  said  ye  1  no  !  ye  surely  speak  in  jest, 
Tour  mither  kens  I'm  just  now  at  my  best ! 

Mir.  The  lass  is  blunt ;  she  means  na  as  she  says  : 
Ye  ne'er  looked  half  sae  weel  in  a'  your  days  ! 
Wi'  canny  care  I've  spun  a  pickle  yarn, 
That  lionest-like  Ave  may  set  afF  our  bairn  ; 
If  gang  wi'  me,  we'll  o'er  to  Wabstcr  Pate's, 
And  see  him  weaving  at  the  bridal  sheets. 

Muir.  The  bridal  sheets  !  he,  he,  he,  he,  what  bliss  ! 
The  bridal  sheets  !  oh,  gi'e's  an  erl-kiss. 

Mir.   Fy !  come  awa',  and  dinna  think  o'  kissing 
Till  ance  Mess  John  ha'e  gi'en  you  baith  his  blessiug. 

[Exit 

Jean,  solus. 

Alas  !  my  mither's  just  like  A\"hang  the  miller, 
O'erturns  her  house  in  hopes  o'  finding  siller ; 
For  soon'a  I  see  the  morning's  first  faint  gleam, 
Sh«  wakens  sox'rowing  frae  her  gouden  dream. 

SONG. 

Tune—"  Morneen  I  gaberland." 

Blythe  was  the  time  when  he  fee'd  wi'  my  father,  0, 
Happy  were  the  days  when  we  herded  thogither,  0, 
Sweet  were  the  hours  when  he  rowed  me  in  his  plaidie,  0, 
And  vowed  to  be  mine,  ray  dear  Highland  hiddie,  O. 
But  ah  !  waos  me!  wi'  their  sodgering  sae  gaudy,  0, 
The  laird's  wysed  awa'  my  braw  Highland  laddie,  0  ; 
Misty  are  the  glens,  and  the  dark  hills  sae  cloudy,  (), 
That  aye  seemed  sae  blythe  wi'  my  dear  Highland  laddie.  0. 

The  Ijlaeberry  banks,  now,  ai-e  lonesome  and  dreary,  0, 
Muddy  are  the  streams  that  gushed  down  sae  clearly,  O, 
Silent  are  the  rocks  that  echoed  sae  gladly,  O, 
The  wild  melting  strains  of  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  0 


taititaiiill's  rOEMS.  71 

Farewell,  my  ewes !  and  farewell,  my  doggie,  0, 
Farewell,  ye  knowes !  now  sae  cheerless  and  scroggie,  O, 
Farewell,  Glenf eocli !  my  mamraie  and  my  daddie,  0, 
I  will  lea'  you  a'  for  my  dear  Highland  laddie,  O. 

Through  distant  towns  I'll  stray  a  hapless  stranger, 
In  thoughts  of  him  I'll  brave  pale  want  and  danger ; 
And  as  I  go,  poor,  weeping,  mournfu'  ponderer, 
Still  some  kind  heart  will  cheer  the  weary  wanderer. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I.    Gaffer's  House, 
Jean,  solus. 

Lang  syne,  beside  the'woodland  hum, 

Amang  the  broom  sae  yellow, 
I  leaned  me  'neath  the  railkwhite  thorn, 

On  nature's  mossy  pillow ; 
A'  round  my  seat  the  flowers  were  strewed, 
That  frae  the  wild  wood  I  had  pu'd. 
To  weave  mysel'  a  summer  snood. 

To  pleasure  my  dear  fellow. 

I  twined  the  woodbine  round  the  rose, 

It's  richer  hue  to  mellow ; 
Green  sprigs  of  fragrant  birk  I  chose. 

To  busk  the  sedge  sae  yellow. 
The  crow-flower  blue,  and  meadow-pink, 
I  wove  in  primrose-braided  link ; 
But  little,  little  did  I  think 

I  should  have  wove  the  willow. 

My  bonnie  lad  was  forced  afar. 

Tossed  on  the  raging  billow  ; 
Perhaps  he's  fa'n  in  bluidy  war, 

Or  wrecked  on  rocky  shallow : 
Tet,  aye  I  hope  for  his  return, 
As  round  our  wonted  haunts  I  mounii 
And  often  by  the  woodland  burn, 

I  pu'  the  weeping  willow. 

Enter  Muieland. 

Muir.  Paith !  Patie's  spool  jinks  through  wi'  wondroua 
might, 
And  aye  it  minds  me  o'  the  bridal  night. 
I've  rough  o'  sheets,  sae  never  fash  your  thumb  : 
Oh,  gi'e's  a  kiss  afore  your  minnie  come ! 


72  takxa^htll's  poems. 

Han-y  enters — Jcanic  kons  him  ; 

First  he  grips  her  to  liis  breast ; 
Willie  gapes,  and  trlowcrs,  and  sanes  him, 

Runs  and  roars  like  ane  possessed. 
Wild  wilyart  fancies  revel  in  his  brain  ; 
They  bnith  run  afF  and  lea'  him  a'  his  lane. 

Miiir.   Oh,  murder,  murder!  oh,  I'll  die  wi'  fear: 
Oh,  Gaffer,  Mirrcu  !  oh,  come  here,  come  here ! 

Fnter  Mieren,  in  J/aste. 

3I/r.  The  pewet's  screicijhin'  owre  the  spankio-eairn  : 
My  heart  bodes  ill,  oh,  William,  where's  my  bairn? 

Muir.  A  great  red  dragon,  wi'  a  warlock  claw. 
Has  come,  and  wi'  your  daughter  flown  awa' ! 

Enter.  Gapfee,  in  haste. 

Oaf.  What  awfu'  cry  was  yon  T  heard  within  ? 
What  mat's  you  glower,  and  what  caused  a'  yon  din  ? 

Mir.  A  great  big  dragou,  wi'  a  red  airn  claw, 
lias  come,  and  wi'  your  daughter  flown  awa' ! 

[Crying 

3hur.  Its  head  was  covered  wi'  a  black  airn  ladle ; 
It  had  black  legs,  and  tail  as  sharp's  a  needle : 
A  great  red  e'e  stood  stariu'  in  its  breast ; 
I'm  like  to  swarf — oh !  'twas  a  fearfu'  beast. 

Ilir.  The  craw  that  bigged  in  the  stackyard  thorn, 
Scrcighed  and  forsook  its  nest  when  she  was  born ; 
Three  pyats  crossed  the  kirk  when  she  was  christened, 
I've  heard  it  telled,  and  trembled  while  I  listened  : 
Oh,  dool  and  wae,  my  dream's  been  read  right  soon  ! 
Yestreen  I  dreamed  twa  mice  had  holed  the  moon. 

Gaf.  The  sword  o'  justice  never  fa's  unwrought  for  ! 
But  come,  alive  or  dead,  let's  seek  our  daughter. 

Muir.  I'll  no  be  weel  this  mouth,  oh,  what  a  fright ! 
I'll  no  gang  owre  the  muir  my  lane  this  night. 

[Exit 
SCENE  ir. 

A  briery  bank,  ahint  a  broomy  knowe, 
Our  youthfu'  loving  couple,  hid  frae  view, 
Tlieir  vows  renew,  and  licre  wi'  looks  sae  sweet, 
They  set  their  tryst  where  neist  again  to  meet. 

Jean.  My  heart  shall,  ever  gratefu',  bless  the  laird, 
Wlia  showed  my  dearest  Harry  such  regard  \ 


taitnahill's  poems.  73 

Restored  you  to  our  hills  and  rural  plain, 
I'rae  war's  fatigues,  safe  to  my  arms  again. 

Harry.  Eemote  from  buytliug  camps  and  war's  alarms, 
Thus,  let  me  ever  clasp  thee  in  my  arms. 

Jean.  But  here,  my  lad,  we  darena  Aveel  be  seen  ; 
Dear  Harry  !  say,  where  will  we  meet  at  e'en  ? 

HARRY'S  SONG. 

We'll  meet  beside  tlie  dusky  gl«n,  on  yon  burn  side, 
Where  tbe  bushes  form  a  cozy  den,  on  yon  burn  side; 
Though  the  broomy  knowes  be  green,  yet,  there  we  may  be  seen, 
But  we'll  meet,  we'll  meet  at  e'en,  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

I'U  lead  thee  to  the  birken  bower,  on  yon  burn  side  ; 
Rae  sweetly  wove  wi'  woodbine  flower,  on  yon  burn  side  ; 
There  the  busy  prying  eye  ne'er  disturbs  the  lovers'  joy, 
While  inither's  arms  they  lie,  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

Awa',  ye  rude  unfeeling  crew,  frae  yon  burn  side, 

Those  fairy  scenes  are  no  for  you,  by  yon  burn  side  ; 

There  fancy  smoothes  her  theino,  by  the  sweetly  murmuring  stream, 

And  the  rock-lodged  echoes  skim,  down  by  yon  burn  side. 

Now  the  yjlantiug  taps  are  tinged  wi'  goud  on  yon  burn  side, 
And  gloamin'  draws  her  foggy  shroud  o'er  yon  burn  side, 
Far  frae  the  noisy  scene,  I'll  through  the  fields  alane. 
There  we'll  meet,  my  ain  dear  Jean  !  down  by  yon  burn  side, 

Jean.  I'll  jeer  my  ancient  wooer  hame,  and  then 
I'll  meet  you  at  the  opening  o'  the  glen. 

\JLxit  separately. 

SCENE  III.— Gaffer's  House. 

With  unsuccessfu'  search  the  ghost-rid  three, 
Ha'e  sought  the  boortree  bank,  and  hemlock  lea. 
The  nettle-corner,  and  the  rowan-tree  brae — 
Sae  here  they  come,  a'  sunk  in  deepest  wae, 

Gaf.  Alas !    guidwife  our  search  has  been  in  vain, 
Come  o't  what  will,  my  bosom's  wrung  wi'  pain  ; 
I  haflius  think  his  een  ha'e  him  mislipened, 
But  oh  !  it's  hard  to  say  what  may  ha'e  happened. 

Enter  Muirland  running. 

Muir.  Preserve's  !  oh,  haste  ye  !  rin,  mak'  mettle  heels ; 
I  saw  the  dragon  spankin'  o'er  the  fields. 

[They  stop  from  going  out  on  seeing  Jean  enter. '\ 
Jean.  What  mak's  you  stare  so  strange — what's  wrang 
wi'  V\rillie? 
He  roars  as  loud's  a  horn,  though  auld  and  sillif. 


74  ,     tanxahill's  poems. 

Mufr.  I'm  no  sac  auld — my  pith  ye  yet  may  brag  on  ; 
But,  Jeanio,  love  !  how  did  you  match  the  dragon? 

Jean.  Auld  blethcriu'   wight !  the  gowk's  possessed,  I 
ween. 

Gqf.  Come,  daughter  !  clear  this  riddle — where  ha'c  ye 
boon  ? 

Jean.  Father,  rare  news  !  our  laird's  come  hame  this  day ; 
His  man  ca'd  in  to  tell  us  by  the  way, 
Dressed  in  his  sodger's  clothes,  wi'  scarlet  coat : 
He  is  a  bonnie  lad,  fu'  weel  I  wot. 

Muir.  The  dragon  !  he,  he,  he  !  I've  been  deliercd  ; 
I'll  wear  a  scarlet  coat,  too,  when  we're  married. 

Oaf.    Our  laird  corae  hame  !  and  safe  but  skaith  or  scar ; 
I'll  owre,  and  hear  the  history  o'  the  war. 
Us  country  folk  are  bound  like  in  a  cage  up  ; 
I'll  owre,  and  hear  about  that  place  ca'd  Egypt: 
1  long  to  hear  him  tell  a'  what  he's  seen. 
For  four  long  winters  he  awa'  has  been. 
Wife  !  fetch  my  bonnet  that  I  coft  last  owk  ; 
H  ere  !  brush  my  coat — fy,  Jean  !  tak'  off  that  powlc. 

Jllir.  Toot,   snuff!   'bout  news  ye  needna  be  sathrang; 
Let's  set  the  bridal  night  afore  ye  gang. 

Muir.  The  bridal  night !  he,  ho!  he,  he  !  that's  right: 
The  bridal  night !  he,  he  !  the  bridal  night. 

Jean.  I'll  hang  as  high's  the  steeple,  in  a  wuddie, 
Before  I  wed  wi'  that  auld  kecklin'  body. 

Mir,  "Was  mither  e'er  sae  plagued  wi'  a  daughter  ? 
Oh,  that's  her  thank  for  a'  the  length  I've  brought  her! 

Gaf.  This  racket  in  a  house — it  is  a  shame  :        [Cri/intjf. 
I'll  thank  you,  Muirland,  to  be  steppin'  hame, 

Jean.  Auld   swirlon,    slaethorn,  crumsheugh,    crooked 
wight, 
C  ae  wa',  and  ne'er  again  come  in  my  sight ! 

Muir.  That  e'er  my  lugs  were  doomed  to  hear  sic  words, 
AVliilk  rush  into  my  heart  like  point.  1  swords  ! 
Frae  me  let  younkers  warning  tak'  in  time. 
And  wed,  ere  dozened  down  ayont  their  prime : 
Oil.  me  !  I  canna  gang  ;  'twill  break  my  heart ; 
Let's  hae  a  farewell  peep  afore  we  part. 
[U'e  puts  on   his  spectacles,  stares  at  Jean,  and  roars  ludi- 
crously.    Exit  crying.^ 


tannahill's  poems.  76 


Enter  the  Laird,  attended  ly  HAREy. 

Laird.  Well,  how  d'ye  do,  my  worthy  tenants,  pray ; 
How  fares  good  Gaffer  since  I  went  away  ? 

Gaf.  My  noble  laird  !  thanks  to  the  lucky  star 
That  steered  you  hame,  safe  through  the  storms  o'  war. 

Laird,  Thanks,  honest  Iriend  !    I  know  your  heart  of 
truth ; 
But  for  my  safety,  thank  this  gallant  youth : 
He  saved  my  life — to  him  I  owe  my  fame. 
And  gratitude  shall  still  revere  his  name. 

Gaf.   May  heaven's  post-angel  swift  my  blessings  carry  ; 
He  saved  your  life — preserve  me,  it  is  Harry  ! 
Thrice  welcome,  lad  !  here,  gi'es  a  shake  o'  yer  paw  ; 
Te've  mended  hugely  since  you  gaed  awa.' 

Harry.  Yes,  sodgering  brushes  up  a  person's  frame, 
But  at  the  heart  I  hope  I'm  still  the  same. 

Gaf.  Your  promise  to  do  weel,  I  see  you've  keepen't . 
He  saved  your  life — oh,  tell  me  how  it  happened ! 

Laird.  'Twas  March  the  eighth,  that  memorable  day, 
Our  sea-worn  troops,  all  weary  with  delay, 
For  six  long  days,  storm-rocked,  we  lay  off-shore, 
And  heard  the  enemy's  guns  menacing  roar. 
At  length,  the  wished-lor  orders  came,  to  land 
And  drive  the  foe  back  from  the  mounded  strand ; 
Then,  each  a  hero,  on  the  decks  we  stood. 
Launched  out  our  boats,  and  speeded  all  we  could  ; 
AVhile  clouds  of  sulphureous  smoke  obscured  the  view, 
And  showers  of  grape-shot  from  their  batteries  flew, 
A  brother  captain,  seated  by  my  side, 
Received  a  shot — he  sank,  he  quivered,  died  ; 
With  friendly  hand  I  closed  his  life-gone-eyes, 
Our  sighs,  our  tears,  were  all  his  obsequies. 
Then,  as  our  rowers  strove  with  lengthened  sweep, 
Back  from  the  stern  I  tumbled  in  the  deep. 
And  sure  had  perished,  for  each  pressing  wave 
Seemed  emulous  to  be  a  soldier's  grave, 
Had  not  this  gallaut  youth,  at  danger's  shrine, 
Offering  his  life  a  sacrifice  for  mine, 
Leaped  from  the  boat,  and  beat  his  billowy  way 
To  where  I  belched  and  struggled  in  the  sea : 


76  TAKN  A  hill's    POEMS. 

With  gcdlike  arm  sustained  life's  sinking  hope, 
Till  the  succee(ling  rowers  picked  us  up. 

Gaf.  Fair  fa'  your  worth,  my  brave  young  sodgcr  l.id  I 
To  see  you  safe  retui'ne(l  my  lieart  is  glad : 
Ilk  cottar  I'ound  will  long  your  name  regard, 
And  bless  you  for  your  kindness  to  the  laird. 

Laird.  And  when  the  day's  hot  work  of  wax  was  done, 
Each  fight-tired  soldier  leaning  on  his  gun, 
I  sought  my  brave  deliverer  and  made 
An  offer  with  what  influence  I  had. 
To  raise  his  fortune — but  he  shunned  reward, 
Yet  warmly  thanked  me  for  my  kind  regard. 
Then,  as  in  warmth  I  praised  his  good  behaviour, 
He  modestly  besought  me  this  one  favour. 
That,  if  surviving  wh(;n  the  war  was  o'er. 
And  safe  returned  to  Scotia  once  more, 
I'd  ask  your  will  for  him  to  wed  your  daughter : 
A  manly,  virtuous  heart  he  home  hath  brought  her. 

Gaf.  With  a'  my  heart  he  has  my  free  consent ; 
Wife,  what  say  ye  '2     I  hope  ye're  weel  content. 

Mil".  A  mither's  word  stands  neither  here  nor  there  : 
Tak'  him  or  no,  I'm  siu-e  I  dinna  care. 

Laird.  Accept  this  trifle  as  young  Harry's  wife  ; 

\Gives  his  purse  to  Jean. 
Money  is  no  equivalent  for  life  ; 
And  take  this  ring— good  mistress,  here's  another  ! 
With  this  I  enlist  you  for  young  Harry's  mother. 

Jea7i.  Excuse  me,  sir,  my  lips  can  not  impart 
The  warm  emotions  of  my  grateful  heart. 

3fir.  It's  goud,  it's  goud  !  oh,  yes,  sir,  I  agree  ; 
Gaffer,  it's  goud  !  yes,  love  should  aye  be  free. 

Oaf.  Daft  woman,  cease  ! 

Laird.  And  as  for  you,  good  Gaffer, 

!My  steward  will  inform  what's  in  your  favour. 
Meantime,  prepare  the  wedding  to  your  wills, 
Invite  my  tenants  from  the  neighbouring  hills, 
Then  feast,  drink,  dance,  till  each  one  tynes  his  senses, 
And  spare  no  cost,  for  I  shall  pay  the  e.Kpcnscs. 

Harry.  Most  generous  sir.  to  tell  how  much  I  owe, 
I'm  weak  in  words  ;  let  time  and  actions  show. 

Laird.  My  dearest  friend,  I  pray,  no  more  of  this ; 
Would  I  could  make  you  happy  as  I  wish  ' 


tannahill's  poems.  77 

Prom  him  most  benefited  most  is  due, 

And  sure  the  debt  belongs  from  me  to  you : 

Attend  the  mansion  soon  as  morning's  liglit. 

And  now,  my  friends,  I  wish  you  all  good  night !       [Exit. 

Harry.   Great  is  his  soul !  soft  be  his  bed  of  rest, 
Whose  only  wish  is  to  make  others  blessed. 

21ir.  I'll  gang  to  kirk  neist  Sunday— odd's  my  life ! 
This  gouden  ring  will  vex  Grlen  Craigie's  wife. 

Gaf.  "Wife,  fy  !  let  pride  and  envy  gang  thegither ; 
This  house,  I  hope,  will  ne'er  be  fashed  wi'  either : 
Aye  be  content  wi'  what  ye  ha'e  yoursel'. 
And  never  grudge  to  see  a  neighbour's  week 
But  Harry,  man  !  I  lang  to  hear  you  sing  ; 
Te  wont  to  make  our  glens  and  plantings  ring. 

Harry.  My  heart  was  never  on  a  cantier  key, 
I'll  sing  you  one  with  true  spontaneous  glee. 

SONG. 
Tune — "  My  laddie  is  gane." 
From  the  mde  bustling  camp  to  the  calm  rural  plain, 
I'm  come,  my  dear  Jeanie,  to  bless  thee  again; 
Stili  burning  for  Imuour  our  warriors  may  roaiu, 
But  the  laurel  I  wished  fur,  I've  won  it  at  home  : 
All  the  glories  of  conquest  no  joy  could  impart, 
When  far  from  the  kind  little  girl  of  my  heart  ; 
Now,  safely  returned,  I  will  leave  thee  no  more, 
But  love  my  dear  Jeanie  till  life's  latest  hour. 

The  sweets  of  retirement,  how  pleasing  to  me  ! 
Possessing  all  worth,  my  dear  Jeanie,  in  thee  ! 
Our  flocks  early  bleating  will  make  iis  to  joy, 
And  our  raptures  exceed  the  warm  tints  to  the  sky ; 
In  sweet  rural  pastimes  our  days  stiU  will  glide, 
Till  time  looking  back  will  admire  at  his  speed, 
Still  blooming  in  virtue,  though  youth  tlien  be  o'er, 
I'll  love  my  dear  Jeanie  till  life's  latest  hour. 

Enter  Muielaisd. 

Muir.  That's  nobly  sung,  my  hearty  sodger  callan, 
I've  heard  you  a'  ahint  the  byre-door  hallan  ; 
I  see  my  faults,  I've  changed  my  foolish  views, 
And  now  I'm  come  to  beg  for  your  excuse  : 
The  sang  sings  true,  I  own't  without  a  swither, 
"  Auld  age  and  young  can  never  'grec  thegither." 
I  think,  through  life  I'll  mak'  a  canny  feu', 
Wi'  hurcheon  Nancy  o'  the  hazel  glen ; 


78  tannahill's  poems. 

She  has  my  vows,  but  aye  T  let  her  stand, 
In  hopes  to  win  that  boiinio  lassie's  hand ; 
Oh !  foolish  thought,  I  maist  could  greet  wi'  spite, 
But  it  was  sleeky  love  had  a'  the  wyte ; 
Nae  mair  let  fortune  pride  in  her  deserts, 
Her  goud  can  purchase  hands,  but  ne'er  can  sowther  hearts. 
Gaf.  The  man  wha  sees  his  faults  and  strives  to  men'  'em, 
Does  mair  for  virtue  than  he  ne'er  had  haen  'em ; 
And  he  wha  deals  in  scandal  only  gains 
A  rich  repay  of  scandal  for  his  pains. 
Ye  ha'e  our  free  excuse,  ye  needna  doubt  it, 
Te'U  ne'er  frae  us  mair  hear  a  word  about  it. 

Muir.  That's  a'  I  wish'd — I  couldna  bide  the  thought, 
To  live  on  earth,  and  bear  your  scorn  in  aught ; 
My  heart's  now  whole— ye  soon  shall  hear  the  banns 
Proclaim'd  i'  the  parish  Jdrk  'tween  me  and  Nanse. 
I'm  no  the  first  auld  chield  wha's  gotten  a  slight ; 
I'll  owre  the  muir — sae  fareweel  a'  this  night.  \Ilxif, 

Gaf.  Of  a'  experience,  that  bears  alf  the  bell, 

"Whiik  lets  a  body  rightly  ken  himsel'. 

Jean.  May  lasses,  when  their  joes  are  far  frae  hame. 

Bid  straggling  wooers  gang  the  gates  they  came ; 

Else,  aiblius,  when  their  moonshine  course  shifts  past, 

They'll  ha'e  to  wed  auld  dotards  at  the  last. 

Mir.  Guidwives  should  aye  be  subject  to  their  men ; 

I'll  ne'er  speak  contrar  to  your  will  again. 

Gaf.  That's  right,  guidwife,  I'm  sure  I  weel  may  say, 

Glenfeoch  never  saw  sae  bless'd  a  day. 

Young  folks,  we'll  set  the  bridal  day  the  morn : 

But,  lucky,  haste  !  bring  ben  the  Christmas  horn ; 

Let's  pour  ae  sacred  bumpc^r  to  the  laird, 

A  glass,  to  crown  a  wish,  was  never  better  wair'd. 
Harry.  "While  I  was  yet  a  boy,  my  parents  died, 

And  left  me  poor  and  friendless,  wand 'ring  wide; 

Your  goodness  found  me — 'neath  your  fostering  care, 

I  learn'd  those  precepts  which  I'll  still  revere  : 

And  now,  to  Heaven  for  length  of  life  I  pray. 

With  filial  love  your  goodness  to  repay. 
Gaf  This  sacred  maxim  let  us  still  regard, 

That  virtue  ever  is  its  own  reward; 

And  what  we  give  to  succour  the  distress'd. 

Calls  down  from  Heaven  a  blessing  on  the  rest. 


TAliTNAHILL  S  POEMS. 


xn  t  B. 


EiCH  Gripus  pretends  "he's  my  patron  and  friend, 
That  all  times  to  serve  me  he's  willing  ; 

But  he  looks  down  so  sour  on  the  suppliant  poor, 
That  I'd  starve  ere  I'd  ask  him  one  shillinof. 


CIjc  promoiioiT. 

"Wheis"  the  devil  got  notice  old  Charon  was  dead, 

He  wished  for  some  blockhead  to  row  in  his  stead  ; 

For  he  feared  one  with  intellect  discoveries  might  make, 

Of  his  tortures  and  racks  t'other  side  of  the  lake ; 

So  for  true  native  dullness  and  want  of  discernment, 

He  sought  the  whole  world,  and  gave  John  the  preferment. 


#iT  n  mait  of  rljnratlcr. 

"Wee  a ,  self-sainted  wdght, 

If  e'er  he  win  to  heaven, 
The  veriest  wretch,  though  black  as  pitch, 

May  rest  he'll  be  forgiven. 
Wi'  holy  pride  he  cocks  his  nose. 

And  talks  o'  honest  dealings  ; 
But  when  our  webs  are  at  the  close, 

He  nips  off  twa  three  shillings. 


I  SCORN  the  selfish,  purse-proud  b 

Who  piques  himself  on  being  rich 
With  two-score  pounds,  late  legacied. 
Saved  by  his  half-star\ed  father's  greed. 
To  former  neighbours  not  one  word ; 
He  bows  obsequious  to  my  lord. 
In  public,  see  him  !  how  he  capers  ! 
Looks  big,  steps  shor"   pulls  out  his  papers  ; 
And  from  a  silly,  puppish  dance, 
Commences  the  great  man  at  once. 


80  TANNAn ill's  poems. 

NOTED   rOR  HIS   ASSUMED   SANCTITY. 

What  need'st  thou  dread  the  end  of  sin, 

The  dire  reward  of  evil  : 
Keep  but  that  black  infernal  grin, 

'Twill  scar  the  very  devil. 


TO  ATTEND  A  MKKTING  01'  THE  "  liUUXs'  ANNIVEKSAIIY  SOCIETY." 

King  Geoudie  issues  out  his  summons, 
To  ca'  his  bairns,  the  lairds  and  commons, 
To  creesh  the  nation's  niooly  heels, 
And  butter  commerce  rusty  wheels, 
And  see  what  new,  what  untried  tax, 
"Will  lie  the  easiest  on  our  backs. 

The  priest  convenes  his  scandal-court, 
To  ken  what  houghmigandie  sport 
Has  been  gaun  on  within  the  parish. 
Since  last  they  met,  their  funds  to  cherish. 

But  I,  the  servant  of  Apollo, 
"\^^ose  mandates  I  am  proud  to  follow  ; 
He  bids  me  warn  you,  as  the  friend 
Of  Burns's  fame,  that  ye'll  attend, 
Neist  Friday's  e'en,  in  Lucky  Wright's, 
To  spend  the  best,  the  wale  o'  nights. 
Sae,  under  pain  o'  half  a  mark, 
Ye'll  come,  as  signed  by  me,  the  clerk. 

KOBERT  TaNNAHILL. 


"  He  was  a  man  witliout  a  clag; 
His  lieart  was  frank  without  a  flaw." 

Eesponsive  to  the  roaring  floods. 

To  winds,  howl  plaintive  through  the  woods ; 

Thou  gloomy  sky,  pour  down  hail  clouds. 

His  death  to  wail; 
For  bright  as  heaven's  brightest  studs 

bhiii'd  Will  .AlacNeil. 


tannahill's  poems.  81 

He  every  selfish  fhought  did  scorn, 
His  warm  heart  in  his  looks  did  burn, 
Hk  body  own'd  his  kindly  turn, 

And  gait  sae  leal ; 
A  kinder  saul  was  never  born 

Than  Will  MacNeil. 

He  ne'er  kept  up  a  hidlin  plack 
To  spend  ahint  a  comrade's  back, 
But  on  the  table  gar'd  it  whack 

TVi'  free  gude  will : 
Free  as  the  wind  on  winter  stack 

Was  AVill  MacNeil. 

He  ne'er  could  bide  a  narrow  saul, 
To  a'  the  social  virtues  caul' ; 
He  wish'd  ilk  sic  a  fiery  scaul', 

His  shins  to  peel : 
Nane  sic  durst  herd  in  field  or  faul' 

Wi'  Will  MacNeil. 

He  aye  abhorr'd  the  spaniel  art ; 

Aye  when  he  spak'  'twas  frae  the  heart ; 

An  honest,  open,  manly  part 

He  aye  uphel' : 
"  Guile  should  be  davel'd  i'  the  dirt," 

Said  Will  MacNeil. 

He  ne'er  had  greed  to  gather  gear, 
Tet  rigid  kept  his  credit  clear ; 
He  ever  was  to  Misery  dear. 

Her  loss  she'll  feel: 
She  aye  got  saxpence,  or  a  tear, 

Frae  Will  MacNeil 

In  Scotch  antiquities  he  pridet ; 

Auld  Hardyknute,  he  kent  wha  made  it ; 

The  bagpipe  too,  he  sometimes  sey'd  it; 

Pibroch  and  reel . 
Our  ain  auld  language  few  could  read  it 

Like  Wm  MacNeil. 


82  TAXNAHILL's    P0EM3. 

In  wilyart  glens  he  lik'd  to  stray, 
By  foggie  rocks,  or  castle  gray  ; 
Yet  ghaist-red  rustics  ne'er  did  say, 

"  Uncanny  cliiel  I " 
They  filled  their  horns  wi'  usquebae 

To  AVill  MacNeil. 

He  sail'd  and  trampet  mony  a  mile, 

To  visit  auld  I-coluinb-kill ; 

lie  clamb  the  heights  o'  Jura's  isle, 

AVi'  weary  spiel ; 
But  siccau  sights  aye  pay'd  the  toil 

VVi'  Will  MacNeil. 

He  rang'd  through  Morven's  hills  and  glcna, 
Saw  some  o'  Ossian's  moss-grown  stanes, 
Where  rest  his  low-laid  heroes'  banes. 

Deep  in  the  hill ; 
He  croon'd  a  c'ronach  to  their  names, — • 

Kind  Will  MacNeil ! 

He  was  deep-read  in  nature's  bulk, 
Explor'd  ilk  dark  mysterious  cruik, 
Kend  a'  her  laws  wi'  antrin  luik. 

And  that  right  weel ; 
But  (fate  o'  genius)  death  soon  tuik 

Aff  Will  MacNeil. 

Of  ilka  rock  he  kent  the  ore. 
He  kend  the  virtues  o'  ilk  flow'r, 
Ilk  banefu'  plant  he  kent  its  power, 

And  warn'd  frac  ill : 
A'  nature's  warks  few  could  explore 

Like  Will  ]\IacNeil. 

He  kend  a'  creatures,  clute  and  tail 
Down  frae  the  lion  to  the  snail. 
Up  frae  the  mennoun  to  the  whale, 

And  kraken  eel : 
Scarce  ane  could  tell  their  gaits  sae  weel 

As  Will  MacNeil 


tannahill's  poems.  83 

Nor  past  he  ought  thing  slightly  by, 
But  with  keen  scrutinizing  eye, 
He  to  its  inmaist  bore  would  pry, 

Wi'  wondrous  skill ; 
And  teaching  ithers  aye  ga'e  joy 

To  Will  MacNeil. 

He  kend  auld  Archimedes'  gait. 
What  way  he  burnt  the  Roman  fleet, 
"  Twas  by  the  rays'  reflected  heat 

"  Frae  speculum  steel, 
"  For  bare  refraction  ne'er  could  do't," 

Said  Will  MacNeil. 

Yet  fame  his  praise  did  never  rair  it, 
For  poortith's  weeds  obscur'd  his  merit, 
Forby,  he  had  a  bashfu'  spirit, 

That  sham'd  to  tell 
His  worth  or  wants ;  let  envy  spare  it, 

To  WiU  MacNeil. 

0  Barra,  thou  wast  sair  to  blame  ! 

1  here  record  it  to  thy  shame, 
Thou  luit  the  brightest  o'  thy  name, 

Unheeded  steal, 
Through  murky  life  to  his  lang  hame, — 
Poor  Will  MacNeil. 

He  ne'er  did  wrang  to  living  creature, 

For  ill,  Will  hadna't  in  his  nature  ; 

A  warm,  hind  heart  his  leading  feature, 

His  mainspring  wheel ; 
Ilk  virtue  grew  to  noble  stature 

In  Will  ]\IacNeil. 

There's  no  a  man  that  ever  ken'd  him. 
But  wi'  his  tears  will  lang  lament  him ; 
He  has  na'  left  his  match  ahint  him, 

At  hame  or  fiel' ; 
His  worth  lang  on  our  minds  will  print  him, — 

Kind  Will  MacNeil. 


84  tannaiiill's  toems. 

But  close,  my  sang ;  my  haraeward  lays 
Are  far  unfit  to  speak  his  praise  ; 
Our  happy  ni;^hts,  our  happy  days, 

Fareweel,  fareweel ! 
Now  dowie,  mute — tears  speak  our  waes 

For  Will  MacNeU. 

THE   CONTRARY. 

Get  up,  my  Muse,  and  sound  thy  chanter, 
Nor  langer  Avi'  our  feelings  saunter ; 
Ilk  true-blue  Scot,  get  up  and  canter, 

He's  hale  and  weel ! 
And  lang  may  Fate  keep  off  mischanter 

Frao  WiU  MacNeil. 


Why  heaves  my  mother  oft  the  deep-drawn  sigh 

Why  starts  the  big  tear  glistening  in  her  eye? 

Why  oft  retire  to  hide  her  bursting  grief  1 

Why  seeks  she  not,  nor  seems  to  wish  relief] 

'Tis  for  my  father,  mould'ring  with  the  dead, 

My  brother,  in  bold  manhood,  lowly  laid. 

And  for  the  pains  which  age  is  doom'd  to  bear, 

She  heaves  the  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  drops  the  secret  tear. 

Yes,  partly  these  her  gloomy  thoughts  employ, 

But  mostly  this  o'erclouds  her  earthly  joy  ; 

She  grieves  to  think  she  may  be  buixlensome, 

Now  feeble,  old,  and  tott'ring  to  the  tomb. 

Oh  hear  me,  Heaven  !  and  record  my  vow ; 
Its  non-performance  let  thy  wrath  pursue  ! 
I  swear — Of  what  thy  providence  may  give, 
My  mother  shall  her  due  maintenance  have. 
'Twas  hers  to  guide  me  through  life's  early  day. 
To  point  out  virtue's -paths,  and  lead  the  way : 
Now,  while  her  powers  in  frigid  languor  sleep, 
'Tis  mine  to  hand  her  down  life's  rugged  steep, 
With  all  her  little  weaknesses  to  bear, 
Attentive,  kind,  to  soothe  her  every  care. 
'Tis  nature  bids,  and  truest  i)K'asure  Hows 
From  lessening  an  aged  parent's  woes. 


tannaiiill's  rOEMS.  S5 


A  TRAGMENT. 


The  rough  hail  rattles  through  the  trees, 
The  sullen  lift  low'rs  gloomy  gray, 

The  traveller  sees  the  swelling  storm, 
And  seeks  the  ale-house  by  the  way. 

But,  waes  me  !  for  yon  widowed  wretch, 
Borne  down  with  years  and  heavy  care, 

Her  sapless  fingers  scarce  can  nip 
The  wither'd  twigs  to  beet  her  fire. 

Thus  youth  and  vigour  fends  itsel', 

Its  help,  reciprocal,  is  sure  ; 
While  dowless  Eild,  in  poortith  cauld, 

Is  lonely  left  to  stand  the  stoure. 


Stanzas. 


WRITTEN  WITH   A   PENCIL    ON  THE   GRAVESTONE   OF    A   DEPARTED    FRIEND. 

Stop,  passenger — here  muse  awhile — 
Think  on  his  darksome  lone  abode, 

"Who  late,  like  thee,  did  jocund  smile, 
But  now  lies  'neath  this  cold  green  sod. 

Art  thou  to  vicious  ways  inclin'd. 
Pursuing  pleasure's  flow'ry  road  ? 

Know — fell  Eemorse  shall  rack  thy  mind, 
When  tott'ring  to  thy  cold  green  sod. 

If  thou  a  friend  to  virtue  art. 

Oft  pitying  burden'd  mis'ry's  load  ; 

Like  thee  he  had  a  feeling  heart. 

Who  lies  beneath  this  cold  green  sod. 

With  studious  philosophic  eye, 

He  look'd  through  nature  up  to  God  ; 

His  future  hope  his  greatest  joy, 

Who  lies  beneath  this  cold  green  sod. 

Go,  passenger — revere  this  truth  ; 

A  life  well  spent  in  doing  good, 
Soothes  joyless  age,  and  sprightly  youth, 

When  drooping  o'er  the  cold  green  sod. 


86  tannaiiill's  poems 

(Dii  gilct'aniDcr  (*{[U(son'5  (j3migr;itioii  to  §.mmc:r. 

O  Death  !  it's  no  tliy  deeds  I  mourn, 
Though  oft  my  heart  strings  thou  hast  torn ; 
'Tis  worth  and  merit  h'ft  forlorn, 

Life's  ills  to  dree, 
Gars  now  the  pearly,  brackish  burn 

Gush  frae  my  e'e. 

Is  there  who  feels  the  melting  glow 
Of  sympathy  for  ither's  wo  1 
Come  let  our  tears  thegither  flow  ; 

Oh  join  my  mane  ! 
For  Wilson,  worthiest  of  us  a'. 

For  aye  is  gane. 

He  bravely  strove  'gainst  fortune's  stream, 
While  hope  held  forth  a  distant  gleam  ; 
Till  dash'd  and  dash'd,  time  aftta-  time, 

On  life's  rough  sea, 
He  wept  his  native  thankless  clime, 

And  sailed  away. 

The  patriot  bauld,  the  social  brither. 
In  him  were  sweetly  joined  thegither  ; 
He  knaves  reprov'd  without  a  swither. 

In  keenest  satire, 
And  taught  what  mankind  owe  each  ither 

As  sons  of  nature. 

If  thou  hast  heard  his  wee  bit  wren 
Wail  forth  its  sorrows  through  the  glen, 
Tell  how  his  warm,  descriptive  pen 

Has  thrilled  thy  satll : 
His  sensibility  sae  keen. 

He  felt  for  all. 

Since  now  he's  gane,  and  Burns  is  dead, 
Ah  !  wha  will  tune  the  Scottish  reed  1 
Her  thistle,  dowie,  hangs  its  head  ; 

Her  harp's  unstrung ' 
While  mountain,  river,  loch  and  mead, 

Remain  unsung. 


tannahill's  poems.  1  87 

Fareweel,  thou  much  neglected  bard  ! 
These  lines  will  speak  my  warm  regard, 
While  strangers  on  a  foreign  sward 

Thy  worth  hold  dear  ; 
Still  some  kind  heart  thy  name  shall  guarc' 

Unsullied  here, 


Sonnet  tor  SinccrttiT. 

Pure  emanation  of  the  honest  soul, 

Dear  to  my  heart,  manly  Sincerity  ! 
Dissimulation  shrinks,  a  coward  foul, 

Before  thy  noble  art-detesting  eye. 

Thou  scorn'st  the  wretch  who  acts  a  double  part, 
Obsequious,  servile,  flattering  to  betray  ; 

With  smiling  face  that  veils  a  raiic'rous  heart. 
Like  sunn)^  morning  of  tempestuous  day. 

Thou  spurnest  the  sophist,  with  his  guilty  lore. 
Whom  int'rest  prompts  to  weave  the  specious  snare  ; 

In  independence  rich,  thou  own'st  a  store 

Of  conscious  worth,  which  changelings  never  share. 

Then  come,  bright  virtue,  with  thy  dauntless  brow, 
And  crush  deceit,  vile  monster,  reptile-low. 


WKrrTEN   ON  READING  THE   "  PLEASURES  OF   HOPE." 

How  seldom  'tis  the  Poet's  happy  lot 

T'  inspire  his  readers  with  the  fire  he  wrote ; 

To  strike  those  chords  that  Avake  the  latent  thrill, 

And  wind  the  willing  passions  to  his  will ; 

Yes,  Campbell,  sure  that  happy  lot  is  thine. 

With  fit  expression,  rich  from  Nature's  mine. 

Like  old  Timotheus,  skilful  plac'd  on  high, 

To  rouse  revenge,  or  soothe  to  sympathy. 

Blest  Bard  !  who  chose  no  paltry  local  theme, — 

Kind  hope  through  wide  creation  is  the  same  ; 

les,  Afric's  sons  shall  one  day  burst  their  chain;^, 

Will  read  thy  lines,  and  bless  thee  for  thy  pains  ; 


88  tannaiiill's  poems. 

Fame  yet  shall  waft  tliy  name  to  India's  shore, 
Whoro  next  to  Brahma  tlK/y  thee  will  adore  ; 
And  hist'ry's  page,  exulting  in  thy  praise, 
Will  proudly  hand  thee  down  to  future  days — 
Detraction  foil'd  reluctant  quits  her  grip, 
And  carping  Envy  silent  bites  her  lip. 


WnriTEN  ON'  SEEIXO  A  Sl'IDEU  PART  OUT  UPON  A  FLY. 

Let  gang  your  grip,' ye  auld  grim  devil  ! 

Else  witli  ae  ciush  I'll  mak'  you  civil : 

Like  di'l)tor-bard  in  merchant's  claw, 

The  fieut  o'  mercy  ye've  at  a'  ! 

Sae  spite  an'  malice  (hard  to  ken  'em,) 

Sit  spewing  out  their  secret  venom  ; — ■ 

Ah,  hear  ! — poor  buzzard's  roaring  murder  ; 

Let  gang  ! — Na  faith  !— Thou  scorn'st  my  oidcr 

AVeel,  tak'  thou  that  !—  vile  ruthless  creature  ! 

For  who  but  hates  a  savage  nature  ? 

Sic  fate  to  ilk  unsocial  kebar. 

Who  lays  a  snare  to  wrang  his  neighbour. 


ON  SEEING   A    FOP   PASS    AN  OLD   BEGGAE. 

He  who,  unmov'd,  can  hear  the  suppliant  cry 

Of  pallid  wretch,  plac'd  on  the  pathway  side, 
Nor  deigns  one  pitying  look,  but  passes  by 

In  all  the  pomp  of  self-adorning  pride  — 
So  may  some  great  man  vex  his  little  soul, 

When  he,  obsequies,  makes  his  lowest  bow : 
Turn  from  him  with  a  look  that  says,  "  Vain  fool," 

And  speak  to  some  poor  man  whom  he  would  shame  to 
know. 


TANNAlIILL'f?  POEMS.  89 

■WHITTEN   ON   SEEING  THE   LATE   MR  THOMAS  •WILtOUGUUY,  TRAGEDIAN, 
KATHER   BELOW    HIMSELF. 

Peaceful,  slumb'ring  in  the  ale-liouse, 

See  the  god-Hke  Rolla  lie  ; 
Drink  outwits  the  best  of  fellows  : 

Here  lies  poor  Tom  Willoughby. 

Where  is  stern  King  Richard's  fury  ? 

Where  is  Osmond's  blood-flush'd  eye  1 
See  these  mighty  men  before  ye, 

Sunk  to  poor  Tom  Willoughby. 

Pity  'tis  that  men  of  merit, 

Thus  sucli  sterling  worth  destroy  ; 

0  ye  gods  !  did  1  inherit 

Half  the  pow'rs  of  Willoughby. 


If  X  It  ^  S 

ON  A   FLATTERER. 

I  HATE  a  flatterer  as  I  hate  the  devil, 

But  Tom's  a  very,  very  pleasant  dog  ; 
Of  course  let's  speak  of  him  in  terms  more  civil- 

I  hate  a  flatterer  as  I  hate  a  hog  : 
Not  but  applause  is  music  to  mine  ears, 

He  is  a  knave  who  says  he  likes  it  not, 
But  when  in  Friendship's  guise  Deceit  appears, 

'Twould  fret  a  Stoic's  frigid  temper  hot. 


%  gcsoltrij. 

WRITTEN  ON   HEARING   A   FELLOW  TELL   SOME   STORIES  TO  THE   IIIU?T  OF 
HIS   BEST   FRIENDS. 

As  secret's  the  grave  be  the  man  whom  I  trust ; 

What  friendship  imparts  still  let  honour  conceal : 
A  plague  on  those  babblers,  their  names  be  accurs'd  ! 

Still  first  to  inquire,  and  the  first  to  reveal. 


90  tannatiill's  poems?. 

As  open  as  day  let  me  be  with  the  man 

•Wlio  tells  me  my  failinij;s  from  motives  upright; 
But  Avhen  of  those  gossii)ping  fools  I  meet  one, 
Lot  me  fold  iu  my  soul,  and  be  close  as  the  night. 


^  i  n  t  s 

WRITTEN   WITH   A    PKNCIL    IN   A   TAP-ROOM. 

This  warld's  a  tap-room  owre  and  o^ntb, 

Whare  ilk  ane  tak's  his  caper ; 
Some  taste  the  sweet,  some  drink  the  sour, 

As  waiter  Fate  sees  proper. 
Let  mankind  live  ae  social  core. 

And  drap  a'  selfish  quarr'lling. 
And  when  the  landlord  ca's  his  score, 

]\Iay  ilk  aue's  clink  be  sterling. 


6pistlc  to  I  limes  .Scablatli. 

WRITTEN   ON   RECEIVING  FROM   IIIII   A   SMALL    MS.   VOLUME   OF   ORIGINAL 
SCOTTISH    POEMS. 

April.  1803 
When  colleged  bards  bestride  Pegasus, 
And  try  to  gallop  up  Parnassus, 

By  dint  o'  mickle  lear, 
The  lowe  o'  friendship  fires  my  soul, 
To  write  you  this  poetic  scrawl, 
Prosaic,  dull,  I  fear  ! 

But  weel  I  ken  your  generous  heart 

AVill  overlook  its  failings. 
And  where  the  poet  has  come  short 
Let  friendship  cure  his  ailings, 
'Tis  kind,  man — divine,  man, 

To  hide  the  fault  we  see. 
Or  try  to  men't,  as  far's  we  ken't, 
Wi'  true  sincerity. 

This  last  observe  brings  i'  my  head 
To  tell  you  here  my  social  creed : 

Let's  use  a'  mankind  weel ; 
And  ony  sumph  who'd  use  us  ill, 
Wi'  dry  contempt  let's  treat  him  still  j 


tannahill's  poems.  91 

He'll  feel  it  worst  himsel'  : 
I  never  flatter,  ])raise  but  rare  ; 

I  scorn  a  double  part ; 
And  when  I  speak  I  speak  sincere, 
The  dictates  o'  ray  heart. 
I  truly  hate  the  dirty  gate 
That  mony  a  body  tak's. 
Wha  fraze  ane,  syne  blaze  ane, 
As  soon's  they  turn  their  backs. 
In  judging,  let  us  be  right  hooly  : 

I've  heard  some  folks  descant  sae  freely 

On  other  people's  matters. 
As  if  themselves  were  real  perfection, 
When,  had  they  stood  a  fair  inspection, 
The  abused  were  far  their  betters. 

But  gossips  aye  maun  hae  their  crack, 

Thou2;h  moralists  should  rail  : 
Let's  end  the  matter  wi  this  tact, 
That  goodness  pays  itsel'. 

The  joys,  man,  that  raise  man 

To  ane  frae  doing  weel, 
Are  siccan  joys  that  hardened  vice 
Can  seldom  ever  feel. 

Oh,  Jamie,  man  !  I'm  proud  to  see't, 
Our  ain  auld  muse  yet  keeps  her  feet, 

'Maist  healthy  as  before  ; 
For  sad  predicting  fears  foretauld, 
When  Eobin's  glowing  heart  turned  cauld. 
Then  a'  our  joys  were  o'er. 

Ilk  future  bard  revere  his  name, 

Through  thousand  years  to  come  ; 
And  though  we  cannot  reach  his  fame. 
Busk  laurels  round  his  tomb. 

Yet,  though  he's  dead,  the  Scottish  reed 

This  mony  a  day  may  ring. 
In  Livingston,  in  Anderson, 
In  Scadlock,  and  in  King. 

"The  Tap-room,"  what  a  glorious  treat! 
"  Complaint  and  Wish,"  how  plaintive  sweet ! 
"  The  Weaver's"  just  "  Lament ;" 


92  taniiahill's  poems. 

The  glonniin'  fragment,  how  divine  ! 
There  nature  speaks  in  every  line ; 
The  bard's  immortal  in't. 

Yon  ''  Epigram  on  Jamie  Long" 

Is  pointed  as  the  steel ; 
And  '•  Hoot !  ye  ken  yoursel' "  's  a  song 
Would  please  e'en  Burns  himsel' ! 
Let  snarling  mean  quarrelling, 

Be  doubly  damned  henceforth  ! 
An  1  let  us  raise  the  voice  of  praise, 
To  hearten  modest  worth. 

And  you,  my  dear  respected  frien', 
Your  "  Spring"  's  a  precious  evergreen, 

Fresh  beauties  budding  still : 
Your  "Levern  Banks"  and  "  Killoch  Burn," 
Ye  sing  them  wi'  sae  sweet  a  turn, 
Ye  gar  the  heart-strings  thrill. 

*'  October  winds,"  e'en  let  them  ravo 

Wi'  nature-l)Ia3ting  howl, 

If  in  return  kind  lieaven  give 

The  sunshine  of  the  soul : 

Tlie  feeling  heart  that  bears  a  part 

In  othrrs'  joys  and  woes, 
May  still  depend  to  find  a  friend, 
Howe'er  the  tempest  blows. 

Yet,  long  I've  thought,  and  think  it  yet, 
Tnie  friends  are  rarely  to  be  met 
Who  share  in  others'  troubles ; 
Who  jointly  joy,  or  drop  the  tear 
Reciprocal,  and  kindly  bear 
Wi'  ane  another's  troubles. 

Even  such  a  friend  I  once  could  boast. 

Ah  !  now  in  death  he's  low; 
But  fond  anticipation  hopes 
For  such  a  friend  in  you. 
Dear  Jamie,  forgie  me 

That  last  presumptive  line ; 
See,  here's  my  hand  at  your  command 
Y'^e  hae  my  heart  langsyne  I 


tannahill's  roEMS.  93 

Clje  gtoralists. 

"Barbarous  !"  cried  John,  in  humanizing  mood, 

To  Will,  who'd  shot  a  blackbird  in  the  wood ; 

"  The  savage  Indian  pleads  necessity, 

But  thou,  barbarian  wretch  !  hast  no  such  plea." 

Hark  !  click  the  alehouse  door,  his  wife  comes  in  : 

"  Dear  help's,  man,  John!  preserve  me,  what  d'ye  mean  1 

Six  helpless  bairns,  the  deil  confound  your  drouth, 

Without  ae  bit  to  stap  a  single  mouth." 

"  Get  hame,"  cried  John,  "  else,  jade,  I'll  kick  your  a — e," 

Sure  such  humanity  is  all  a  farce. 


Sims 

WRITTEN   ON  THE   BACK.   OF  A  GUINEA  NOTE. 

Thou  little  badge  of  independence, 

Thou  mak'st  e'en  pride  dance  mean  attendance ; 

Thou  sure  hast  magic  in  thy  looks. 

Gives  poets  a  taste  for  tasteless  books  ; 

Mak'st  lawyers  lie,  mak'st  courtiers  flatter. 

And  wily  statesmen  patriots  clatter. 

Mak'st  ancient  maids  seem  young  again, 

At  sixty  beauteous  as  sixteen ; 

Mak'st  foes  turn  friends,  and  friends  turn  foes, 

And  drugmen  brew  the  poisoning  dose  ; 

And  even,  as  common  say  prevails. 

Thou  mak'st  e'en  justice  tip  the  scales. 


gxnts 

ON  A  COUNTRY^JUSTICE   IN  THE   SOUTH. 

What  gars  yon  gentry  gang  wi'  Jock, 

And  ca'  him  sir  and  master  1 
The  greatest  dunce,  the  biggest  block, 

That  ever  nature  cuist  her : 
Yet  see,  they've  placed  this  human  stock 

Strict  justice  to  dispense  ; 
Which  plainly  shows,  yon  mcikle  folk 

Think  siller  stands  for  sense. 


94  tannaiiill's  poems. 


Quoth  gobbin  Tom  of  Lancashire, 

To  iiortliorn  Jock,  a  lowland  rlrovor, 
"Those  are  foiu  kaise  thai'rt  driving  tlicro, 

They've  zure  been  fed  on  English  clover." 
"Foin  kaise  !"  quoth  Jock,  "  ye  bleth'ring  hash, 

Deil  draw  your  nose  as  lang's  a  sow's  ! 
That  tank  o'  yours  is  queer-like  trash, 

Foin  kaise!  poor  gowk  ! — their  names  are  KOOSC' 
The  very  fault  which  I  in  others  see, 
Like  kind,  or  worse,  perhaps,  is  seen  in  nio. 


epigrams. 

Cried  Dick  to  Boh,  "  Great  news  to-day!" 

"Great  news,"  quoth  Bob,  "what  great  news,  pray?" 

Said  Dick,  "  Our  gallant  tars  at  sea, 

Have  gain'd  a  brilliant  victory." 

"  Indeed !  "  cried  Bob,  "  it  may  be  true, 

But  that,  you  know,  is  nothing  new." 


"  French  threats  of  invasion  lot  Britons  defy, 

And  spike  the  proud  frogs  if  our  coast  they  should 
crawl  on." 

Yes,  statesmen  know  well  that  our  spirits  are  high. 
The  financier  has  rais'd  them  two  shillings  per  gallon. 


Nature,  impartial  in  her  ends. 

When  she  made  man  the  strongest, 

For  scrimpet  ])ith,  to  maJc'  amends. 
Made  woman's  tongue  the  longest. 


tannahill's  poems.  95 

Epitaphs. 

ON   SEEING   A   ONCE   WOEXni'  CHAnACTER  LYING  INEBRIATED 
ON    THE    STREET. 

If  loss  of  worth  may  draw  the  pity  tear, 

Stop,  passenger,  and  pay  that  tribute  here — 

Here  lies  wliom  all  with  justice  did  commend, 

The  rich  man's  pattern,  and  the  poor  man's  friend  ; 

He  cheer'd  pale  Indigence's  bleak  abode, 

He  oft  removed  Misfortune's  galling  load ; 

!Nor  was  his  bounty  to  one  sect  confined, 

His  goodness  beam'd  alike  on  all  mankind : 

Now,  lost  in  folly,  all  his  virtues  sleep — 

Let's  mind  his  former  worth,  and  o'er  his  frailties  weep. 


FOR   T B ,  ESQ. 

A  GENTLEMAN  WHOM  INDIGENCE  NEVER  SOLICITED  IN  VAIN. 

Ever  green  be  the  sod  o'er  kind  Tom  of  the  Wood, 

For  the  poor  man  he  ever  supplied ; 
"We  may  weel  say,  alas  !  for  our  ain  scant  of  grace. 

That  we  reck'd  not  his  worth  till  he  died; 
Though  no  rich  marble  bust  mimics  grief  o'er  his  dust, 

Yet  fond  memory  his  virtues  will  save  ; 
Oft,  at  lone  twilight  hour,  sad  remembrance  shall  pour 

Her  sorrows,  unfeigned,  o'er  his  grave. 


ON   A    CRABBED    OLD    MAID. 

Here  slaethorn  Mary's  hurcheon  bouk, 

Resigns  its  fretful  bristles  : 
And  is  she  dead  ?     No — reader,  look, 

Her  grave's  o'ergrown  wi'  thistles. 


ON   A    FARTHING    GATHERER. 

Here  lies  Jamie  Wight,  wha  was  wealthy  and  proud, 
Few  shar'd  his  regard,  and  far  fewer  his  goud ; 
He  lived  unesteem'd,  and  he  died  un lamented. 
The  kirk  gat  his  gear,  and  auld  Jamie  is  sainted. 


9G  T.^NNA^ILL's  poems. 

^pbllc  to  Ictmcs  ptnc):, 

ox  KECETVING  A  MORAL  EPISTLE   lUOM  HIM.— MAY,  1802. 

Please  accept  the  tliauks  and  praise 
Due  to  your  poetic  lays  ; 
AVisdoui  aye  should  be  revcr'd, 
Sense  to  wit  be  aye  prei'err'd. 

Just  your  thoughts  in  simple  guise, 
Fit  to  make  IVail  mortals  wise  ; 
Every  period,  every  Hue, 
With  some  moral  truth  doth  shine. 

Like  the  rocks,  which  storms  divide, 
Thund'ring  down  the  mountain  side. 
So  strides  Time,  with  rapid  force, 
Kound  his  unobstructed  course  ; 
Like  a  flood  upon  its  way, 
Sweeping  downward  to  the  sea  : 
But  what  figure  so  sublime. 
As  describe  the  flight  of  time  1 

Life's  a  dream,  and  man's  a  bubble 
Compass'd  round  with  care  and  trouble : 
Like  a  ship  in  tempest  tost, 
Soon  o'erwhclm'd,  for  ever  lost ; 
Like  the  short-liv'd  passion-flow'r, 
Blooming,  dying  in  an  hour  ; 
Like  the  tuneful  bird  that  sings, 
Flutt'ring  high  on  sportive  wings  ; 
Till  the  fowler's  subtle  art. 
Drives  Death's  message  to  its  heart, 
"While,  perhaps,  Death  aims  his  blow, 
Swift  to  lay  the  wretch  as  low. 

Now,  since  life  is  but  a  day, 
Make  the  most  of  it  we  may ; 
Calm  and  traiiquil  let  us  be, 
Still  retiign^d  to  Fate's  decree. 
Let  not  poortith  sink  us  low. 
Let  not  wealth  exalt  our  brow ; 
Let's  be  grateful,  virtuous,  wise  : 
There's  where  all  our  greatness  lies. 


taitnahill's  poems.  97 

Doing  all  the  good  we  can, 

Is  all  that  Heaven  requires  of  man. 

Wherefore  should  we  grieve  and  sigh, 
'Cause  we  know  that  we  must  die  ] 
Death's  a  debt  requir'd  by  nature, 
To  be  paid  by  every  creature. 
Rich  and  poor,  and  high  and  low, 
Fall  by  Death's  impartial  blow. 
God,  perhaps,  in  kindness  will 
Snatch  us  from  some  coming  ill ; 
Death  may  kindly  waft  us  o'er 
To  a  milder,  happier  shore. 

But,  dear  Jamie,  after  a', 
What  I've  said's  not  worth  a  straw 
W^hat  is't  worth  to  moralize 
What  we  never  can  practise  ? 
As  for  me,  with  a'  my  skill, 
Passion  leads  me  as  she  will ; 
And  resolves,  laid  down  to-day, 
Ere  to-morrow,  're  done  away  : 

Then,  let's  ever  cheerie  live. 
Do  our  best,  and  never  grieve  ; 
Still  let  Friendship's  warmest  tie 
All  deficiencies  supply. 
And,  while  favour'd  by  the  Nine, 
I  your  laurels  will  entwine. 


Cpbtic  io  James  Uarr, 

WHEEEVEE  HE   MAY   BE  FOUND.— MARCH,   1804. 

GuDE  Pibrocharian,  jorum-jirger, 
Say,  ha'e  ye  turn'd  an  Antiburgher? 
Or  lang-fac'd  Presbyterian  elder. 
Deep  read  in  wiles  o'  gathering  siller] 
Or  cauld  splenetic  solitair, 
Kesolved  to  herd  wi'  man  nae  mair  1 

As  to  the  second,  I've  nae  fear  for't, 
For  siller,  faith  ye  ne'er  did  care  for't, 
Unless  to  help  a  needfu'  body, 


98  tannahill's  poems. 

And  pjct  an  autriu  glass  o'  toddy. 
But  what  the  bhaek  mif^ohicf's  como  owre  you  1 
These  three  months  I've  been  speirin'  for  you, 
Till  e'en  the  Muse,  wi'  downright  grieving, 
Has  worn  her  chafts  as  thin's  a  shaving. 
Say,  ha'e  yc  ta'en  a  tramp  to  Lon'on, 
In  Co.  wi'  worthy  auld  Buchanan  1 
Wha  mony  a  mile  wad  streek  his  shanks 
To  ha'e  a  crack  wi'  Josie  Banks, 
Concerning  shells,  and  birds,  and  metals, 
Moths,  spiders,  butterllies,  and  beetles. 
Por  you,  I  think,  ye'll  cut  a  figure, 
Wi'  king  o'  pipers,  Male.  M'Gregor. 
And  wi'  your  clarion,  flute,  and  fiddle, 
Will  gar  their  southron  heart-strings  diddle. 

Or  are  you  through  the  kintra  whisking, 
Accoutred  wi'  the  sock  and  buskin  1 
Thinking  to  climb  to  wealth  and  fame, 
By  adding  Eoscius  to  your  name  1 
Frae  thoughts  o'  that,  pray,  keep  abeigh  ! 
Ye're  far  owre  auld,  and  far  owre  heigh ; 
Since  in  thir  novel-hunting  days. 
There's  nane  but  bairns  can  act  our  plays. 
At  twal-year  auld,  if  ye  had  tried  it, 
I  doubtna  but  ye  might  succeeded  ; 
But  full-grown  buirdly  chields  like  you, 
Quite  monstrous,  man,  'twill  never  do ! 

Or  are  ye  gane,  as  there  are  few  sic, 
Por  teaching  of  a  band  o'  music  t 
Oh,  hear  auld  Scotland's  fervent  prayers  ! 
And  teach  her  genuine  native  airs ; 
Whilk  simply  play'd,  devoid  o'  art, 
Thrill  through  the  senses  to  the  heart. 
Play,  when  you'd  rouse  the  patriot's  saul, 
True  valour's  tune,  "  The  Garb  of  Gaul." 
And  when  laid  low  in  glory's  bed. 
Let  "  Koslin  Castle"  soothe  his  shade. 
The  "  Bonnie  bush  aboon  Traquair," 
Its  every  accent  breathes  despair  ; 
And  "  Ettrick  Banks,"  celestial  strain ! 
Mak's  simmer's  gloaming  mair  serene  ; 
And,  oh,  how  sweet  the  plaintive  muse. 


tannahill's  poems.  99 

Amang  "The  Broom  o'  Cowdcnknowca  !" 
To  hear  the  love-lorn  swain  complain, 
Lone  on  "The  Braes  o'  Balleudine;" 
It  e'en  might  melt  the  dortiest  she, 
That  ever  sklented  scornfu'  e'e. 
AVhen  Beauty  tries  her  vocal  pow'rs 
Amang  the  green- wood's  echoing  bow'rg, 
The  "  Bonnie  Birks  of  Invermay" 
Might  mend  a  seraph's  sweetest  lay. 
Then,  should  grim  Care  invest  your  castle, 
Just  knock  him  down  wi'   "  Willie  Wastle," 
And  rant  blythe  "  Lumps  o'  puddiu' '  owre  him, 
And  for  his  dirge  sing  "  Tullochgorum." 
When  Orpheus  cliarm'd  his  wife  frae  hell, 
'Twas  nae  Scotch  tune  he  play'd  sae  well ; 
Else  had  the  worthy  auld  wire-scraper 
Been  keepet  for  his  de'ilship's  piper. 
Or  if  ye've  turned  a  feather'd  fop. 
Light  dancing  upon  fashion's  top, 

Wi'  lofty  brow  and  selfish  e'e. 

Despising  low-clad  dogs  like  me  ; 

Uncaring  your  contempt  or  favour, 

Sweet  butterfly,  adieu  for  ever  ! 

But,  hold, — I'm  wrong  to  doubt  your  sense, 

For  pride  proceeds  from  ignorance. 

If  peace  of  mind  lay  in  fine  clothes, 

I'd  be  the  first  of  fluttering  beaux, 

And  strut  as  proud  as  ony  peacock 

That  ever  crawed  on  top  o'  hay-cock ; 

And  ere  I'd  know  one  vexing  thought. 

Get  dollar  buttons  on  my  coat, 

Wi'  a  the  lave  o'  fulsome  trash  on, 

That  constitutes  a  man  of  fashion. 

Oh,  grant  me  this,  kind  Providence : 

A  moderate,  decent  competence  ; 

Thou'lt  see  me  smile,  in  independence. 

Above  weak-sauled,  pride-born  ascendence. 
But  whether  ye're  gane  to  teach  the  wliistle. 

'Midst  noise  and  rough  reg'mental  bustle ; 

Or  gane  to  strut  upon  the  stage, 

Smit  wi'  the  mania  o'  the  age ; 

Or  Scotchman-like  ha'e  tramp'd  abreed, 


100  TANNAHILL's   P0EM3. 

To  yon  big  town,  far  soutli  the  Tweed ; 

Or  dourin'  in  the  hermit's  cell, 

Unblessing  and  unblessed  yoursel' ; 

In  Glide's  name  write !— tak'  up  your  pen, 

A'  how  ye're  doing  let  me  ken, 

Sae  hoping,  quickly,  your  epistle, 

Adieu !  thou  genuine  son  of  song  and  whistle. 

POSTCRIPT. 

"We  had  a  concert  here  short  syne, 
Oh,  man  !  the  music  was  divine, 
Baith  ])laintive  sang  and  merry  glee. 
In  a'  the  soul  of  harmony. 
When  Smith  and  Stewart  leave  this  earth, 
The  gods,  in  token  o'  their  worth, 
"Will  welcome  them  at  heaven's  portals, 
The  brightest,  truest,  best  o'  mortals. 
Apollo  proud,  as  weel  he  may, 
"Will  walk  on  tip-toe  a'  that  day ; 
While  a'  the  muses  kindred  claim, 
Eememb'riug  what  they've  done  fur  them. 


THEN   AT  PKETH — JUNE,   1804. 

Let  thc.:ie  who  never  felt  its  flame, 
Say  friendship  is  an  empty  name ; 

Such  selfish,  cauld  philosophy, 

Por  ever  I  disclaim. 

It  soothes  the  soul  with  grief  oppressed. 
Half-cures  the  care-distemper'd  breast. 

And  in  the  jocund  happy  hour, 

Gives  joy  a  higher  zest. 

All  nature  sadden'd  at  our  parting  hour, 

Winds  plaintive  howl'd,  clouds  weeping,  dropt  a  show'r; 

Our  Holds  look'd  dead,  as  if  they'd  said, 

We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more ! 


TAlfNAniLl/s    P0EM3.  101 

Thougli  fate  and  fortune  threw  their  darts, 
Euvyinti;  us  your  hit;h  deserts, 

They  well  might  tear  you  from  our  arms, 

But  never  from  our  hearts. 

"When  spring  buds  forth  in  vernal  show'rs, 
When  summer  comes  arrayed  in  flow'rs, 

Or  autumn  kind,  from  Ceres'  horn, 

Her  grateful  bounty  pours. 

Or  bearded  winter  curls  his  brow, 
I'll  often  fondly  think  on  you, 

And  on  our  happy  days  and  nights, 

With  pleasing  back-cast  view. 

If  e'er  in  musing  mood  ye  stray, 
Alang  the  banks  of  classic  Tay, 

Think  on  our  walks  by  Stanley  tow'r, 

And  steep  Gleniffer  brae. 

Think  on  our  langsyne  happy  hours. 
Spent  where  the  burn  wild  rapid  pours, 

And  o'er  the  horrid  dizzy  steep, 

Dashes  her  mountain-stores. 

Think  on  our  walks  by  sweet  Greenlaw, 
By  woody  hill  and  birken  shaw. 

Where  nature  strews  her  choicest  sweets 

To  mak'  the  landscape  braw. 

And  think  on  rural  Ferguslie, 

Its  plantings  green  and  flow'ry  lea  ; 

Such  fairy  scenes,  though  distant  far, 

May  please  the  mental  e'e. 

Ton  mentor,  Geordie  Zimmerman, 
Agrees  exactly  with  our  plan ; 

That  partial  hours  of  solitude 

Exalt  the  soul  of  man. 

So,  oft  retir'd  from  strife  and  din, 
Let's  shun  the  jarring  ways  of  men, 

And  seek  serenity  and  peace 

By  stream  and  woody  gleni 


102  tannaiiill's  poems. 

But  e'er  a  few  short  summers  gac, 
Your  friend  will  meet  his  kindred  clay  ; 

For  fell  disease  tugs  at  my  breast, 

To  hurry  me  away. 

Yet  while  life's  bellows  bear  to  blaw, 
Till  life's  last  lang-fctclied  breath  I  draw, 
I'll  often  fondly  think  on  you, 
And  mind  your  kindness  a'. 

NoAv  fare-ye-weel !  still  may  ye  find 

A  friend  congenial  to  your  mind, 

To  share  your  joys  and  half  your  woes. 
Warm,  sympathizing,  kind. 


^pistU  to  Millhim  (i^Ijomsoii, 

AT   OVERTON, — Jl.'NF,    1805. 

Dear  "Will,  my  much  respect'd  frien', 
I  send  you  this  to  let  you  ken 
That,  though  at  distance  fate  hath  set  you, 
Your  friends  in  Paisley  don't  forget  you  ; 
But  often  think  on  you,  far  lone, 
Amang  the  braes  of  Overton. 

Our  social  club  continues  yet, 
Perpetual  source  of  mirth  and  wit ; 
Our  rigid  rules  admit  but  few, 
Yet  still  we'll  keep  a  chair  for  yoa. 

A  country  life  I've  oft  envied. 
Where  love,  and  truth,  and  peace  preside  : 
Without  temptations  to  allure, 
Your  days  glide  on  unstained  and  pure  ; 
Nae  midnight  revels  waste  your  health. 
Nor  greedy  landlord  drains  your  wealth ; 
Ye're  never  fashed  wi'  whisky  fever, 
Nor  dizzy  pow,  nor  dullness  ever  ; 
But  breatlu!  the  hnlosnme  caller  air, 
Kemote  from  aught  that  genders  care. 

I  needna'  tell  how  much  I  lang 
To  hear  your  rural  Scottish  sang  ; 
To  hear  you  sing  your  heath-clad  braes, 


taottahill's  poems.  103 

Your  jocund  nights  and  happy  days  ; 
And  lilt  wi'  glee  the  Ijlythesome  morn, 
When  dewdraps  pearl  every  thorn  ; 
When  larks  pour  forth  the  early  sang, 
And  lintwhites  chant  the  wliins  amang. 
And  pyats  hap  frae  tree  to  tree, 
Teaching  their  young  anes  how  to  flee ; 
While  frae  the  mavis  to  the  wren, 
A'  warble  sweet  in  bush  or  glen. 

In  town  we  scarce  can  find  occasion 
To  note  the  beauties  o'  creation  ; 
But  study  mankind's  different  dealings, 
Their  virtues,  vices,  merits,  failings. 
Unijleasing  task  compared  wi'  yours  : 
You  range  the  hills  'mang  mountain  flow'rs, 
And  view  afar  the  smoky  town, 
More  bless'd  than  all  its  riches  were  your  own. 

A  lang  epistle  I  might  scribble. 
But  aiblins  ye  will  grudge  the  trouble 
Of  reading  sic  low  hamewart  rhyme. 
And  sae  it's  best  to  quat  in  time  ; 
Sae  I,  with  soul  sincere  and  fervent. 
Am  still  you  trustful  friend  and  servant. 


JANUARY,   1806. 

Dear  kindred  saul,  thanks  to  the  cause 
First  made  us  ken  each  other ; 

Ca't  fate,  or  chance,  I  care  not  whilk, 
To  me  it  brought  a  brother. 

Thy  furthy,  kindly,  takin'  gait : 
Sure  every  guid  chield  likes  thee, 

And  bad  luck  wring  his  thrawart  heart, 
Wha  snarling  e'er  would  vex  thee. 

Though  mole-ey'd  Fortune's  partial  hand, 
0'  clink  may  keep  thee  bare  o't ; 

Of  what  thou  hast,  pale  Misery 
Receives,  unasked,  a  share  o't. 


101  TANNAniLL's   POEMS. 

Thou  gi'cst  witliout  .ac  hank'ring  thought, 
Or  cauld,  si'lf-stintcd  wish  ; 

E'en  winter-fingfr'd  Avarice 
Approves  thee  with  a  blush. 

If  grief  e'er  mak'  thee  her  packhorse, 

Her  leadon  load  to  carry't, 
Shove  half  the  burden  on  my  back, 
I'll  do  my  best  to  bear  it. 

Guid  kens  we  a'  ha'e  faults  cnew, 
'Tis  Friendship's  task  to  cure  'em ; 

But  still  she  Ki)urns  the  critic  view, 
And  bids  us  to  look  o'er  'em. 

When  Death  performs  his  beadle  part, 
And  summons  thee  to  heaven, 

By  virtue  of  thy  warm,  kind  heart. 
Thy  faults  will  be  forgiven. 

And  shouldst  thou  live  to  see  thy  friend 

Borne  lifeless  on  the  bier ; 
I  ask  of  thee  for  epitaph, 

One  kind  eleiraic  tear. 


6pist[c  to  |c(cviuitrc.r  Jiarlauir. 

GLASGOW. — FElillUARY,  1806. 

Retir'd  disgusted  from  the  tavern  roar, 

"NVliere  strong-hmg'd  Ignorance  does  highest  soar; 

Where  silly  ridicule  is  pass'd  for  wit. 

And  shallow  Laughter  takes  her  gaping  fit; 

Here  lone  I  sit,  in  musing  melancholy, 

Resolv'd  for  aye  to  shun  the  court  of  Folly  ; 

For,  from  whole  years'  experience  in  her  train. 

One  hour  of  joy  brings  twenty  hours  of  pain. 

Now  since  I'm  on  the  would-be  better  key, 

The  Muse  oft  whispers  me  to  Avrite  to  thee, 

Not  that  she  means  a  self-debasing  letter, 

But  merely  show  there's  hope  I  may  turn  better; 

That  what  stands  bad  to  my  account  of  ill, 

You  may  set  down  to  passion,  not  to  will. 


tannahill's  poems.  105 

Tlie  fate-scourg'd  exile,  destined  still  to  roam 
Through  desert  wilds,  far  from  his  early  home,— 
If  some  fair  prospect  meet  his  sorrowing  pyes, 
Like  that  he  own'd  beneath  his  native  skies, 
Sad  recollection,  murdering  relief. 
He  bursts  in  all  the  agonies  of  grief ; 
Mem'ry  presents  the  volume  of  his  care. 
And  harrows  up  his  soul  with  "  such  things  were." 
'Tis  so  in  life— when  Youth  folds  up  his  page, 
And  turns  the  leaf  to  dark,  blank,  joyless  age. 
Where  sad  Experience  speaks  in  language  plain, _ 
Her  thoughts  of  bliss,  and  highest  hopes  were  vain: 
O'er  present  ills  I  think  I  see  her  mourn. 
And  "weep  past  joys  that  never  Avill  return." 

Then  come,  my  friend,  while  yet  in  life's  gay  noon. 
Ere  grief's  dark  clouds  obscure  our  summer  sun. 
Ere  winter's  sleety  blasts  around  us  howl, 
And  chill  our  every  energy  of  soul : 
Let  us  look  back,  retrace  the  ways  we've  trod, 
Mark  virtue's  paths  from  guilty  pleasure's  road, 
And,  'stead  of  wand'ring  in  a  devious  maze, 
Mark  some  few  precepts  for  our  future  days. 

I  mind  still  Avell,  Avhen  but  a  trifling  boy, 
My  young  heart  llutter'd  with  a  savage  joy. 
As  with  my  sire  I  wander'd  through  the  wood, 
And  found  the  mavis'  clump-lodged  callow  brood: 
I  tore  them  thence,  exulting  o'er  my  prize, 
My  father  bade  me  list  the  mother's  cries. 
"  So  thine  would  Avail,"  he  said,  "  if  reft  of  thee  :" 
It  was  a  lesson  of  humanity. 

Not  to  recount  our  every  early  joy, 
When  all  was  happiness  without  alloy  ; 
Nor  tread  again  each  floAv'ry  field  Ave  traced, 
Light  as  the  silk-Avinged  butterflies  Ave  chased ; 
Ere  villain  falsehood  taught  the  glowing  mind, 
To  look  Avith  cold  suspicion  on  mankind — 
Let's  pass  the  valley  of  our  younger  years. 
And  farther  up-hill  mark  Avhat  now  appears. 

We  see  the  sensualist,  fell  vice's  slave, 
Fatigu'd,  worn  out,  sink  to  an  early  grave; 
We  see  the  slave  of  av'rice  grind  the  poor, 
His  thirst  for  gold  increasing  with  his  store ; 


106  TANNAniLl/s   POEMS. 

Pack-liorpo  of  fortune,  all  his  days  are  earo, 
Her  burdens  bearin*^  to  bis  spendtbrift  beir. 

Next  view  tbe  spendtbrift,  joyous  o'er  bis  purse, 
Excban^in^  all  liis  <];uineas  for  remorse ; 
On  i)leasure's  llow'r-deck'd  bar<:;e  away  be's  borne, 
Supine,  till  every  flow'r  starts  up  a  tborn. 
Tben  all  bis  pleasures  lly,  like  air-borne  bubbles  : 
He  ruined  sinks  amidst  a  sea  of  troubles. 

Hail,  Temperance,  tbou'rt  wisdom's  first,  best  lore, 
Tbe  sage  in  every  age  does  tbce  adore ; 
"Within  tby  pale  we  taste  of  ev'ry  joy, 
O'erstepping  tbat,  our  bigbest  pleasures  cloy : 
Tbe  heart-enlivening,  friendly,  social  bowl. 
To  rap'troiis  ecstasy  exalts  the  soul ; 
But  when  to  midnight  hour  we  keep  it  up, 
Next  morning  feels  the  poison  of  tbe  cup. 

Though  fate  forbade  tbe  gifts  of  schoolmen  mine, 
With  classic  art  to  write  the  polish'd  line, 
Yet  miners  oft  must  gather  earth  with  gold, 
And  truth  may  strike,  though  e'er  so  roughly  told. 

If  thou  in  aught  would'st  rise  to  eminence, 
Show  not  the  faintest  shadow  of  pretence. 
Else  busy  Scandal,  with  her  hundred  tongues, 
"Will  quickly  find  thee  in  ten  thousand  wrongs  ; 
Each  strives  to  tear  his  neighbour's  honour  down, 
As  if  detracting  something  from  his  own. 
Of  all  tbe  ills  with  which  mankind  are  curs'd, 
An  envious,  discontented  miud's  the  worst ; 
There  muddy  Spleen  exalts  her  gloomy  throne, 
Marks  all  conditions  better  than  her  own  : 
Hence  Defamation  spreads  her  ant-bear  tongue, 
And  grimly  pleas'd,  feeds  on  another's  wrong. 
Curse  on  the  wretch  who,  when  his  neighbour's  bless'd, 
Erects  his  peace-destroying,  snaky  crest ! 
And  him  who  sits  in  surly,  sullen  mood, 
Eepining  at  a  fellow-mortal's  good ! 
Man  owns  so  little  of  true  happiness, 
That  cursed  be  he  who  makes  tbat  little  less. 

The  zealot  thinks  he'll  go  to  heaven  direct, 
Adhering  to  tbe  tenets  of  his  sect. 
E'en  though  his  practice  lie  in  this  alone, 


takkahill's  poe:ms.  107 

To  rail  at  all  persuasions  but  his  own. 

In  judging,  still  let  moderation  guide  ; 
O'erheated  zeal  is  certain  to  mislead. 
First  bow  to  God  in  heart-warm  gratitude, 
Next  do  our  utmost  for  the  general  good. 
In  spite  of  all  the  forms  which  men  devise, 
'Tis  there  where  real  solid  wisdom  lies ; 
And  impious  is  the  man  who  claims  dominion, 
To  damn  his  neighbour  diff'ring  in  opinion. 

When  suppliant  Misery  greets  thy  wand'ring  eye, 
Although  in  public,  pass  not  heedless  by; 
Distress  impels  her  to  implore  the  crowd, 
Yor  that  denied  within  her  lone  abode. 
Give  thou  the  trifling  pittance  which  she  craven, 
Though  ostentation  called  by  prudent  knaves  ; 
So  conscience  will  a  rich  reward  impart. 
And  finer  feelings  play  around  the  heart. 

"When  "Wealth  with  arrogance  exalts  his  brow, 
And  reckons  Poverty  a  wretch  most  low. 
Let  good  intentions  dignify  thy  soul, 
And  conscious  rectitude  will  crown  the  whole. 
Hence  indigence  will  independence  own. 
And  soar  above  the  haughty  despot's  frown. 

Still  to  thy  lot  be  virtuously  resigned ; 
Above  all  treasures  prize  thy  peace  of  mind  ; 
Then  let  not  envy  rob  thy  soul  of  rest, 
Nor  discontent  e'er  harbour  m  thy  breast. 
Be  not  too  fond  of  popular  applause, 
"Which  often  echoes  in  a  villain's  cause, 
"Whose  specious  sophistry  gilds  his  deceit. 
Till  power  abused,  in  time  shows  forth  the  cheat : 
Yet  be't  thy  pride  to  bear  an  "honest  fame  ; 
More  dear  than  life  watch  over  thy  good  name; 
For  he,  poor  man !  who  has  no  wish  to  gain  it, 
Despises  all  the  virtues  which  attain  it. 

Of  friendship,  still  be  secrecy  the  test, 
This  maxim  let  be  'graven  in  my  breast : 
"Whate'er  a  friend  enjoins  me  to  conceal, 
I'm  weak,  I'm  base,  if  I  the  same  reveal. 
Let  honour,  acting  as  a  powerful  spell. 
Suppress  that  itching  fondness  still  to  tell ; 
Else,  untbank'd  chronicle,  the  cunning's  tool, 


108  taxxaiiill's  poems. 

The  world  will  stamp  nic  for  a  {gossip  fool. 

Yet  let  us  act  an  honest  open  part, 

Nor  curlj  the  warm  effusions  of  the  heart, 

Which,  naturally  virtuous,  discommends 

Aught  mean  or  base,  even  in  our  dearest  friends. 

But  why  this  long  disjointed  scrawl  to  thee, 
"Whose  every  action  is  a  law  to  me  ; 
Whose  every  deed  proclaims  thy  noble  mind, 
Industrious,  independent,  just,  and  kind  / 
Methinks  I  hear  thee  say,  "  Each  fool  may  teach. 
Since  now  my  whim-led  friend's  begun  to  preach." 
But  this  first  essay  of  my  ])reaching  strain, 
Hear  and  accept,  for  friendship's  sake.     Amen. 


Epistle  ia  James  |jucb;m;ui. 

KILBABCIIAX. — AUGUST,  ISOC. 

My  guid  auld  friend  on  Locher  banks. 
Your  kindness  claims  my  warmest  thanks; 
Yet,  thanks  is  but  a  draff-cheap  phrase, 
Of  little  value  now-a-days  : 
Indeed,  'tis  hardly  worth  the  heeding, 
Unless  to  show  a  body's  breeding. 
Yet  many  a  poor  doiled  servile  body, 
Will  scrimp  his  stomach  of  its  crowdy, 
And  pride  to  run  a  great  man's  errands. 
And  feed  on  smiles  and  sour  cheese  })arings, 
And  think  himsel'  na  sma  sheep-shank, 
Rich  laden  wi'  his  lordship's  thank. 
The  sodger,  too,  for  a'  his  troubles, 
His  hungry  wames,  and  bluidy  hubbies, 
His  agues,  rheumatisms,  cramps, 
Receiv'd  in  plashy  winter  camps, 
Oh,  blest  reward !  at  last  he  gains 
His  sovereign's  thanks  for  a'  his  puns. 

Thus,  though  'mang  first  o'  fri.'uds  I  lank  you, 
'Twere  but  sma'  com[)liment  to  thank  you  j 
Yet,  lest  ye  think  me  here  ungratefu'. 
Of  hatefu'  names,  a  name  most  hatefu', 


tannaiiill's  poems.  109 

The  neist  time  that  you  come  to  toun, 
By  a'  tlie  poAvers  beiieatli  tlie  moon, 
I'll  treat  you  wi'  a  Highland  gill, 
Though  it  should  be  my  hindmost  fdl ! 

Though  in  the  bustling  town,  the  Muso 
Has  gathev'd  little  feck  o'  news  : 
'Tis  said,  the  Court  of  Antiquarians 
Has  split  on  some  great  point  o'  variance  ; 
For  ane  has  got  in  gouden  box, 
The  spectacles  of  auld  John  Knox  ; 
A  second  proudly  thanks  his  fate  wi' 
The  hindmaist  pen  that  Nelson  wrote  wi'; 
A  third  ane  owns  an  antique  rare, 
A  sape-brush  made  o'  mermaid's  hair! 
But,  niggard  wights  !  thoy  a'  refuse  'em, 
These  precious  relics,  to  the  museum, 
Whilk  selfish,  mean,  illegal  deeds, 
Ha'e  set  them  a'  at  logirerheads. 

bare  taste  refin'd  and  public  spirit, 
Stand  next  to  genius  and  merit : 
I'm  proud  to  see  your  warm  regard. 
For  Caledonia's  dearest  bard  : 
Of  him  ye've  got  sae  guid  a  painting, 
That  nought  but  real  life  is  wanting. 
I  think  yon  rising  genius,  Tannock,-'' 
May  gain  a  niche  in  Fame's  high  wiiuiock  ; 
There,  with  auld  Reubens,  placed  sublime, 
Look  down  upon  the  wreck  of  time. 

I  ne'er,  as  yet,  ha'e  found  a  patron. 
For,  scorn  be  til't,  I  hate  a'  flatt  rin' ; 
Besides,  I  never  had  an  itchin' 
To  slake  about  a  great  man's  kitchen, 
And  like  a  spaniel  lick  his  dishes. 
And  come  and  gang  just  to  his  wishes  : 
Yet  studious  to  give  worth  its  due, 
I  pride  to  praise  the  like  of  you  ; 
Guid  chiels,  replete  wi'  sterling  sense, 
"Wha'  wi'  their  worth  mak'  nae  pretence. 
Aye,  there's  my  worthy  friend  M'Math, 
I'll  lo'e  him  till  my  latest  breath. 
And  like  a  traitor-wretch  be  hanged, 
*  The  painter  of  Baais'  portrait  is  here  referred  to. 


110  tannahill's  poems. 

Before  I'd  hear  that  fellow  wranged  : 
His  every  action  shows  his  mind, 
Humanely  noble,  bri,t,dit,  and  kind  : 
And  here's  the  wortli  o't,  doubly  rooted, 
He  never  speaks  ao  word  about  it. 
My  compliments  and  warm  guid-will, 
To  Maisters  Simpson,  Barr,  and  Lyle. 
Wad  rav'ning  Time  but  spare  my  pages, 
They'd  tell  the  warl  in  after  ages, 
That  it  to  me  was  wealth  and  fame, 
To  be  esteemed  by  chields  like  them. 

0  Time,  thou  all -devouring  bear  ! 

Hear — '•  List,  oh  list  "  my  ardent  pray'rl 

1  crave  thee  here,  on  bended  knee, 
To  let  my  dear-loved  pages  be  ; 

Oh  !  take  thy  sharp-nailed,  nibbling  elves, 
To  musty  scrolls  on  college  shelves ; 
There,  with  dry  treatises  on  law, 
Feast,  cram,  and  gorge  thy  greedy  maw; 
But  grant,  amidst  thy  thin-sown  mercies, 
To  spare,  oh  spare  my  darling  verses  ! 

Could  I  but  up  through  hist'ry  wimple, 
Wi'  Roliertson,  or  sage  JJalrymple ; 
Or  had  I  half  the  pith  and  lear 
Of  a  Mackenzie,  or  a  Blair  ; 
I  aiblins  then  might  tell  some  story 
Wad  show  the  Mnse  in  bleezing  glory  ; 
But  scrimp'd  o'  time,  and  lear  scholastic. 
My  lines  limp  on  in  Hudibrastic, 
Till  Hope,  grown  sick,  Hiiigs  down  her  claim. 
And  drops  her  dreams  o'  future  fame. 
Yes,  oh  waesucks  !  should  1  be  vauntie  1 
My  Muse  is  just  a  Rosinante  : 
She  stammers  forth,  wi'  hilching  canter, 
Sagely  intent  on  strange  adventure  ; 
Yet,  sae  uncouth  in  garb  and  feature. 
She  seems  the  fool  of  Literature. 
But  lest  the  critic's  birsie  besom. 
Swoop  oft'  this  cant  of  egotism, 
I'll  sidelins  hint — na,  bauldly  tell, 
I  whiles  think  something  o'  mysel': 
Else,  wha  the  de'il  wad  fash  to  scribble, 


tannahill's  poems.  Ill 

Expecting  scorn  for  a'  his  trouble  1 
Yet,  lest  dear  self  should  be  mista'en, 
I'll  fling  the  bridle  o'er  the  mane  ; 
For  after  a',  I  fear  this  jargon 
Is  but  a  Willie  Glassford  bargain. 


6pistlc  la  golrcrt  %llnn, 

KILB.VUCH,VN.— I8O7. 

Dear  Robin, 

The  Muse  is  now  a  wee  at  leisure, 
An'  sits  her  down  wi'  meikle  pleasure, 
To  skelp  you  aff"  a  blaud  0'  rhyme, 
As  near's  she  can  to  true  sublime ; 
But  here's  the  rub, — poor  poet-devils, 
We're  compassed  round  wi'  mony  evils  ; 
We  jerk  oursel's  into  a  fever 
To  give  the  world  something  clever, 
An'  after  a'  perhaps  we  muddle 
In  vile  prosaic  stagnant  puddle. 
For  me — I  seldom  choose  a  subject, 
My  rhymes  are  oft  without  an  object ; 
I  let  the  Muse  e'en  tak'  her  win'. 
And  dash  awa'  thro'  thick  and  thin: 
For  Method's  sic  a  servile  creature. 
She  spurns  the  wilds  o'  simple  nature 
An'  paces  on,  wi'  easy  art, 
A  lang  day's  journey  frae  the  heart: — 
Sae  what  comes  uppermaist  you'll  get  it, 
Be't  good  or  ill,  for  you  I  write  it. 

How  fares  my  worthy  friend,  the  bard  1 
Be  peace  and  honour  his  reward  ! 
May  ev'ry  ill  that  gars  us  fyke, 
Bad  webs,  toom  pouches,  and  sic  like, 
An'  ought  that  would  his  spirit  bend, 
Be  ten  miles  distant  from  my  friend. 
Alas  !  this  wicked  endless  war, 
Rul'd  by  some  vile  malignant  s'lar, 
Has  sunk  poor  Britain  low  indeed, 
Has  robb'd  Industry  o'  her  bread. 


112  TANNAIITLI.'S   POEMS. 

An'  dasli'd  tlie  sair-wou  cog  o'  crowdie 

Frae  mony  an  lionest  eident  body  ; 

While  Genius,  dying  tlirougli  neglect, 

Sinks  down  amidst  the  general  wreck 

Just  like  twa  cats  tied  tail  to  tail, 

They  worry  at  it  tooth  and  nail ; 

They  girn,  they  bite  in  deadly  wrath, 

An'  what  is't  for  ?  for  nought  in  faith  ! 

Wee  Lourie  Frank*  wi'  brazen  snout, 

Nae  doubt  would  like  to  scart  us  out, 

For  proud  John  Bull,  aye  us'd  to  hone  him, 

We'll  no  gi'e  o'er  to  spit  upon  him, 

But  Lourie's  rais'd  to  sic  degree, 

John  would  be  wise  to  let  him  be  ; 

Else  aiblins,  as  he's  wearin'  aul', 

Frank  yet  may  tear  him  spawl  frae  spawl, 

For  wi'  the  mony  chirts  he's  gotten, 

I  fear  his  constituimi's  rotten. 

But  while  the  bullying  blades  o'  Europe 
Arc  boxing  itlier  to  a  syruj), 
Let's  mind  oursel's  as  wcel's  we  can, 
An'  live  in  peace,  like  man  and  man. 
An'  no  cast  out  and  fecht  like  brutes, 
AV^ithout  a  cause  for  our  disputes. 

When  I  read  o'er  your  kind  epistle, 
I  didna  dance,  nor  sing,  nor  whistle, 
But  jump'd,  and  cried,  Huzza!  huzza! 
Like  Kobiu  Eoughead  in  the  play ; — • 
But  to  be  serious — jest  aside, 
I  felt  a  glow  o'  secret  pride, 
Thus  to  be  roos'd  by  ane  like  you ; 
Yet  doubted  if  sic  praise  was  due, 
Till  self  thus  reason'd  in  the  matter  : 
Ye  ken  that  Robin  scorns  to  flatter, 
And  ere  he'd  prostitute  his  quill. 
He'd  rather  burn  his  rhyming  mill — 
Enough  !  I  cried — Fve  gaiu'd  my  end, 
Since  1  ha'e  pleased  my  worthy  friend. 

My  sangs  are  now  before  the  warl'. 
An'  some  may  praise,  and  some  may  snarl ; 
They  ha'e  their  faults,  yet  I  can  tell 
*  A  personification  of  Franco. 


TANNAHILL'S  rOEMS.  !il3 

Nane  rocs  them  clearer  than  mysel' ; 
But  still,  I  think,  they  too  inherit 
Amang  the  dross  some  sparks  o'  merit. 

Then  come,  my  dear  Parnassian  brither, 
Let's  lay  our  poet  heads  thegither, 
And  sing  our  ain  sweet  native  scenes, 
Our  streams,  our  banks,  and  rural  plains, 
Our  woods,  our  shaw's,  and  flow'ry  holms, 
An'  mountains  clad  wi'  purple  blooms, 
Wi'  burnies  bickerin'  down  their  braes, 
Eeilecting  back  the  sunny  rayg  ; 
Te've  Semple  Woods,  and  Calder  Grlen, 
And  Locher  Bank,  sweet  fairy  den  ! 
And  Auchenames  a  glorious  theme ! 
Where  Crawford*  liv'd,  of  deathless  name, 
Where  Sempillf  sued  his  lass  to  win, 
And  Nelly  rose  and  let  him  in 
Where  Habbie  SimpsonJ  lang  did  play, 
The  first  o'  pipers  in  his  day  ; 

And  though  aneath  the  turf  langsyne, 

Their  sangs  and  tunes  shall  never  tyne. 
Sae,  Robin,  briskly  ply  the  Muse  ; 

She  warms  our  hearts,  expands  our  views, 

Gars  every  sordid  passion  flee, 

And  waukens  every  sympathy. 

Now,  wishing  Fate  may  never  tax  you, 

Wi'  cross,  nor  loss,  to  thraw  and  vex  you, 

But  keep  you  hale  till  ninety -nine. 

Till  you  and  yours  in  honour  shine ; 

Shall  ever  be  my  earnest  prayer. 

While  I've  a  friendly  wish  to  spare. 

•  Wra.  Crawford,  a  Scottisli  poet,  author  of  "  Twcodsidc,"  "  The  bush 
ahoon  Trnquair,"  &c.,  died  about  1/30. 

t  Fi-aucis  Semple,  a  Scottish  poet,  author  of  "  Maggie  Lauder,"  "The 
blythsonio  bridal,"  &C. 

I  A  cclebi;ited  piper  of  Kilbarchan. 


114  taottahill's  poems. 

C  0  to  s  £  r ; 


A  TEUE  TALE. 


"  DogB  are  honeat  creatures, 
Ne'er  fawn  on  any  that  they  love  not ; 
And  I'm  a  friend  to  dogs  ; 
They  ne'er  betray  their  masters." 

In  mony  an  instance,  without  doubt, 
The  man  may  copy  from  the  brute, 
And  by  th'  example  grow  much  wiser  ; 
Then  read  the  short  memoirs  of  Towscr. 

"With  deference  to  our  great  Lavaters, 
Wha  judge  o'  mankind  by  their  features. 
There's  mony  a  smiling,  pleasant-faced  cock, 
That  wears  a  heax't  no  worth  a  castock  ; 
While  mony  a  visage,  antic,  droll, 
O'erveils  a  noble,  generous  soul. 
With  Towser  this  was  just  the  case, 
He  had  an  ill-faur'd,  tawted  face  ; 
His  make  was  something  like  a  messan, 
But  big,  and  quite  unprepossessin' ; 
His  master  coft  him  frae  some  fallows. 
Who  had  him  doomed  unto  the  gallows, 
Because  {sae  hap'd  poor  Towscr's  lot) 
He  wudna  tear  a  comrade's  throat ; 
Yet  in  affairs  of  love  or  honour. 
He'd  stand  his  part  amang  a  hun'er  ; 
And  where'er  fighting  was  a  merit, 
He  never  failed  to  show  his  spirit. 
He  never  girn'd  in  neighbour's  face, 
With  wild  ill-natur'd  scant  of  grace ; 
Nor  e'er  accosted  ane  with  smiles. 
Then,  soon  as  turn'd,  wad  bite  his  heels : 
Nor  ever  kent  the  courtier  art. 
To  f  iwn  with  rancour  at  his  heart ; 
Nor  aught  kent  he  of  cankert  quar'lling, 
Nor  snarling  just  for  sake  o'  snarling; 
Ye'd  pinch  him  sair  afore  he'd  growl, 
Whilk  shows  he  had  a  mighty  soul. 

But  what  adds  maistly  to  his  fame, 
And  will  immortalize  his  name — 


tannahill's  poems.  115 

"  Immortalize  ! — presumptuous  wight ! 
Thy  lines  care  dull  as  darkest  night, 
Without  ae  spark  o'  wit  or  glee, 
To  light  them  through  futurity." 
E'en  be  it  sae ; — poor  Towser's  story, 
Though  lamely  tauld,  will  speak  his  glory. 

'Twas  in  the  month  o'  cauld  December, 
When  nature's  fire  seemed  just  an  ember, 
And  growling  winter  bellow'd  forth. 
In  storms  and  tempests  frae  the  north ; 
When  honest  Towser's  loving  master, 
Eegardless  o'  the  surly  bluster. 
Set  out  to  the  neist  borough  town, 
To  buy  some  needments  of  his  own  ; 
And,  case  some  purse-pest  should  way-lay  him, 
He  took  his  trusty  servant  wi'  him. 

His  business  done  'twas  near  the  gloaming. 
And  aye  the  king  o'  storms  was  foaming  ; 
The  doors  did  ring — lum-pigs  down  tumljled. 
The  strands  gushed  big — the  sinks  loud  rumbled ; 
A  uld  grannies  spread  their  looves  and  sighed, 
Wi'  "  Oh,  sirs  !  what  an  awfu'  night !" 
Poor  Towser  shook  his  side  a'  draigl'J, 
An's  master  grudged  that  he  had  taigl'd  ; 
But,  wi'  his  merchandizing  load, 
Come  weel,  come  wae,  he  took  the  road. 
Now  clouds  drave  o'er  the  fields  like  drift, 
Night  flung  her  black  cleuk  o'er  the  lift ; 
And  through  the  naked  trees  and  hedges. 
The  horrid  storm  redoubled  rages  ; 
And,  to  complete  his  piteous  case, 
It  blew  directly  in  his  face. 
Whiles  'gainst  the  footpath  stabs  he  thump'd. 
Whiles  o'er  the  coots  in  holes  he  plump'd ; 
But  on  he  gae'd,  and  on  he  waded. 
Till  he  at  length  turn'd  ftiint  and  jaded. 
To  gang  he  could  nae  langer  bide. 
But  lay  down  by  the  bare  dyke-side. — 
Now,  wife  an'  bairns  rush'd  on  his  soul, 
He  groan' d — poor  Towser  loud  did  howl ; 
And,  mourning,  cower'd  dowi!  beside  him  ; 
But,  oh  !  his  master  couldua  heed  him, 


IIQ  tanna-HIll's  poems. 

For  now  liis  senses  'gan  to  dozen, 

His  vera  life-streams  maist  were  frozen, 

An't  seem'd  as  if  the  cruel  skies 

ilxulted  o'er  their  sacrifice  ; 

For  fierce  the  winds  did  o'er  him  hiss, 

And  dash'd  the  sleet  on  his  cauld  face. 

As  on  a  rock,  far,  far  frae  land, 
Twa  shipwreck'd  sailors  shiv'ring  stand, 
If  chance  a  vessel  tliey  descry, 
Their  hearts  exult  with  instant  joy  ; 
Sae  was  poor  Towser  joy'd  to  hear 
The  tread  of  travelers  drawing  near;  ^ 
He  ran,  and  yoAvl'd,  and  fawn'd  upon  'em, 
But  couldna  make  them  understand  him. 
Till,  tugging  at  the  foremost's  coat. 
He  led  them  to  the  mournfu'  spot, 
Where,  cauld  and  stiff,  his  master  lay. 
To  the  rude  storm  a  helpless  prey. 

With  Caledonian  sympathy 
They  bore  him  kindly  on  the  way, 
Until  they  reached  a  cottage  bicn  : 
They  tauld  the  case,  were  welcom'd  in. 
The  rousing  fire,  the  cordial  drop, 
Eestor'd  him  soon  to  life  and  hope: 
Fond  raptures  beam'd  in  Towser's  eye, 
And  antic  gambols  spake  his  joy. 

Wha  reads  this  simple  tale  may  see 
The  worth  of  sensibility, 
And  learn  frae  it  to  be  humane — 
In  Towser's  life  he  sav'd  his  ain. 


A   FABLE. 

Some  folks  there  are  of  such  behaviour. 
They'll  cringe  themselves  into  your  favour, 
And  when  you  think  their  friendship  tta  inch  is, 
They'll  tear  your  character  to  inches  : 
T'  enforce  this  truth  as  well's  I'm  able, 
Please,  reader,  to  peruse  a  fable. 


TANKAniLL's   TOEMS.  117 

Deborah,  an  aukl  wealthy  maiden, 
With  spleen,  remorse,  and  scandal  ladca, 
Sought  out  a  solitary  spat. 
To  live  in  quiet  with  lier  cat, 
A  meikle,  sonsy,  tabby  she  ane, 
(For  Deborah  abhorr'd  a  he  anc) ; 
And  in  the  house,  to  bo  a  third, 
She  gat  a  wee  hen  chuckie  bird. 

Soon  as  our  slee  nocturnal  ranger, 
Beheld  the  Avee  bit  timid  stranger, 
She  tlius  began,  with  friendly  fraise  : 
"  Come  ben,  puir  thing,  and  warm  your  taes  : 
This  weather's  cauld,  an'  wet,  an'  dreary, 
I'm  wae  to  see  you  look  sae  eerie. 
Sirs  !  how  your  tail  and  wings  are  dreepin;^, 
Ye've  surely  been  in  piteous  keeping ; 
See,  here's  my  dish,  come  tak'  a  pick'  o't, 
But,  'deed,  I  fear  there's  scarce  a  lick  o't." 

Sic  sympathizing  words  of  sense, 
Soon  gained  poor  chuckle's  confidence  ; 
And  while  Deborah  niools  some  crumbs, 
Auld  baudrons  siti3,  and  croodling  thrums  : 
In  short,  the  twa  soon  grew  sae  pack. 
Chuck  roosted  upon  pussie's  back  ! 

But  ere  sax  wee  short  days  were  gane. 
When  baitli  left  in  the  house  alane, 
Then  thinks  the  hypocritic  sinner, 
Now,  now's  my  time  to  ha'e  a  dinner : 
Sae,  with  a  squat,  a  spring,  and  squall, 
She  tore  poor  chuckie  spawl  frae  spawl. 

Then  mind  this  maxim  ;  rash  acquaintance 
Aft  leads  to  ruin  and  repentance. 


CIj^  l^mljitious  pih 


When  hope  persuades,  and  fame  inspires  us, 
And  pride  with  warm  ambition  fires  us. 
Let  reason  instant  seize  the  bridle, 
And  wrest  us  frae  the  passions'  guidal ; 


118  tannaiiill's  poems. 

Else,  like  the  hero  of  our  fable, 
We'll  aft  be  plung'd  into  a  babble. 
'Twas  on  a  bonnie  simmer  day, 
When  a'  the  insect  tri]>es  -were  gay, 
Some  journeying  o'er  the  leaves  of  r^ses, 
Somo  brushing  thrang  tlieir  wings  and  noses, 
Some  wallowing  sweet  in  bramble  blossom, 
In  luxury's  saft  downy  bosom  ; 
While  ithers  of  a  lower  order. 
Were  perch'd  on  plantain  leafs  smooth  border, 
\\  Jia  frae  their  twa-inch  steeps  lojk'd  down. 
And  viewed  the  kintra  for  around. 

Ae  pridefu'  elf  amang  the  rest, 
Wha's  pin-point  heart  bumpt  'gainst  his  breast 
To  work  some  mighty  deed  of  fame, 
Tliat  would  immortalize  his  name  ; 
Through  future  hours  would  hand  him  down, 
The  wonder  of  an  afternoon. 
(For  ae  short  day  with  them  appears, 
As  lang's  our  lengthened  bunder  years). 

By  chance,  at  hand,  a  bow'd  horse-hair 
Stood  up  six  inches  high  in  air 
He  ])Iann'd  to  climb  this  lofty  arch, 
AVith  i)hilosophic,  deep  research 
To  prove  (which  aft  perplex  their  heads) 
Wh.at  people  peopled  ither  blades, 
Or  from  keen  observation,  show, 
^        Whether  they  peopled  were,  or  no. 
Our  tiny  hero  onward  hies. 
Quite  big  with  daring  enterprise  ; 
Ascends  the  hair's  curvatured  side, 
ISow  pale  with  f.-ar,  now  red  with  pride, 
Now  hanging  pendulous  hy  the  claw, 
Now  glad  at  having  'scap(!d  a  fa': 
What  horrid  dangers  he  came  through, 
Would  trilling  seem  for  man  to  know ; 
Suffice,  at  length  he  reached  the  to}), 
The  summit  of  his  pride  and  hope. 
And  on  his  elevated  station, 
Had  plac'd  himself  for  observation. 
When,  puff— the  wind  did  end  the  matter, 
And  dash'd  him  iu  a  horse-hoof  gutter. 


tannahill's  poems.  119 

Sac  let  the  lesson  gi'eri  us  here, 
Keep  each  within  his  proper  sphere  ; 
And  when  our  fancies  tak'  their  iiight, 
Think  ou  the  wee  ambitious  mite. 


^be  storm. 


WRITTEN   IN  OCTOBEE. 


Whilst  the  dark  rains  of  autumn  discolour  the  brook, 
And  the  rough  winds  of  winter  the  woodlands  deform  ; 

Here,  lonely,  I  lean  by  the  sheltering  rock, 
A-list'ning  the  voice  of  the  loud  howling  storm. 

Now  dreadfully  furious  it  roars  on  the  hill, 

The  deep-groaning  rocks  seem  all  writliing  with  pain  : 

Now  awfully  calm,  for  a  moment  'tis  still, 

Then  bursting,  it  howls  and  it  thunders  again. 

How  cheerless  and  desert  the  fields  now  appear, 

Which  so  lately  in  summer's  rich  verdure  were  seen, 

And  each  sad  drooping  spray  from  its  heart  drops  a  tear, 
As  seeming  to  weep  its  lost  mantle  of  green  ! 

See,  beneath  the  rude  wall  of  yon  ruinous  pile, 
From  the  merciless  tempest  the  cattle  have  fled ; 

And  yon  poor  patient  steed,  at  the  gate  by  the  stile, 
Looks  wistfully  home  for  his  sheltering  shed. 

Ah !  who  would  not  feel  for  yon  poor  gipsy  race, 
Peeping  out  from  the  door  of  the  old  roofless  barn  ? 

There  my  wandering  fancy  her  fortunes  might  trace. 
And  sour  Discontent  there-a  lesson  might  learn. 

Yet  oft  in  my  bosom  arises  the  sigh, 

That  prompts  the  warm  wish  distant  scenes  to  explore, 
Hope  gilds  the  fair  prospect  with  visions  of  joy, 

That  happiness  reigns  on  some  far  distant  shore. 

But  yon  gray  hermit-tree  which  stood  lone  on  the  moor. 
By  the  fierce  driving  blast  to  the  earth  is  blown  down ; 

So  the  lone,  houseless  wanderer,  unheeded  and  poor, 
May  fall  unprotected,  unpitied,  unknown. 


120  tannahill's  poems. 

Sec  !  o'er  the  gray  steep,  down  the  deep  craggy  flen, 

Pours  the  hrowii  foaming  torrent, swelled  big  wiLlitlu;  rain: 

It  roars  through  the  caves  of  its  dark  wizard  dec. 

Then  headlong,  impetuous,  it  sweeps  through  the  plain. 

Now  the  dark  heavy  clouds  hav(!  unbosomed  their  stores, 
And  far  to  the  westward  the  welkin  is  blue ; 

The  sullen  Avinds  hiss  as  they  die  on  the  moors, 

And  the  sun  faintly  shines  on  yon  bleak  mountain's  brow. 


"  ITim  who  no'or  listen' J  to  the  voice  of  praise. 
The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appal." — U  kattie. 

'TwAS  on  a  sunny  Sabbath-day, 

When  wark-worn  bodies  get  their  play, 

I  wandered  out  with  serious  look, 

To  read  twa  page  on  Nature's  book ; 

For  lang  I  ve  thought  as  little  harm  in 

Hearing  a  lively  oufc-lield  sermon. 

Even  thougli  rowted  by  a  stirk, 

As  that  aft  bawl'd  in  crowded  kirk. 

By  some  proud,  stern,  polemic  wight, 

"VVlia  cries,  "  My  way  alone  is  right !" 

Wha  lairs  himself  in  controversy, 

Then  damns  his  neighbours  without  mercy ; 

As  if  the  fewer  that  were  spar'd 

These  few  would  be  the  better  ser'd. 

Now  to  my  tale,  digression  o'er, 

I  wandered  out  by  Stanley  tow'r  : 

The  lang  grass  on  its  tap  did  wave. 

Like  weeds  n])on  a  warrior's  grave  ; 

Whilk  seem'd  to  mock  the  bloody  braggers, 

And  grow  on  theirs  as  rank's  on  beggars — 

But  hold,  I'm  frac  the  point  again, 

I  wandered  up  GleniiTer  glen  ; 

There,  leaning  'gainst  a  mossy  rock, 

I,  musing,  eyed  the  passing  brook. 

That  in  its  murmurs  seemed  to  say — 


TANNAHILLS   POEMS. 

"  'Tis  thus  thy  life  glides  fast  away  ; 
Observe  the  bulibles  on  my  stream, 
Like  them,  fame  is  au  empty  dream ; 
They  blink  a  moment  to  the  svm 
Then  burst,  and  are  for  ever  gone. 
So  fame's  a  bubble  of  the  mind  ; 
Possess'd,  tis  nought  but  empty  wind  : 
No  courtly  gem  e'er  purchased  dearer, 
And  ne'er  c:in  satisfy  the  wearer. 
Let  them  wha  ha'e  a  blazing  share  o't 
Confess  the  truth,  they  sigh  for  mair  o't 
Then  let  contentment  be  thy  cheei*, 
And  never  soar  aboon  thy  sphere  ; 
Eude  storms  assail  the  mountain's  brow- 
That  lightly  skifi"  the  vale  below." 

A  gaudy  rose  was  growing  near, 
Proud  tow'ring  on  its  leafy  brier, 
In  fancy's  ear  it  seemed  to  say — 
"  Sir,  have  you  seen  a  flow'r  so  gay  1 
The  poets  in  my  praise  combine, 
Comparing  Chloe's  charms  to  mine  ; 
The  sunbeams  for  my  favour  sue  me, 
And  dark-browed  Night  comes  down  to  woo  me ; 
But  when  I  shrink  from  his  request, 
He  draps  his  tears  upon  my  breast, 
And  in  his  misty  cloud  sits  wae, 
Till  chas'd  away  by  rival  day. 
That  streamlet's  grov'lling  grunting  fires  me, 
Since  no  ane  sees  me,  but  admires  me. 
See  yon  bit  violet  'neath  my  view, 
Wee  sallow  thing,  its  nose  is  blue  ! 
And  that  bit  primrose  'side  the  breckan. 
Poor  yellow  ghaist,  it  seems  forsaken ! 
The  sun  ne'er  throws  ae  transient  glow, 
Unless  when  passing  whether  or  no  ; 
But  wisely  spurning  ane  sae  mean, 
He  blinks  on  me  frae  morn  till  e'en," 

To  which  the  primrose  calm  replied : 
"  Poor  gaudy  gowk,  suppress  your  pride, 
Por  soon  the  strong  flow'r-sweeping  blast 
Shall  strew  your  honours  in  the  dust ; 
"While  I  beneath  my  lowly  bield, 


121 


122  T.VNKAIITLLS   POEMS. 

Will  live  and  bloom,  frae  harm  concealed  : 
And  while  the  heavy  rain-drops  pelt  you, 
Ye'll  maybe  think  on  what  I've  tell't  you." 
The  rose  derisive  seemed  to  sneer, 
And  waved  upon  its  bonnie  brier. 

Now  dark'nini,'  clouds  bep;in  to  gather, 
Presaging  sudden  change  of  weather ; 
I  wander' d  hame  by  Stanley  green, 
Deep  pondering  what  I'd  heard  and  seen ; 
Firmly  resolv'd  to  shun  from  hence. 
The  dangerous  steeps  of  eminence  : 
To  drop  this  rhyming  trade  for  ever, 
And  creep  through  life,  a  plain,  day-ploddiug  weaver. 


Clj£  IJaniasstatr. 

A   VISIONARY   VIEW. 

Come,  Fancy,  thou  hast  ever  been, 
In  life's  low  vale,  my  ready  frien'. 

To  cheer  the  clouded  hour  ; 
Though  unfledged  with  scholastic  law, 
Some  visionary  picture  draw, 
With  all  thy  magic  pow'r  ; 
Now  to  the  intellectual  eye 

The  glowing  prospects  rise, 
Parnassus'  lofty  summits  high, 
Far  tow'ring  'mid  the  skies  : 
Where  vernally,  eternally. 
Rich  leafy  laurels  grow, 
With  bloomy  bays,  through  endless  days, 
To  crown  the  Poet's  brow. 

Sure  bold  is  he  who  dares  to  climb 
Yon  awful  jutting  rock  sublime, 

Who  dares  Pegasus  sit ; 
For  should  brain-ballast  prove  too  light, 
He'll  spurn  him  from  his  airy  height, 

Down  to  oblivion's  pit ; 


tannahill's  poems.  123 

Tliere,  to  disgrace  for  ever  doom'il, 

To  mourn  his  sick'ning  woes, 
And  weep  that  ever  he  presum'd 
Above  the  vale  of  i^rose. 

Then,  oh  beware !  with  prudent  care, 

Nor  tempt  the  steeps  of  fame, 
And  leave  behind  thy  peace  of  mind, 
To  gain  a  sounding  name.* 

Behold  ! — yon  ready-rhyming  carl, 
Wi'  flatt'ry  fir'd,  attracts  the  warl', 
By  canker'd  pers'nal  satire  ; 
He  takes  th'  unthinking  crowd's  acclaim 
-l' or  sterling  proofs  of  lasting  fame, 

And  deals  his  inky  spatter. 
Now  see,  he  on  Pegasus  flies. 

With  bluff  important  straddle  ! 
He  bears  him  midway  up  the  skies  : 
See,  see,  he's  off  the  saddle ! 
He  headlong  tumbles,  growls  and  grumbles, 
Down  the  dark  abyss  ; 
The  noisy  core  that  prais'd  before, 
Now  joins  the  general  hiss. 

And  see  another  vent'rer  rise. 
Deep  fraught  Avith  fulsome  eulogies, 

To  win  his  patron's  favour  ; 
One  of  those  adulating  things, 
That,  dangling  in  the  train  of  kings, 

Give  guilt  a  splendid  cover. 
He  mounts,  well  prefaced  by  my  lord, 

Inflicts  the  spur's  sharp  wound  ; 
Pegasus  spurns  the  great  man's  word, 
And  won't  move  from  the  ground. 

Now  mark  his  f;ice  flush'd  with  disgrace, 

Through  future  life  to  grieve  on  ; 
His  wishes  crost,  his  hopes  all  lost, 
He  sinks  into  oblivion. 

*  "  The  careei'  of  genius  is  rarely  that  of  fortune,  and  often  that  of 
contempt :  even  in  its  most  flattering  aspect,  what  is  it  but  phif^kiug  a 
few  brilliant  flowers  from  precipices,  while  the  reward  terminates  in 
honour." — D'Israeli. 


124  tannahill's  poems. 

Yon  city  scribbler  thinks  to  scale 
The  dills  of  fame  Avith  pastoral, 

In  woith,  thinks  none  e'er  richer  ; 
Yet  never  climb'd  the  upland  steep, 
Nor  e'er  beheld  a  flock  of  sheep, 

Save  thost;  driven  by  the  butcher  ; 
Nor  e'er  marked  the  gurgling  stream, 

Except  the  common  sewer, 
On  rainy  days  when  dirt  and  slime 
Pour'd  turbid  past  his  door. 

Choice  epithets  in  store  h(>.  gets 

From  Virgil,  Shenstone,  Pop-^, 
"With  tailor  art  tacks  part  to  parb, 
And  makes  his  pastoral  up. 

Eut  see,  rich  clad  in  native  worth, 
Yon  Bard  of  Nature  ventures  forth, 

With  simple  modest  tale  ; 
Applau'ling  millions  catch  the  song. 
The  raptur'd  rocks  the  notes  prolong, 

And  liand  them  to  the  gale  ; 
Pegasus  kneels — he  takes  his  seat — 

Now  see — aloft  he  tow'rs. 
To  place  him  'bove  the  reach  of  fate. 
In  Fame's  ambrosial  bow'rs  ; 

To  be  euroU'd  with  bards  of  old, 

In  ever-honour'd  station  ; 
The  gods,  well-pleas'd,  see  mortals  rais'd 
Worthy  of  their  creation. 

Now  mark  what  crowds  of  hackney  scribblers, 
Imitators,  rhyming  dabblers, 

Still  follow  in  the  rear  ! 
Pegasus  spurns  us  one  by  one, 
Y'et  still,  fame-struck,  we  follow  on, 

And  tempt  our  fate  severe : 
In  many  a  dogg'rel  epitaph. 

And  short-lin'd  mournful  ditty. 
Our  "  Ahs  ! — Alases !"  raise  the  laugh, 

Kevcrt  the  tide  of  pity: 

Yet  still  we  write  in  nature's  spite, 
Our  last  piece  aye  the  best ; 


tannahtll's  poems.  125 

Arraigning  still,  complaining  still, 
The  world  for  want  of  taste !  * 

Observe  yon  poor  deluded  man, 
With  thread-bare  coat  and  visage  wan. 

Ambitious  of  a  name  ; 
Tlie  nat'ral  claims  of  meat  and  deeding, 
He  reckons  these  not  worth  the  heeding, 

But  presses  on  for  fame ! 
The  public  voice,  touchstone  of  worth. 

Anonymous  he  cries. 
But  draws  the  critic's  vengeance  forth — 
His  fancied  glory  dies  ; 

Neglected  now,  dejected  now, 

He  gives  his  spleen  full  scope ; 
In  solitude  he  chews  his  cud, 
A  downright  misanthrope. 

Then,  brother  rhymsters,  oh  beware  ! 
In' or  tempt  unscar'd  the  specious  snare, 

Which  self-love  often  weaves ; 
Nor  doat,  with  a  fond  father's  pains, 
Upon  the  olTsfpring  of  your  brains, 

For  fancy  oft  deceives  : 
To  lighten  life,  a  wee  bit  sang 

Is  sure  a  sweet  illusion  ! 
But  ne'er  provoke  the  critic's  stang, 
By  premature  intrusion : 

Lock  up  your  piece,  let  fondness  cease, 

Till  mem'ry  fail  to  bear  it, 
With  critic  lore  then  read  it  o'er. 
Yourself  may  judge  its  merit. 


€onnd  aiitr  Jlont: 

A    SCOTTISH    LEGEND. 

"  The  western  sun  shines  o'er  the  loch, 
And  gilds  the  mountain's  brow, 

But  what  are  Nature's  smiles  to  me, 
Without  the  smile  of  you  ] 

*  "  Still  restless  fancy  drives  us  headlong  on ; 
With  dreams  of  wealth,  and  friends,  and  laurels  won, 
On  ruin's  brink  we  sleep,  and  wake  undone." — ^Author. 


126  tannahill's  poems. 

Oh,  will  ye  go  to  G-arnock  side, 
Where  birks  and  woodbines  twine : 

I've  sought  you  oft  to  be  my  bride, 
When,  when  will  you  be  mine  1" 

"  Oft  as  ye  sought  me  for  your  bride, 
My  mind  spoke  frae  my  e'e  ; 

Then  wherefore  seek  to  win  a  heart 
That  is  not  mine  to  gi'e  ? 

With  Connel,  down  the  dusky  dale, 
Long  plighted  are  my  vows  ; 

He  won  my  heart  before  I  wist 
I  had  a  heart  to  lose." 

The  fire  flash'd  from  his  eyes  of  wrath, 
Dark  gloom'd  his  heavy  brow, 

He  grasped  her  in  his  arms  of  strength, 
And  strain'd  to  lay  her  low. 

She  wept  and  cried — the  rocks  replied : 

The  echoes  from  their  cell, 
On  fairy  wing,  swift  bore  her  voice 

To  Connel  of  the  dell. 

With  vengeful  haste  he  hied  him  up ; 

But  when  stern  Donald  saw 
The  youth  approach,  deep-stung  with  guilt, 

He  shame-fac'd  fled  awa'. 

"Ah  !  stay,  my  Connel — sheath  thy  sword; 

Oh,  do  not  him  pursue  ! 
For  mighty  are  his  arms  of  strength, 

And  thou  the  fight  may'st  rue." 

"  No  !  wait  thou  here — I'll  soon  return : 
I  mark'd  him  from  the  wood ; 

The  lion  heart  of  jealous  love 
Burns  for  its  rival's  blood. 

Ho  !  stop  thee,  coward  ! — villain  vile  I 

With  all  thy  boasted  art, 
My  sword's  blade  soon  shall  dim  i*.s  shine 

Within  thy  reynard  heart." 


taitnahill's  poems  127 

"  Ha  !  foolish  stripling,  dost  tliou  urge 

The  deadly  fight  with  me  ? 
This  arm  strove  hard  in  Flodden  field, 

Dost  think  'twill  shrink  from  thee  ?" 

"  Thy  frequent  vaunts  of  Flodden  field, 

Were  ever  fraught  with  guile  ; 
For  honour  ever  marks  the  brave, 

But  thou'rt  a  villain  vile  !" 

Their  broad  blades  glitter  to  the  sun, 

The  woods  resound  each  clash, 
Young  Conuel  sinks  'neath  Donald's  sword, 

With  deep  and  deadly  gash. 

"  Ah  !  dearest  Flora,  soon  our  morn 

Of  love  is  overcast ! 
The  hills  look  dim  ;  alas  !  my  love  !" 

He  groaned — and  l^reathed  his  last. 

"  Stay,  ruthless  ruffian  !  murderer  ! 

Here  glut  thy  savage  wrath  ! 
Be  thou  the  baneful  minister 

To  join  us  low  in  death !" 

In  wild  despair  she  tore  her  hair, 

Sunk  speechless  by  his  side  : 
Mild  evening  wept  in  de\vy  tears, 

And,  wrapt  in  night,  she  died. 


The  barbarous  amusement  of  seeing  two  animab  instinctively  destrnyinc; 
each  other,  certainly  affords  sufficient  scope  for  the  pen  of  the  suliiist 
The  author  thought  he  could  not  do  it  more  effectually  than  by  givin.ijr 
a  picture  of  the  cock-pit,  and  describing  a  few  of  the  characters  who 
generally  may  be  seen  at  such  glorious  contests. 

"  The  great,  the  important  hour  is  come, 

Oh,  hope  !  thou  wily  nurse  ; 
See  bad  luck  behind  thy  back. 

Dark-breeding,  deep  remorse." 


128  tannahill's  poems. 

No  fancied  muso  will  I  invoke 

To  grace  my  hunil)le  strain, 
But  sing  my  song  in  homely  phrase, 

Inspir'd  by  wliat  I've  seen. 

Here  comes  a  feeder  with  his  charge, 
'Mong  friends  'tis  whisper'd  straight, 

How  long  he  swung  him  on  a  string, 
To  bring  him  to  his  weight. 

The  carpet's  laid — pit  money  drawn — 

All's  high  with  expectation  ; 
With  bird's  bereft  of  Nature's  garb. 

The  "  handlers"  take  their  station. 

What  roaring,  betting,  bawling,  swearing, 

Now  assail  the  ear  ! 
"  Three  pounds! — four  pounds  on  Philips'  cock, 

— Done !  done,  by  G — d,  sir,  here  !" 

Now  cast  a  serious  eye  around — 

Behold  the  motley  group, 
All  gamblers,  swindlers,  ragamuffins, 

Votaries  of  the  stoup. 

Here  sits  a  wretch  with  meagre  face. 

And  sullen  drowsy  eye  ; 
Nor  speaks  he  much — last  night,  at  cards, 

A  gamester  drain'd  him  dry. 

Here  bawls  another  vent'rous  soul, 

Who  risks  his  every  farthing  ; 
What  de'il's  the  matter  !  though  at  homo 

His  wife  and  brats  are  starving. 

Sec,  here's  a  father  'gainst  a  son, 

A  brother  'gainst  a  brother  ; 
Who  e'en  with  more  than  common  spit?, 

Bark  hard  at  one;  another  ! 

But  see  yon  fellow  all  in  lilack. 

His  looks  s[)eak  inward  joy  ; 
Mad  happy  since  his  father's  deat^ 

Sporting  his  legacy. 


tannahill's  poems.  129 

And,  mark — tliat  aged  debauchee, 

With  red  bepimpl'd  face — 
He  faiu  would  bet  a  crown  or  two, 

But  purse  is  not  in  case. 

But  hark,  that  cry  ! — "  He's  run,  he's  run  !" — 

And  loud  huzzas  take  place — 
Kow  mark  what  deep  dejection  sits 

On  every  loser's  face. 

Observe  the  owner — frantic  man, 
With  imprecations  dread. 
He  grasps  his  vanquish'd  idol-god, 
And  twirls  off  his  head. 

But,  bliss  attend  their  feeling  souls, 

Who  no  such  deeds  delight  in ! 
Brutes  are  but  brutes,  let  men  be  mon, 

Nor  pleasure  in  cock-fighting. 


SPOKEN   IN   A  PEOVINCIAL  THEATKE. 

Te  patronizers  of  our  little  party, 

My  heart's  e'en  light  to  see  you  a'  sae  heai'ty, 

I'm  fain  indeed,  and  troth  !  I've  meikle  cause, 

Since  your  blithe  faces  half  insure  applause. 

We  come  this  night  wi'  nae  new-fangl'd  story. 

Of  knave's  deceit,  or  fop's  vain  blust'ring  glory, 

Nor  harlequin's  wild  pranks,  with  skin  like  leopard,- 

We're  come  to  gi'e  your  ain  auld  Gentle  Shepherd, 

Whilk  aye  will  charm,  and  will  be  read,  and  acket, 

Till  Time  himsel'  turn  auld,  and  kick  the  bucket, 

I  mind,  langsyne,  when  I  was  just  a  callan, 

That  a'  the  kintra  rang  in  praise  o'  Allan ; 

Ilk  rising  generation  toots  his  fame, 

And,  hun'er  years  to  come,  'twill  be  the  same: 

For  wha  has  read,  though  e'er  sae  lang  sinsyne 

But  keeps  the  living  picture  on  his  min'; 

Approves  bauld  Patie's  clever  manly  turn, 

And  maist  thinks  Roger  cheap  o'  Jenny's  scorn  ; 

His  dowless  gait,  the  cause  of  a'  his  care, 

K 


130  TANNAHILL'S    POEMS. 

For  "nane  except  the  brave,  deserve  the  fair." 
Hence  sweet  young  Peggy  lo'ed  her  manly  Pate, 
And  Jenny  geck'd  at  Eoger,  dowf  and  blate. 

Our  gude  Sir  AVilliam  stands  a  lesson  leal 
To  lairds  wha'd  lia'e  their  vassals  lo'e  them  weel ; 
To  prince  and  peer,  this  maxim  it  imparts, 
Their  greatest  treasures  are  the  people's  hearts. 

Frae  Glaud  and  Simon  would  we  draw  a  moral, 
"The  virtuous  youth-time  mak's  the  canty  carl ;" 
The  twa  auld  birkics  caper  blithe  and  bauld, 
Nor  shaw  the  least  regret  that  they're  turii'd  auld. 

Poor  Bauldy  !  oh,  'tis  like  to  split  my  jaws  ! 
I  think  I  see  him  under  Madge's  claws : 
Sae  may  Misfortune  tear  him  spawl  and  plack, 
Wha'd  wrang  a  bonnie  lassie,  and  syne  draw  bacl:. 

But  sirs,  to  you  T  maist  forgat  my  mission  ; 
I'm  sent  to  beg  a  truce  to  criticism : 
"We  don't  pretend  to  speak  by  square  and  rule, 
Like  yon  wise  chaps  bred  up  in  Thespian  school ; 
And  to  your  wishes  should  we  not  succeed, 
Pray  be  sae  kind  as  tak'  the  will  for  deed. 


INSCRIBED  TO  JAMES  SCADLOCK. — AUGUST,  1803. 

WiiEK  Love  proves  false,  and  friends  betray  us. 
All  nature  seems  a  dismal  chaos 

Of  wretchedness  and  woe  ; 
We  stamp  mankind  a  base  ingrate, 
Half  loathing  life,  we  challenge  fate 
To  strike  the  final  blow. 

Then  settled  grief,  with  wild  despair, 

Stares  from  our  blood-shot  eyes. 
Though  oft  we  try  to  hide  our  care, 
And  check  our  bursting  sighs, 
Still  vexed,  sae  wretched, 

We  seek  some  lonely  wood, 
There  sighing,  and  crying, 
We  pour  the  briny  flood. 


taisnahill's  poems.  131 

The  contrast  mark — what  joys  we  find, 
"With  friends  sincere  and  beauty  kind, 

Congenial  to  our  wishes  ; 
Then  life  appears  a  summer's  day, 
Adown  Time's  crystal  stream  we  play, 
As  sportive's  little  fishes. 

We  see  nought  then  but  general  good, 

Which  warm  pervades  all  nature  ; 
Our  hearts  expand  with  gratitude 
Unto  the  great  Creator. 

Then  let's  revere  the  virtuous  fair. 
The  friend  whose  truth  is  tried. 
For,  without  these,  go  where  we  please, 
We'll  always  find  a  void. 


Mark  what  demon  hither  bends, 
Gnawing  still  his  finger  ends, 
Wrapt  in  contemplation  deep. 
Wrathful,  yet  iuelin'd  to  weep. 

Thy  wizard  gait,  thy  breath-check'd  broken  sigh. 
Thy  burning  cheeks,  thy  lips,  black,  wither'd,  dry ; 
Thy  side-thrown  glance,  with  wild  malignant  eye, 
Betray  thy  foul  intent,  infernal  Jealousy. 

Hence,  thou  self-tormenting  fiend, 
To  thy  spleen-dug  cave  descend ; 
Fancying  wrongs  that  never  were, 
Rend  thy  bosom,  tear  thy  hair. 
Brood  fell  hate  within  thy  den. 
Come  not  near  the  haunts  of  men. 

Let  man  be  faithful  to  his  brother  man. 
Nor,  guileful,  still  pervert  kind  Heaven's  plan ; 
Then  slavish  fear,  and  mean  distrust  shall  cease, 
And  ct)ufidence  confirm  a  lasting  mental  peace. 


132  tannahill's  poems. 


Loud  sounds  the  deep-mouthed  parisli  bell, 

Eeligiou  kirkward  hies, 
John  lies  in  bed  and  counts  each  knell, 

And  thinks  'tis  time  to  rise.- 

But,  oh  how  weak  are  man's  resolves ! 

His  projects  ill  to  keep, 
John  thrusts  his  nose  beneath  the  clothes, 

And  dozes  o'er  asleep. 

Now  fairy  fancy  plays  her  freaks 

Upon  his  sleep-swell'd  brain  ; 
He  dreams — he  starts — he  mutt'ring  speaks, 

And  waukcns  Avi'  a  grane. 

He  rubs  his  ecu — the  clock  strikes  Twelve — 

Impell'd  by  hunger's  gripe, 
One  mighty  effort  backs  resolve — 

He's  up — at  last  he's  up  ! 

Hunger  appeased,  his  cutty  pipe 

Employs  his  time  till  Two, — 
And  now  he  saunters  through  the  house, 

And  knows  not  what  to  do. 

He  baits  the  trap — catches  a  mouse — 

He  sports  it  round  the  floor ; 
He  swims  it  in  a  water  tub — 

G-ets  glorious  fun  till  Four ! 

And  now  of  cats,  and  mice,  and  rats, 

He  tells  a  thousand  tricks, 
Till  even  dullness  tires  himself, 

Tor,  hark — the  clock  strikes  Six ! 

Now  view  him  in  his  easy  chair 

Eecliue  his  pond'rous  head  ; 
'Tis  Eight— now  Bessie  rakes  the  fire, 

And  John  must  go  to  bed ! 


TANN  All  ill's   POEMS  133 

IN    IMITATION    OF   PETER   I'lNDAR    (dR.    WALCOTT). 

The  simile's  a  very  useful  thiug ; 

This,  ])riests  and  poets  ueeds  must  own  ; 
For  when  tlie  clockwork  of  their  braius  runs  down, 
A  simile  winds  up  the  mental  spring. 
For  instance,  when  a  priest  does  scan 

The  fall  of  man. 
And  all  its  consequences  dire, 
He  makes  him  first  a  little  sportive  pig, 
So  clean,  so  innocent,  so  trig. 

And  then,  an  aged  sow,  deep  wallowing  in  the  mire ! 
Yes,  sure  the  simile's  a  useful  thing, 
Another  instance  I  will  bring. 
Thou'st  seen  a  cork  tost  on  the  rain-swell'd  stream, 
Now,  up,  now  down,  now  whirl'd  round  and  round, 

Tet  still  'twould  swim, 
And  all  the  torrent's  fury  could  not  drown't : 
So  have  I  seen  a  forward  empty  fop 
Tost  in  Wit's  blanket,  ridicul'd,  et  cetera ; 
Tet,  after  all  the  banter,  off  he'd  hop. 
Quite  confident  in  self-sufiiciency. 
Ah !  had  kind  Heaven, 
For  a  defence, 
Allow'd  me  half  the  brazen  confidence 
That  she  to  many  a  cork-brain'd  fool  had  given ! 


IN  IMITATION  OF  M.  G.  LEWIS. 

'TwAS  night,  and  the  winds  through  the  dark  forest  roar'd, 
From  Heaven's  wide  cat'racts  the  torrents  down  pour'd, 

And  blue  lightnings  flash'd  on  the  eye ; 
Demoniac  bowlings  were  heard  in  the  air. 
With  «:^roans  of  deep  anguish,  and  shrieks  of  despair, 

And  hoarse  thunders  growl'd  through  the  sky. 


134  tannatiill's  poems. 

Pale,  breathless,  and  trcmlilinLi;  tlie  dark  viilai:i  stood, 
Ilia  hands  and  his  clothos  all  bcspolted  with  l)h)od, 

His  eyes  wild  with  terror  did  stare; 
The  earth  yawn'd  around  him,  and  sul|)hurous  blue, 
Trom  the  llame-boilinc!;  gaps,  did  expose  to  his  view, 

A  gibbet  and  skeleton  bare. 

With  horror  he  shrunk  from  a  prospect  so  dread. 
The  blast  swung  the  clanking  chains  over  his  head, 

The  rattling  bones  sung  in  the  wind ; 
The  lone  bird  of  night  from  the  abbey  did  cry, 
He  looked  o'er  his  shoulder  intending  to  fly, 

But  a  spectre  stood  ghastly  behind. 

"Stop,  deep  hell-taught  villain  !"  the  ghost  did  exclaim, 
"  With  thy  brother  of  guilt  here  to  expiate  thy  crime, 

And  atone  for  thy  treacherous  vow : 
'Tis  here  thou  shalt  hang  to  the  vultures  a  prey, 
Till  piece-meal  they  tear  thee  and  bear  thee  away, 

And  thy  bones  rot  unburied  below." 

Now  closing  all  round  him  fierce  demons  did  throng, 
In  sounds  all  unholy  they  howl'd  thcli  death-song. 

And  the  vultures  around  them  did  scream ; 
Now  clenching  their  claws  in  his  fear-bristled  hair, 
Loud  yelling  they  bore  liiiu  aloft  in  the  air. 

And  the  murd'rcr  awoke — 'twas  a  dream. 


^Ijc  liuuntct  ^t<luLr: 

IN    IMITATION  OF   JOHN   BARUOIIR. 

QuiiT  screim  the  crowis  owr  yonder  wud. 
With  londe  and  clamourynge  dynne, 

Ilaf  deifenynge  the  torrentis  roar, 
Quhilk  dashis  owr  yon  linne  1 

Quhy  straye  the  llokis  far  outowr, 

Alang  the  stanery  lee. 
And  wil  nocht  graze  anear  the  wud, 

Thof  ryche  the  pasturis  be  ? 


TAlfNAHILJ.'s   POEMS.  135 

And  quhy  dis  oft  the  sbeiplierdis  dog, 

Gif  that  ane  lamikyne  straye, 
Aye  yamf  and  yowl  besyde  the  wud, 

Nae  farther  yii  wil  gaye  ? 

"  Marvil  thee  nocht  at  quhat  thou  seist," 

The  tremblyuge  rusticke  sayde. 
**  For  yn  that  feiudis-hauntet  wnd, 

Hath  guyltlesse  blude  been  sched, 

"  Thou  seist  far  down  yon  buschye  howe, 

An  eldrin  castil  greye, 
With  teth  of  tyme,  and  weir  of  wyndis, 

Fast  mould'ryng  yn  decaye. 

"  'Twas  thair  the  jealous  Barronne  livit, 

With  Ladie  Anne  hys  wyfe  ; 
He  fleichit  her  neatli  that  wudis  dark  glume, 

And  revit  her  ther  of  lyffe. 

"  And  eir  hyr  fayre  bodye  was  found, 

The  flesch  cam  frae  the  bane, 
The  snailis  sat  feistyng  oniie  hyr  cheikis. 

The  spydiris  velit  hyr  ein. 

"  And  evir  syne  nae  beiwt  nor  byrde 

Will  byde  twa  nichtis  thair, 
For  fearful  yellis  and  screichis  wylde 

Are  heird  throuch  nicht  sae  dreir." 


■WRITTEN   FOR,   AND  READ   AT  THE   CELEBRATION  OP  ROBERT   miRNS 
BIRTH-DAY,   BY  THE   PAISLEY   BURNS*    CLUB,   1805. 

Once  on  a  time,  almighty  Jove 
Invited  all  the  minor  gods  above. 
To  spend  one  day  in  social  f.'stive  pleasure  : 
His  legal  robes  were  laid  aside. 
His  croAvn,  his  sceptre,  and  his  pride; 
And  wing'd  with  joy. 
The  hours  did  fly, 
The  happiest  ever  Time  did  measure. 


136  tannauill's  poems. 

Of  love  and  social  harmony  they  sung, 

Till  heav'n's  high  golden  arches  echoing  rung; 

And  as  they  quaff'd  the  nectar-flowing  can, 

Their  toast  was, 
"  Universal  peace  'twixt  man  and  man." 

Their  godshijjs'  eyes  beam'd  gladness  with  the  wish, 
And  Mars  half-redden'd  with  a  guilty  hlu.sh  ; 
Jove  swore  he'd  hurl  each  rascal  to  perdition, 
Who'd  dare  dcfoce  his  works  with  Avild  ambition; 
Rut  pour'd  encomiums  on  each  patriot  baud. 
Who,  hating  conquest,  guard  their  native  land. 

Loud  thund'rinc:  plaudits  shook  the  bright  abodeo, 
Till  Merc'ry,  solemn- voiced,  assail 'd  their  ears. 
Informing,  that  a  stranger,  all  in  tears, 
Weeping,  implored  an  audience  of  the  gods. 
Jove,  ever  prone  to  succour  the  distrest, 
A  swell  redressive  glow'd  within  his  breast, 
He  pitied  much  the  stranger's  sad  condition. 
And  ordered  his  immediate  admission. 

The  Strang'^-  enter'd,  Ijow'd  respect  to  all, 
Respectful  silence  reign'd  throughout  the  hall : 
His  chequer'd  robes  excited  their  surprise, 
Richly  transvers'd  with  various  glowing  dyes  ; 
A  target  on  his  strong  left  arm  he  bore. 
Broad  as  the  shield  the  mighty  Fingal  wore  ; 
The  glowing  landscape  on  its  centre  sliin'd, 
And  massy  thistles  round  the  borders  twin'd  ; 
His  broAvs  were  bound  with  yellow-blossom'd  l)room, 
Green  birch  and  roses  blending  in  perfume  ; 
His  eyes  beam'd  honour,  though  all  red  with  grief, 
And  thus  heaven's  King  s})ake  comfort  to  the  chief : 
"  My  son,  let  speech  unfold  thy  cause  of  woe, 
Say,  why  does  melancholy  cloud  thy  brow  1 
'Tis  mine  the  wrongs  of  virtue  to  redress  ; 
Speak,  for  'tis  mine  to  succour  deep  distress." 

Then  thus  he  spake :  "  0  King  !  by  thy  command, 
I  am  the  guardian  of  that  far-fam'd  land 
Nam'd  Caledonia,  jj;rcat  in  arts  and  arms. 
And  every  worth  that  social  fondness  charms, 


tannahill's  poems.  137 

With  every  virtue  tliat  tlic  heart  approves, 

Warm  in  their  friendships,  rapt'rous  in  their  loves, 

Profusely  generous,  obstinately  just. 

Inflexible  as  death  their  vows  of  trust ; 

For  independence  fires  their  noble  minds. 

Scorning  deceit,  as  gods  do  scorn  the  fiends. 

But  what  avail  the  virtues  of  the  North, 

No  patriot  bard  to  celebrate  their  worth, 

No  heav'n-taught  mistrcl,  witli  tlie  voice  of  song. 

To  hymn  their  deeds,  and  make  their  names  live  long  ? 

And  ah  !  should  Luxury,  with  soft  winning  wiles, 

Spread  her  contagion  o'er  my  subject  isles, 

My  hardy  sons,  no  longer  Valour's  boast, 

Would  sink  despis'd,  their  wonted  greatness  lost. 

Forgive  my  wish,  0  King  !  I  speak  with  awe, 

Thy  Avill  is  fate,  thy  word  is  sovereign  law ! 

Oh  !  would'st  thou  deign  thy  suppliant  to  regard, 

And  grant  my  country  one  true  patriot  bard. 

My  sons  would  glory  in  the  blessing  given. 

And  virtuous  deeds  spring  from  the  gift  of  Heaven !" 

To  which  the  god  :  "  My  son,  cease  to  deplore. 
Thy  name  in  song  shall  sound  the  world  all  o'er  ; 
Thy  bard  shall  rise,  full  fraught  with  all  the  fire 
That  Heav'n  and  free-born  nature  can  inspire  : 
Ye  sacred  Nine,  your  golden  harps  prepare, 
T'  instruct  the  fav'rite  of  my  special  care. 
That  whether  the  song  be  rais'd  to  war  or  love. 
His  soul-wing'd  strains  may  equal  those  above. 
Now  faithful  to  thy  trust,  from  sorrow  free, 
Go  wait  the  issue  of  our  high  degree." — 
Speechless  the  Genius  stood,  in  glad  surprise, 
Adorning  gratitude  beam'd  in  his  eyes  ; 
The  promis'd  bard  his  soul  Avith  transport  fills, 
And  light  with  joy  he  sought  his  native  hills. 

'Twas  from  regard  to  Wallace  and  his  worth, 
Jove  honour'd  Coila  with  liis  birth  ; 

And  on  that  morn, 

When  Burns  was  born, 

Each  Muse  with  joy, 

Did  hail  the  boy ; 


138  tannahill's  toems. 

And  Famo,  on  tii)toc,  fain  would  blown  lior  liorn, 
But  Fate  I'orbadi;  the  blast,  so  premature, 
Till  worth  should  sanctiou  it  beyond  the  critic's  powjr. 
His  merits  ])roven — Fami'  her  blast  hath  blown, 
Now  Scotia's  Bard  o'er  all  the  world  is  known  — 
But  trembling  doubts  here  check  my  unjiolished  lay ;, 
What  can  they  adil  to  a  Avliole  world's  praise  1 
Yet,  while  revolviiig  tinn;  tliis  day  returns, 
Let  Scotsmen  glory  in  the  name  of  Burns. 


WRITTEN    FOR,    ANT)    PERFORMKIJ    AT   TIIR    CELEBRATION    OF   BURNS 
BIRTH-DAY,    BY   TIIK    PAISLEY    BURNS*    CLUB,  1807. 

RECITATIVE. 

AVillLE  Gallia's  chief,  with  cruel  conquests  vain, 

Bids  clanging  trumpets  rend  the  skies, 

The  widow's,  orphan's,  and  th(,'  father's  sighs, 

I  ri'athe,  hissi-.n;  through  the  guilty  strain; 

Mild  Pity  hears  the  harrowing  tones, 

Mix'd  with  shrieks  and  dying  groans  ; 

While  warm  Humanity,  afar. 

Weeps  o'er  the  lavages  of  war, 

And  shudd'ring  hears  Ambition's  servile  train. 

Rejoicing  o'er  their  thousands  slain. 

But  when  the  song  to  worth  is  given, 

The  grateful  anthem  wings  its  way  to  heaven : 

Rings  through  the  mansions  of  the  bright  abodes, 

And  melts  to  ecstasy  the  list'ning  gods  : 

Apollo,  on  fire, 

Strikes  with  rapture  the  lyre, 
And  the  Muses  the  summons  obey ; 

Joy  wings  the  glad  sound, 

To  the  world's  around, 
Till  all  nature  re-echoes  the  lay. — 
Then  raise  the  song,  }e  vocal  few, 
Give  the  praise  to  merit  due. 


tannahill's  roEMS.  139 

SONG. 
TIthijt^i  (lark  scowlmsf  Winter,  in  dismal  army. 

Remarsbals  his  stornia  on  tlio  bleak  lioary  liill, 
With  joy  v\'e  assemble  to  bail  the  grctii  day 

That  gave  birth  to  the  Bard  who  ennobles  our  i.;le  : 
Then  loud  to  his  merits  the  song  let  us  raise, 

Let  each  true  Caledonian  oxult  in  his  praise  ; 
For  the  glory  of  genius,  its  dearest  reward, 

Is  the  laurel  eutwiu'd  by  his  country's  regard. 

Lot  the  Muse  bring  fresh  honours  his  name  to  adorn, 

Let  the  voice  of  glad  melody  pride  in  the  theme, 
For  the  genius  of  Scotia,  in  ages  unborn, 

Will  light  up  her  torch  at  tlie  bhuze  of  his  fame. 
When  the  dark  mist  of  ages  lies  turbid  between, 
Still  his  star  of  renown  through  the  gloom  shall  be  seen, 
And  his  rich  blooming  laurels,  so  dear  to  the  Bard, 
Will  be  cherish'd  for  aye  by  hia  country's  regard. 


RECITATIVE. 

Yes,  Burns,  "  thou  dear  dcpcarted  shade  !" 
When  rolling  centuries  have  fled, 
Thy  name  shall  still  survive  the  wreck  of  time, 
Shall  rouse  the  genius  of  thy  native  clime ; 
Bards  yet  unborn,  and  patriots  shall  come, 
And  catch  fresh  ardour  at  thy  hallow'd  tomb  ! 
There's  not  a  cairn-built  cottage  on  our  hills. 

Nor  niral  hamlet  on  our  fertile  plains. 

But  echoes  to  the  magic  of  thy  strains, 
While  every  heart  with  highest  transport  thrills. 
Our  country's  melodies  shall  perish  never. 
For,  Burns,  thv  -songs  shall  live  for  ever, 

Then,  once  ag;   a,  ye  vocal  few, 

Give  the  song    o  merit  due. 

SOjn'G, 

Hail,  ye  glorious  sons  of  song. 

Who  wrote  to  humanize  the  soul ! 
To  you  our  highest  strains  belong. 

Your  names  shall  crown  our  friendly  bowl : 
But  chiefly  Burns,  above  the  rest, 

We  dedicate  this  night  to  thee  ; 
Engrav'd  in  every  Scotsman's  breast, 
'iiiy  name,  thy  worth,  shall  ever  bo  ! 

Fathers  of  our  country's  weal, 

Sternly  virtuous,  bold  and  free  ? 
Ye  taught  your  sons  to  fight,  yet  feel 

The  dictates  of  humanity : 


MO  tannahill's  poems. 

But  cliiofly,  T?t'nys,  al)ovo  tho  rest, 
Wo  dedicate  this  night  to  thco  ; 

Encrr.iv'd  in  every  Scotsman's  breast. 
Thy  name,  thy  wortli,  shall  ever  bo ! 

iranGrhty  Gillia  throats  onr  coast, 

\Ve  lioiir  lier  vaunts  with  disregard, 
Secure  in  valour,  still  wo  boast 

"  Tlie  Patri.it,  and  tlie  Patriot-bard." 
But,  chiefly,  Rruvs,  above  tho  rest. 

Wo  dedicate  this  nic^ht  to  thee  : 
Entrrav'd  in  every  Scotsman's  bronst, 
Thy  name,  thy  worth,  shall  ever  bo ! 

Yos,  Caloiloniaiis  !  to  our  country  true, 
Wliicli  Danes  nor  Iiomans  never  could  subdue, 
Firmly  resolv'd  our  native  rights  to  guard, 
Let's  toast  «  The  Patriot,  and  the  Patriot-bard." 


RECITED  BY   THE   PREStDEXT  AT  THK   CELEBRATION  OF   BUR>fs'    BIRTH-DAY, 
BY   THE    PATSLKY    BURNs'    CLUB,    1810. 

AoATx  the  happy  day  returns, 
A  day  to  Scotsmen  ever  dear ; 
Though  bleakest  of  the  changeful  year, 
It  blest  us  with  a  BuRxs. 

Pierce  the  whirling  blast  may  blow. 
Drifting  wide  the  crispy  snow ; 
Pude  the  ruthless  storms  may  sweep, 
Howling  round  our  mountains  steep, 
While  the  heavy  lashing  rains, 
Swell  our  rivers,  drench  our  plains, 
And  the  angry  ocean  roars 
Round  our  broken,  craggy  shores ; 
But  mindfid  of  our  poet's  worth, 
"We  hail  the  honour'd  day  that  gave  him  birth. 

Come,  ye  vot'ries  of  the  lyre, 
Trim  the  torch  of  heav'nly  fire, 
Raise  the  song  in  Scotia's  praise. 
Sing  anew  her  bonnie  braes, 
Sing  her  thousand  siller  streams, 


taititahill's  poems.  141 

Bickering  to  the  sunny  beams ; 

Sing  her  sons  beyond  compare, 

Sing  her  dochters,  peerless,  fair  ; 

Sing,  till  winter's  storms  be  o'er, 

The  matchless  bards  that  sung  before; 

And  I,  the  meanest  of  the  Muse's  train,  _ 

Shall  join  my  feeble  aid  to  swell  the  strain. 

Dear  Scotia,  though  thy  clime  be  cauld, 
Thy  sons  were  ever  brave  and  bauld. 
Thy  dochters  modest,  kind,  and  leal, 
The  fairest  in  creation's  fiel' ; 
Alike  inur'd  to  every  toil, 
Thou'rt  foremost  in  the  battle  broil ; 
Prepar'd  alike  in  peace  and  weir, 
To  guid  the  plough  or  wield  the  spear  ; 
As  the  mountain  torient  raves. 
Dashing  through  its  rugged  caves, 
So  the  Scottish  legions  pour 
Dreadful  in  the  avenging  hour  ; 
But  when  Peace,  with  kind  accord, 
Bids  them  sheath  the  sated  sword, 
See  them  in  their  native  vales, 
Jocund  as  the  summer  gales. 
Cheering  labour  all  the  day. 
With  some  merry  roundelay. 

Dear  Scotia,  though  thy  nights  be  drear, 
When  surly  winter  rules  the  year, 
Around  thy  cottage  hearth  are  seen 
The  glow  of  health,  the  cheerful  mien  ; 
The  mutual  glance  that  fondly  shares, 
A  neighbour's  joys,  a  neighbour's  cares  ; 
Here  oft,  while  raves  the  wind  and  weet, 
The  canty  lads  and  lasses  meet. 
Sae  light  of  heart,  sac  full  of  glee, 
Their  gaits  sae  artless  and  sae  free, 
The  hours  of  joy  come  dancing  on, 
To  share  their  frolic  and  their  fun. 
Here  many  a  song  and  jest  goes  round 
With  tales  of  ghosts  and  rites  profound, 
Perform' d  in  dreary  wizard  glen, 


142  TA■^mA^TLL's  poems. 

By  wrlnlilcd  liaf^s  and  warlock  men, 

Or  of  the  hell-fce'd  crew  combin'd, 

Carousinp;  on  the  midnight  wind, 

On  some  infernal  errand  bent, 

While  darkness  shrouds  their  black  intent; 

But  chiefly,  Buiixs,  thy  songs  delight 

To  charm  the  weary  winter  night, 

And  bid  the  lingering  moments  flee. 

Without  a  care  unless  for  thco, 

Wha  sang  sae  sweet  and  dee't  sae  soon, 

And  sought  thy  native  sphere  aboon. 

"  Thy  lovely  Jean,"  thy  "  Nannie,  O," 

Thy  much  lov'd  "  Caledonia," 

Thy  ''  Wat  ye  wha's  in  yonder  town," 

Thy  "  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon," 

Thy  "  Shepherdess  on  Afton  Braes," 

Thy  "  Logan  Lassie's  "  bitter  waes, 

Are  a'  gane  o'er  sae  sweetly  tun'd. 

That  e'en  the  storm,  pleased  witb  the  sound, 

Fa's  lown  and  sings  with  eerie  alight, 

"  O  let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

Alas  !  our  best,  our  dearest  Bard, 

How  poor,  how  great  was  his  reward; 

Unaided  he  has  fix'd  his  name. 

Immortal,  in  the  rolls  of  fame ; 

Yet  who  can  hear  without  a  tear, 

What  sorrows  wrung  his  manly  breast, 
To  see  his  little  helpless  filial  band, 
Imploring  succour  from  a  father's  hand. 

And  there  no  succour  near? 
Himself  the  while  with  sick'ning  woes  opprest. 

Fast  hast'ning  on  to  where  the  weary  rest:  — 
For  this  let  Scotia's  bitter  tears  atone, 
She  reck'd  not  half  his  worth  till  he  was  gone. 


Almighty  Power,  who  wing'st  the  storm, 
And  calm'st  the  raging  wind, 

Bcstore  health  to  my  wasted  form, 
And  trauquilizc  my  mind. 


tannahill's  poems.  143 

For,  ah  !  how  poignant  is  the  gi'ief, 

Which  self-misconduct  brings, 
When  racking  pains  find  no  relief, 

And  injur'd  conscience  stings. 

Let  penitence  forgiveness  plead, 

Hear  lenient  mercy's  claims, 
Thy  justice  let  be  satisfied, 

And  blotted  out  my  crimes. 

But  should  thy  sacred  law  of  right, 

Seek  life  a  sacrifice, 
Oh  !  haste  that  awful,  solemn  night 

When  death  shall  veil  mine  eyes. 


^Ijc  |)a0r  gotolmuii's  gcmansfrancc. 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat, 

I  earn  my  scanty  fare ; 

From  morn  till  night,  along  the  street, 
I  cry  my  earthen  ware : 

Then,  oh  let  pity  sway  your  souls ! 
And  mock  not  that  decrepitude, 
Which  draws  me  from  my  solitude, 

To  cry  my  plates  and  bowls ! 

From  thoughtless  youth  I  often  brook 

The  tiick  and  taunt  of  scorn, 
And  though  indiif'rence  marks  my  look, 

My  heart  with  grief  is  torn  : 
Then,  oh  let  pity  sway  your  souls ! 

Nor  sneer  contempt  in  passing  by; 

Nor  mock,  derisive,  while  I  cry, 
"Come,  buy  my  plates  and  bowls." 

The  potter  moulds  the  passive  clay, 

To  all  the  forms  you  see  : 
And  that  same  Pow'r  that  formed  you. 

Hath  likewise  fashion'd  me. 
Then,  oh  let  pity  sway  your  souls  ! 

Though  needy,  poor  as  poor  can  be, 

I  stoop  not  to  your  charity, 
But  cry  my  plates  and  bowls. 


lU  tannahtll's  poems. 

Ch  €hom. 

Te  Totarica  of  pleasure  and  case, 

Proud,  wasting  in  riot  the  day, 
Drive  on  your  career  as  ye  please, 

Let  mc  follow  a  dillerent  way. 
The  woodland,  the  mountain,  and  hill, 

With  the  birds  singing  sweet  from  the  tree, 
The  soul  with  serenity  fill, 

And  have  pleasures  more  pleasing  to  me. 

Wlien  I  see  you  parade  through  the  streets. 

With  afiected,  unnatural  airs, 
I  smile  at  your  low  trifling  gaita. 

And  could  heartily  lend  you  my  prayers. 
Great  .Tove  !  was  it  ever  designed 

That  man  should  his  reason  lay  down, 
And  barter  the  peace  of  his  mind 

For  the  follies  and  fashions  of  town? 

I'll  retire  to  yon  broom-coloured  fields, 

On  the  green  mossy  turf  I'll  recline. 
The  pleasure's  that  solitude  yields, 

Composure  and  peace  shall  be  mine. 
There  Thomson  or  Shenstone  I'll  read. 

Well  pleased  with  each  well-managed  theme. 
With  nothing  to  trouble  my  head. 

But  ambition  to  imitate  them. 


Let  ithcr  bards  exhaust  their  stock 
Of  heavenly  names  on  heavenly  folk, 
And  gods  and  goddesses  invoke 

To  guide  the  pen. 
While,  just  as  well,  a  barber's  block 

Would  serve  their  en'. 

Nae  muse  ha'e  I  like  guid  Scotch  drink ; 
It  mak'a  the  dormant  soul  to  think, 
Gars  wit  and  rhyme  thegithor  clink, 
In  canty  measure ; 


tannahill's  poems.  145 

And  even  though  half-fu'  we  wink, 

Inspires  wi'  pleasure. 

Whyles  dullness  stands  for  modest  merit, 
And  impudence  for  manly  spirit ; 
To  ken  what  worth  each  does  inherit, 

Just  try  the  bottle  ; 
Send  round  the  glass,  and  dinna  spare  it, 

Ye'll  see  their  mettle. 

Oh,  would  the  gods  but  grant  my  wish. 
My  constant  prayer  would  be  for  this  : 
That  love  sincere,  with  health  and  peace, 

My  lot  they'd  clink  in, 
With  now  and  then  the  social  joys 

0'  friendly  drinkin'. 

And  when  youtli's  rattlin'  days  are  done, 
And  age  brings  on  life's  afternoon, 
Then,  like  a  summer  setting  sun. 

Brightly  serene, 
Smiling  look  back,  and  slidder  down. 

To  rise  acain. 


Encircled  in  a  cloud  of  smoke 

Sat  the  convivial  core, 
Like  lightning  flashed  the  merry  joke, 

The  thundering  laugh  did  roar. 
Blythe  Bacchus  pierced  his  favourite  hoard, 

The  sparkling  glasses  shine  : 
"  'Tis  this,"  they  cry,  "  come,  sweep  the  board. 

Which  makes  us  all  divine  ! " 

Apollo  tuned  the  vocal  shell, 

With  song,  with  catch,  and  glee : 

The  sonorous  hall  tlie  notes  did  swell, 
And  echoed  merrily. 


HG  tannahill's  poems. 

Each  sordid,  selfish,  little  thought, 
For  shame  itself  did  drown ; 

And  social  love,  with  every  draught, 
Approved  them  for  her  o^vn. 

"  Come  fill  another  bumper  up. 
And  drink  in  Bacchus'  praise, 

Wlio  sent  the  kind,  congenial  cup, 
Such  licavenly  joys  to  raise  !  " 

Groat  Jove,  quite  mad  to  see  such  fun. 
At  Bacchus  'gan  to  curse, 

And  to  remind  they  were  but  men. 
Sent  down  the  fiend  Remorse. 


Come  a  ye  friendly,  social  pack, 

AVha  meet  with  glee  to  club  your  plaek, 

Attend  while  I  rehearse  a  fact, 

That  winna  fail ; 
Nae  drink  can  raise  a  canty  crack 

Like  Allan's  ale. 

It  waukens  wit,  and  makes  us  merry, 
As  England's  far-famed  Canterbury ; 
Rich  wines,  frae  Lisbon,  or  Canary ; 

Let  gentles  hail, 
But  we  can  be  as  brisk  and  airy 

Wi'  Allan's  ale. 

It  bears  the  gree,  I'se  gi'e  my  aith, 
Of  Widow  Dean's  and  Rollston's  baith, 
Wha  may  cast  by  their  brewing  graith, 

Baith  pat  and  pail, 
Since  Paisley  wisely  puts  mair  faith 

In  Allan's  ale. 

Unlike  the  poor,  sma'  penny- wheep, 
Whilk  worthless,  petty  change-folk  keep, 


TAinTAHTLL's   POEMS.  147 

O'er  whilk  mirth  never  deigned  to  peep, 
Sae  sour  and  stale ; 

I've  seen  me  joyous  frisk  and  leap 
Wi'  Allan's  ale. 

Whether  a  social  friendly  meeting, 

Or  politicians  thrang  debating, 

Or  benders,  blessed  your  wizzens  weeting, 

Mark  well  my  tale, 
Te'll  find  nae  drink  half  worth  your  getting 

Like's  Allan's  ale. 

When  bleak  December's  blasts  do  blaw, 
And  nature's  face  is  co'ered  wi'  snaw, 
Poor  bodies  scarce  do  work  at  a'. 

The  cauld's  sae  snell, 
But  meet  and  drink  their  cares  awa' 

Wi'  Allan's  ale. 

Let  auld  Ealmarnock  make  a  fraise. 

What  she  has  done  in  better  days, 

Her  threepenny  ance  her  fame  could  raise, 

O'er  muir  and  dale. 
But  Paisley  now  may  claim  the  praise 

Wi'  Allan's  ale. 

Let  selfish  wights  impose  their  notions, 
j^nd  damn  the  man  won't  take  their  lessons, 
I  scorn  their  threats,  I  scorn  their  cautions, 

Say  what  they  will ; 
Let  friendship  crown  our  best  devotions 

Wi'  Allan's  ale. 

Wliile  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  endure. 
And  aid  wi'  light  "  a  random  splore," 
Still  let  each  future  social  core, 

Its  praises  tell ; 
Adored  aye,  and  for  evermore, 

Be  Allan's  ale  ! 


148  ODE  TO  TANNAHILL. 

€^t  for  lljc  ^niub'trsnrii  of  fijc  fihtlj  of 

nV    ALEXANDER   RODGER. 

"While  certain  parties  in  the  state 

Meet  yearly  to  comnicmmorate 

The  birtli  of  tlifir  great  "  heaven-horn  "  liead, 

Wlia  Lang  did  Britain's  councils  lead, 

And,  in  the  iace  of  downright  facts, 

Launch  forth  in  praise  of  certain  acts, 

As  deeds  of  iirst-rate  magnitude. 

Performed  a'  for  the  public  good, 

By  this  rare  pink  o'  politicians, 

This  matclilcss  prince  o'  state  physicians  ; 

Whose  greatest  skill  in  bleeding  lay, 

Bleeding  the  state  into  decay  : 

For,  studying  the  great  Sangrado, 

There's  little  doubt  but  he  got  baud  o' 

The  secret  of  that  great  man's  art, 

At  which  he  soon  grew  most  expert : 

As  his  prescriptions,  like  his  master's, 

Still  ran  on  lancets  more  than  plasters  ; 

A  proper  mode,  nae  doubt,  when  nations. 

Like  men  are  fashed  wi'  inllannnations  ; 

But  somewhat  dangerous  when  the  patient, 

From  being  ratlujr  scriniply  rationed, 

Has  little  blood  to  sj^iare,  and  when 

(With  all  respects  for  learned  men) 

He  has  much  less  desire  to  look 

To  the  physician  than  the  cook. 

While  thus  they  meet  and  yearly  dine, 

And  o'er  the  flowing  cups  o'  wine, 

B}'  studied  speech  or  well-timed  toast. 

Declare  it  is  their  greatest  boast. 

That  they  were  friends  o'  that  great  pilot, 

AVha  brav'd  the  storm  by  his  rare  skill  o't, 

And  brought  the  vessel  fairly  through, 

Thouiih  nmtinous  were  half  the  crew. 


ODE   TO   TANNAIIILL.  149 

At  then,  these  I'itt-adoriii^^  fellows 

Are  careful  to  forget  to  tell  us, 

That  running  foul  o'  some  rude  rock, 

He  gied  the  vessel  such  a  shock, 

As  shattered  a'  her  stately  hull, 

So  that  her  owner,  Mr  Bull, 

So  terrible  a  loss  sustaining. 

Has  ever  since  been  sair  complaining. 

In  fact  this  once  brave,  stout,  plump  fellow, 

With  face  now  of  a  sickly  yellow  ', 

A  constitution  sadly  shattered, 

A  frame  wi'  toil  and  sickness  battered 

Wearing  away  by  constant  wasting, 

Down  to  the  grave  seems  fast  a-hasting ; 

But  yet  he  vows,  if  he  be  spared, 

He'll  have  her  thoroughly  repaired  j 

Nor  weary  out  his  gallant  crew 

By  toiling  mair  than  men  can  do  ; 

For  now  it  tak's  them  ceaseless  pumping 

To  keep  the  crazy  hulk  from  swamping : 

Na;  trowth,  they  tell  us  nought  like  that, 

The're  no  sac  candid,  weel  I  wot, 

But  getting  a'  quite  pack  thegither, 

They  bandy  compliments  at  ither, 

Sae  thick  and  fast,  that  mutual  flatteries 

Are  playing-off"  like  bomb-shell  batteries  : 

Or  rather,  to  come  lower  down. 

For  that's  a  similie  too  high  flown, 

It's  somewliat  like  a  boyish  yoking 

At  battledore  and  shuttlecocking  ; 

t  or  soon  as  this  one  gies  his  crack. 

The  next  ane's  ready  to  pay  back 

His  fulsome  compliments  galore  ; 

And  thus  is  blarney's  battledore 

Applied  to  flattery's  shuttlecock, 

Till  ilk  ane  round  gets  stroke  for  stroke. 

A  diff"erent  task  is  ours  indeed ; 
We  meet  to  pay  the  grateful  meed — 
The  meed  of  just  esteem  sincere. 
To  ane  whose  memory  we  hold  dear ; 
To  ane  whose  name  demands  respect, 
Although  wi'  nae  court  titles  decked ; 


150  ODE  TO  TANNAHILL. 

To  fine  wha  never  learned  the  gate 

Of  liiwning  meanly  on  the  great ; 

To  ane  wha  never  turned  his  coat, 

To  mak'  a  sinl'u'  penny  o't ; 

To  ane  wha  never  speeled  to  favour 

V>y  turning  mankind's  chief  enslaver; 

To  ane  wha  never  did  aspire 

To  set  and  keep  the  world  on  fire ; 

To  ane  wha  ne'er,  hy  mischief  l)rewing, 

Ivaiscd  himsel'  on  his  country's  ruin  ; 

But  humbly  glided  on  through  life, 

Kemote  from  i)arty  jars  and  strife  ; 

A  quite  innoffensive  man, 

As  ever  life's  short  racecourse  ran  ; 

A  simple,  honest  child  of  nature  still, — 

In  sliort,  our  ain  dear  minstrel,  Tannahill. 

0  Tannahill !  thou  bard  revered, 
Thy  name  shall  ever  be  endeared 
To  Scotia,  thy  loved  land  of  song, 
While  her  pure  river's  glide  along ; 
While  her  bleak  rugged  mountains  high 
Point  their  rude  sunnnits  to  the  sky  ; 
While  yellow  harvests  on  her  plains 
Eeward  her  children's  toils  and  pains  ; 
And  while  her  sons  and  daughters  leal 
The  inborn  glow  of  freedom  feel, 
Her  woods,  her  rocks,  her  hills  and  glens. 
Shall  echo  thy  delightful  strains. 
While  "  Jura's  cliff's  "  are  capped  Avith  snows, 
While  the  "  dark-winding  Carrou"  flows  ; 
While  high  "  Benlomond  "  rears  his  head 
To  catch  the  sun's  last  radiance  shed  : 
"While  sweet  "  Gleniffer's  dewy  dell  " 
Blooms  wi'  the  "  crawtlower's  early  bell  ;" 
While  smiles  "  Glenkilloch's  sunny  brae," 
]\Iade  classic  by  thy  tender  lay  ; 
"While  waves  tlie  "  wood  of  Craigielee," 
Where  "  INfary's  heart  was  won  by  thee  ;" 
Thy  name,  thy  artless  minstrcslsy, 
Sweet  bard  of  nature,  ne'er  shall  die, 
But  thou  wil't  be  remembered  still, 
Meek,  unassuming  Tannahill. 


ODE  TO  TANNAHILL.  151 

What  tliougli  with  Burns  thou  could'st  not  vie, 

In  diving  deep  or  soaring  higli ; 

What  though  thy  genius  did  not  blaze, 

Like  his  to  draw  the  public  gaze, 

Yet  thy  sweet  numbers,  free  from  art, 

Like  his  can  touch,  can  melt  the  heart, 

The  laverock  may  soar  till  he's  lost  in  the  sky, 

Yet  the  modest  wee  lintie  that  sings  frae  the  tree, 
Although  he  aspire  not  to  regions  so  high, 

His  song  is  as  sweet  as  the  laverock's  to  me : 
And  oh,  thy  wild  Avarblings  are  sweet,  Tannahill  ! 

"V^^aatever  thy  theme  be,  love,  grief,  or  despair, 
The  tones  of  thy  l}Te  move  our  feelings  at  will, 

For  nature,  all-powerful,  predominates  there. 
But  while  the  bard  we  eulogize. 
Shall  we  the  man  neglect  to  prize  ? 
No,  perish  every  virtue  first, 

And  every  vice  usurp  its  place  ; 
With  every  ill  let  man  be  cursed. 

Ere  we  do  ought  so  mean  and  base. 
Shall  bloody  warriors  fill  the  rolls  of  fame. 
And  niches  in  her  lofty  temple  claim  1 
Shall  the  unfeeling  scourgers  of  mankind. 
To  mercy  deaf,  to  their  own  interest  blind  t 
Shall  the  depopulators  of  the  earth, 
Without  one  particle  of  real  worth. 
Whose  lives  are  one  compounded  mass  of  crime, 
Be  handed  dow^n  by  fame  to  latest  time. 
The  admiration  of  each  future  age, 
They  whose  vile  names  are  blots  on  every  page  ! 
And  shall  the  child  of  virtue  be  forgot, 
Because  the  inmate  of  an  humble  cot  ? 
Shall  he  whose  heart  was  open,  warm,  sincere. 
\Vlio  gave  to  want  his  mite,  to  woe  his  tear  ; 
Whose  friendship  still  w^is  steady,  warm,  and  sure ; 
Whose  love  was  tender,  constant,  ardent,  pure  ; 
AVhose  fine-toned  feelings,  generous  and  humane, 
Were  hurt  to  give  the  meanest  reptile  pain  ; 
Whose  filial  love  for  her  wdio  gave  him  birth 
Has  seldom  found  a  parallel  on  earth  : 
Shall  he,  forgotten,  in  oblivion  lie  ? 
Forbid  it,  every  sacred  power  on  high  I 


152  ODE  TO  TANNAHILL. 

Forbid  it,  every  virtue  liere  belo^v. 

Shall  such  a  precious  gem  lie  buried  ?  no  : 

Historians  may  forget  him,  if  tliey  will, 

But  age  will  tell  to  age  tlio  worth  of  Taunaliill. 

When  mighty  conquerors  sliall  be  forgot, 

When,  like  the^iselves,  their  very  name  shall  rot ; 

When  even  the  story  of  their  deeds  is  lost, 

Or  only  heard  witli  horror  and  disgust ; 

When  happy  man,  from  tyranny  set  free, 

Shall  wonder  if  such  things  could  really  be  ; 

And  bless  his  stars  that  Ik'  was  not  on  earth 

Wlien  such  destructive  monsters  were  brought  forth; 

When  the  Avhole  human  family  sliall  be  one, 

In  every  clime  below  tlie  circling  sun  ; 

And  every  man  shall  live  secure  and  free, 

Beneath  his  vine,  beneath  his  own  fig-tree  ; 

No  savage  hordes  his  dwelling  to  invade, 

Nor  plunderer,  daring  to  make  him  afraid  ; 

When  things  are  prized  not  by  their  showy  dress, 

But  by  the  solid  worth  which  they  possess  ; 

Even  then  our  much-lamented  bard 

Those  times  shall  venerate  with  deep  regard ; 

His  songs  shall  charm,  his  virtues  be  revered. 

And  to  his  name  shall  monuments  bo  reared. 


SKETCH  OF  THE  TANr(AHlLL  CLUB, 


AND   THE 


/RRANGEMEt(TS  FOR  THE  CEI^TENARY  CELEBP^ATION. 


On  the  Twenty-fifth  day  of  May,  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Fifty-eight,  a 
meeting  of  gentlemen,  desirous  of  commemorating  regularly  the  birth-day 
of  Robert  Tannahill,  was  held  in  the  Globe  Hotel,  of  Paisley.  There  were 
present  on  that  occasion— Messrs.  James  J.  Lamb,  James  Watcrston, 
John  Crawford  (now  the  only  surviving  member),  James  Motherwell, 
James  Lindsay,  and  William  Pollock.  Mr.  Lamb  was  voted  to  the  chair. 
After  many  expressions  of  entire  and  hearty  sympathy  with  the  object 
for  which  the  meeting  was  called,  it  was  unanimously  agreed  "that  the 
meeting  resolve  itself  into 

^ke  '^annakiU   QLhih, 

the  special  object  of  which  shall  be  to  commemorate,  in  all  time  coming, 
the  birthday  of  Robert  Tannahill,  who  entered  this  breathing  world, 
whose  beauties  of  scenery  he  never  tired  of  singing,  on  the  3rd  day  of 
June,  1774." 

The  constitution  adopted  for  the  Club  was  a  simple  one  : — The  anni- 
versary meeting  was  to  be  previously  advertised,  and  all  who  attended 
were  to  be  held  as  members  of  the  Club.  The  gentlemen  present  at  the 
preliminary  meeting  were  to  form  a  committee  to  carry  out  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  first  anniversary.  The  chairman  for  the  time  to  nominate 
his  croupier  to  be  chairman  on  the  following  year,  and  also  to  appoint  the 
croupier  for  that  year. 

The  first  annual  meeting  was  accordingly  held  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Saracen's  Head  Inn,  on  the  evening  of  Thursday,  the  3rd  day  of  June, 
1858,  since  which  time  the  celebration  has  been  regularly  held  with  an 
amount  of  enthusiasm  which  augurs  well  for  the  realisation  of  the  word 
in  the  constitution  of  the  Club,  that  it  shall  be  held  "in  all  time  coming." 


154  TA2WAHILL   CLUB. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  cliairmcn  of  the  Club  siuco  its  com- 
meucciiicnt : — 

1858  ...    Mr.  James  J.  L.vjin,  Architoct. 

1859  ...      „    James  Watkrstox,  Editor. 
ISGO    ...      „    John  Crawford,  Writer. 

18G1  ..  „  James  Frukie,  Wareliousomnn. 

1862  ...  „  Robert  L.  Henderson,  Writer. 

1863  ...  „  Richard  Watson,  Editor. 

1864  ...  „  Robert  Cochran,  Drap'^r. 

1865  ...  „  William  Fulton,  of  Glen. 

1866  ...  „  John  Cook,  Editor. 

1867  ...  „  David  Campbell,  Writer. 
1863  ...  „  Robert  Hay,  Lithographer. 
1869  ...  „  WILLIA5I  Stewart,  Arcliitect. 
18/0  ...  „  John  Fisher,  Accountant. 

1871  ...      „    John  S.  Mitchell,  Boot  and  Shoe  Maker. 

1872  ...      „    James  J.  Lamb,  Architect. 
1S73    ...      „    James  Reid,  Bookseller. 

1874    ...  David  Murray,  Esq.,  Banker,  Trovost  of  Paisley. 

Mr.  Lamb,  besides  occupying  the  chair  on  two  different  occasions,  as 
above  stated,  was  Secretary  to  the  Club  from  its  institution,  in  1858,  till 
the  year  1870,  and  from  that  time  till  his  death,  in  1872,  he  held  the 
office  of  Honorary  Secretary — Mr.  James  Reid  being,  since  1870,  Acting 
Secretary. 

At  the  Anniversary  Celebration,  held  in  1873,  it  was  suggested  by  the 
Chairman  that,  as  the  following  year  would  be  the  centenary  of  the  birth 
of  Tannahill,  the  Committee  of  the  Club,  with  power  to  add  to  its  num- 
ber, might  be  appointed  to  make  arrangements  for  a  banquet  or  other 
public  entertainment  worthy  of  the  occasion,  the  Provost  to  be  Chairman. 
This  was  unanimously  agreed  to. 

Acting  on  this  resolution,  a  Meeting  of  Committee  of  the  Tannahill 
Club  was  held  on  Wednesday,  22nd  April  last,  to  consider  the  most  ap- 
propriate manner  of  observing  the  Centenary.  Various  opinions  were 
expressed  as  to  the  form  the  celebration  should  assume,  and  it  was  con- 
sidered advisable  that  a  number  of  the  admirers  of  Tannahill  should  bo 
invited  to  confer  with  the  Committee,  and  assist  in  making  necessary 
arrangements.  With  this  object  in  view,  it  was  proposed  by  the  Secre- 
tary "  that  Provost  Murray,  as  Chairman  of  the  Club,  be  requested  to 
convene  a  meeting  of  all  interested  in  the  approaching  Centenary,  and 
that  trades'  delegates  be  specially  invited  to  attend,  in  order  to  secure 
their  co-operation  in  making  any  arrangements  that  might  be  resolved 


TAJS'NAniLL   CLUB.  155 

on."  The  motion  was  seconded  by  Councillor  Cochran,  and  uuauiniously 
agreed  to. 

The  proposed  meeting,  convened  by  tlie  Provost,  was  held  in  the 
Artizans'  Institution,  on  Tuesday,  28tli  April.  A  large  Committee,  re- 
presenting all  classes  in  the  community,  was  appointed  to  make  the  neces- 
sary arrangements.  The  Committee  met  on  the  following  week,  and 
resolved  on  a  Procession  to  the  "  Braes  o'  Gleniffer,"  made  classic  by  the 
muse  of  Tannahill.  They  also  agreed  to  hold  a  Soiree  in  the  evening,  at 
which  our  Poet's  Songs  would  be  sung,  and  sub-Committees  were  ap- 
pointed to  carry  out  the  arrangements. 

A  requisition,  largely  and  inllueatially  signed,  was  also  presented  to 
the  Provost,  requesting  him  to  call  a  meeting,  to  arrange  for  a  PubUc 
Banquet.  The  meeting  having  been  held,  it  was  resolved  that  the  pro- 
posed banquet  should  take  the  form  of  a  public  dinner,  to  be  held  in  the 
Abercorn  Rooms.  The  Provost  was  nominated  to  preside,  and  a  Com- 
mittee formed  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements. 

Meantime,  the  various  sub-Committees  appointed  by  the  enlarged 
Committee  of  the  Tannahill  Club,  set  to  work  enthusiastically.  The  pro- 
posed Procession,  as  now  arranged,  will  muster  some  3000  strong.  After 
marching  through  the  town,  it  will  proceed  to  Glenfield,  where  a  grand 
rural  fete  wiU  be  held  on  the  plateau  above  "Tannahill's  well."  Floral 
Arches  will  be  erected  at  prominent  points  on  the  route  of  the  procession ; 
and  the  birthplace  of  the  Poet  in  Castle  Street,  as  well  as  his  residence 
and  weaving  shop,  in  Queen  Street,  will  be  decorated  with  flowers  and 
evergreens.  The  proposed  Soiree  has  also  assumed  a  definite  form. 
Accommodation  will  be  provided  in  the  Drill  HaU  for  1000  persons,  pre- 
sided over  by  Thomas  Coats,  Esq.,  of  PergusUe,  a  locality  hallowed  by 
Tannahill  in  one  of  his  earliest  lyrics — 

Sweet  Ferguslie,  hail !  thou'rt  the  dear  sacred  grove, 
Where  first  my  young  muse  spread  her  wing ; 

Here  nature  first  waked  me  to  rapture  and  love, 
And  taught  me  her  beauties  to  sing. 

At  the  Soiree,  addresses  bearing  on  Tannahill  will  form  a  feature  in 
the  programme,  and  his  songs  will  be  sung  by  sob  vocalists,  as  well  as 
by  a  choir. 

Thus  will  Paisley  honour,  most  approprialicly,  the  birth-day  Centenary 
of  one  of  her  most  gifted  sons,  and  one  of  the  sweetest  singers  that  Scot- 
land, so  rich  in  sons  of  song,  has  produced.  Though  of  humble  birth,  his 
fame,  Uke  every  true  son  of  genius,  has  gone  on  increasing  with  the  roll- 
ing years ;  and  no  doubt  need  now  be  entertained  of  posterity  keeping 
his  memory  green. 

J.  a. 

"Paisley,  29th  May,  1874. 


156  TANNAIIILL  CENTENARY. 

The  centenary  of  the  hirHi  of  Robert  Tannahill  was  celebrated  in 
Paisley  on  tlie  3ri.l  June,  187-1.  For  a  considenible  tiiiio  before  active 
preparations  were  made  to  make  an  occasion  worthy  of  the  poet,  and 
Worthy  of  the  town.  A  public  meeting,  hold  to  consider  liou-  this  could 
best  bo  done,  declared  for  a  holiday  and  a  procession,  and  a  committeo 
was  appointed  tc^  arrange  all  details.  They  set  about  their  work  with 
a  will,  and  when  the  day  arrived  it  was  apoarent  they  had  fultilled  the 
trust  to  the  satisfaction  of  even  the  most  critical.  Seven  very  fine  floral 
arches  were  creeled  at  various  prominent  parts  of  the  town.  These  cost 
a  very  considerable  sum,  wiiich  was  defrayed  by  public  subscription. 
Nor  was  private  enterprise  awanting  in  this  direction,  many  houses  being 
very  tastefully  decorated  with  ilowers,  evergreens,  &c.  It  wei-e  invidious 
to  name  any,  there  being  hundreds  deserving  their  mead  of  praise.  lu 
fact,  it  seemed  as  if  the  town  had  suddenly  been  transformed  into  a 
shrubbery.  The  morning  of  Wednesday  the  3rd  found  Paisley,  therefore, 
in  her  "  braws."  The  sound  of  drums  in  almost  every  quarter  of  the 
town,  and  the  tramp  of  hurrying  feet,  told  there  was  something  unusual 
astir.  The  various  trades  in  town,  as  well  as  the  Freemasons,  Odd- 
fellows, &c.,  and  deputies  from  other  places,  met  in  their  various 
rcndezvo2is,  and  marched,  headed  each  by  a  band,  to  the  place  of 
meeting — St.  James'  Street — where  they  were  arranged  in  their  bal- 
lotted  order  by  Captain  Sutlierland  of  the  burgh  police.  The  number 
who  turned  out  from  the  various  bodies  was  very  considerable,  and 
their  appearance  was  very  pleasing.  Perhaps  the  others  will  pardon 
us  if  we  say  that  the  carters  really  attracted  an  unusual  amount  of 
attention.  They  turned  out  to  the  number  of  1.50,  mounted  on  their 
chargers,  which  were  decked  with  ribbons  of  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow,  and  more — as  Paisley  and  her  dyers  really  can  do.  Tliero 
were  strong,  powerful  animals,  down  to  the  tiniest  Shelty,  and  each 
one  seemed  to  know  it  was  a  holiday.  The  riders  were  not  less  varied — • 
some  dressed  most  fashionably,  up  to  the  satin  hat,  and  others  wore 
the  broadest  Kihnarnocks  ever  Stewarton  produced.  Truly  it  was  a 
quaint  scene,  and  will  not  easily  be  forgotten.  After  having  paraded  the 
town,  they  marched  to  GlenilFer  Braes.  Mr.  Fulton  of  The  Glen  not 
only  threw  open  his  grounds  and  erected  some  tasteful  arches,  but 
actually  constructed  a  road  to  enable  the  processionists  to  gain  the  Braes 
in  mareiiing  order,  all  which  must  have  cost  him  a  large  sum  of  money. 
On  the  summit  a  platform  had  been  erected,  from  which  a  choir,  under 
the  leadership  of  Mr.  M'Gibbon,  sang  various  songs  of  Tannahill's  in  fine 
style,  and  Provost  Murray  and  other  gentlemen  gave  short  addresses. 
The  day,  which  was  good,  was  spent  by  many  in  rambling  over  the  Braes, 
and  by  others  in  dancing  on  the  green  sward  to  the  music  of  the  bands 
which  were  stationed  all  around,  while  others  thronged  the  tents  to  slake 
their  thirst.  The  order,  sobriety,  and  good  conduct,  however,  of  all 
were  the  subject  of  commendation. 

In  the  evening  a  banquet  was  held  in  the  Abercorn  Rooms — Provost 
Murray  in  the  chair. 

There  was  also  a  festival  held  in  the  Drill  Hall  at  eight  in  the 
evening,  presided  over  by  Thomas  Coats,  Esq.  After  tea  short  speeches 
were  delivered,  but  recitations  and  the  singing  of  Tannahill's  songs  were 
the  order  of  the  day.  Altogether,  a  jolly  day  was  spent,  and  one  which, 
every  one  affirms,  did  honour  to  ourselves,  as  well  as  to  the  memory  of 
OUT  revered  and  lamented  poet. 


IlsTIDEX. 


Memoir,         iii. 

SONGS. 

Adieu,  ye  cheerful  native  plains, 40 

Ah!  Sheelah,  thou'rt  my  darling, ...  36 

Anacreontic, 27 

All  hail !  ye  dear  romantic  scenes,          59 

Away,  gloomy  care,  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  (jl 

Barrochan  Joan,        lO 

Bonnie  winsome  Mary,       4^ 

Brave  Lewie  Roy,     ...         57 

Cauld  gloomy  Feberwar,     ...         rA 

Coggie,  thou  heals  7ne ..         ...         ...         30 

Come  hamc  to  your  lingcls,    _       ...         ...  51' 

Companion  of  my  youthful  sports,          ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  2& 

Cruikston  Castle's  lonely  wa's,     ...         ...         2f> 

Davie  Tulloch's  bonnie  Katy,        53 

Dear  Judy,  I've  taken  a-thiuking,            ...  14 

Despairing  Mary,      ...         9 

Dirge,  ...■        03 

Ellen  More, 30 

Pair-haired  Nanny,  ...         ...         ...  53 

Fly  we  to  some  desert  isle, 7 

Fragment  of  a  Scottish  hnlhid,     ...         35 

Gloomy -nanter' s  now  awa',           33 

Green  Inismore,        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  31 

Hey,  Donald!  how,  Donald,          21 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  sheeling  hill,      27 

I'll  h'y  me  on  the  wintry  lea,         ...         ...         ...  [>'•'> 

I'll  love  my  dear  Jeanie,      ...         59 

I  marked  a  gem  of  pearly  dew 50 

Jessie,  til e  flower  o' Dnmblane,     ...         1 

Johnnie,  lad, 5 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  the  braes  o' Gleni("er,        ...         ...         ...  4 

Kitty  Tyrell, 8 

Lang  syne,  beside  the  woodland  burn, ...         ...  58 

Let  grief  for  ever  cloud  the  day,  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  C3 

Lone  in  yon  dark  sequestered  grove,       (j2 

Loudon's  bonnie  woods  and  braes,           ...         ...  3 

Marion,  dry  your  tearfu' e'e,         54 

Meg  o' the  glen  set  aff  to  the  fair,           21 

Mine  am  dear  somebody, 9 

Molly,  my  dear,         ...  37 

My  dear  "Highland  laddie,  O,         57 

My  heart  is  sair  wi' heavy  care,    ...         ...         ...         48 

My  Mary  is  a  bonnie  lass,  ...         42 

Oh,  are  ye  sleeping,  Maggie?        ...         ...         ...         15 

Oh,  how  can  you  gang,  lassie  ?     ...         ...         ...         ...  22 

Oh,  laddie,  can  you  leave  inr?      ...  53 

Oh,  row  thee  in  my  Higlilan  1  plaid,        ...         42 

Oh,  sair  I  rue  the  witless  w-sli, 7 


15S 


INDEX. 


Oh,  wopp  not,  my  lavo,      

O  lassie,  will  ye  tak'  a  man  ? 

One  night  in  my  youth, 

Our  lionnie  Scots  lads, 

Peggy  O'Rattorty, 

Poor  Tom,  fare-thee-well,  ...         

Eab  Roryson's  bonnet,      

Responsive,  ye  woods, 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  warbler,      

The  bard  of  (Henullin,      

The  braes  of  Balquither, 

The  coggie, 

The  defeat, 

The  dirge  of  Carolan,       

'i'he  evening  sun's  gaon  down  the  west. 

The  farewell,  ...         ...         

The  five  friends,      ...         

The  flower  o' Levern  side,  

The  Highlander's  invitation,       

The  Irish  farmer,    ...         

The  Kebbuckstone  wedding, 

The  lament  of  Wallace  after  the  battle  of  Falkirk, 

The  lasses  a'  leugh,  and  the  carlin  tiate. 

The  lassie  o'  merry  eighteen,       

The  lass  o'  Arranteenie,    ... 

The  maniac's  song,...         

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn,         

The  negro  girl,        

The  soldier's  adieu,  

The  soldier's  widow,  ...         ...         

The  wandering  bard,  

The  worn  soldier,    ...         ...         

Thou  bonnie  wood  of  Craigielee,  

Though  humble  my  lot,     

Two  original  songs,  

We'll  meet  beside  the  dusky  glen,         

Were  ye  at  Duntocher  Burn?      

When  John  and  me  were  married,         

When  Rosie  was  faithful, 

While  the  gray-pinioned  lark,      

Why  unite  to  banish  earo  ?  

Winter  wi'  his  cloudy  brow,         

Wi'  waefu'  heart  and  sorrowing  e'e, 

Yo  dear  romantic  shades, ...         

Ye  echoes  that  ring,  

Ye  friendly  stars,    ...         ...         

Ye  wooer  lads  wha  greet  and  grane,      


POEMS. 


Allan's  ale 

A  lesson. 

Antipathy, 

A  resolve,      

Uaudronsand  the  lien-bird, 
Conuel  and  Flora, 


DTDEX.  159 

Pago 

Eild:  a  fragment, -        85 

Epigrams,     !)4 

Epistle  to  Alexander  Borland,     ...         ...         lOi 

Epistle  to  James  Barr,      V7 

Epistle  to  James  Buchanan ...         108 

Epistle  to  James  King,      W 

Epistle  to  James  Scadlock,          90 

Epistle  to  James  Scadlock,          !'•() 

Epistle  to  Bobert  Allan, HI 

Epistle  to  William  Thomson,       K'^ 

Epistle  to  William  WyUe, l<i:} 

Epitaphs,       'J5 

Lines  on  a  flatterer,           S'J 

Lines  on  a  country  justice  in  the  south,            'JS 

Lines  on  seeing  a  fop  pass  an  old  beggar,        ...         ...         ...         ...  88 

Lines  to  W.  M' Laren SO 

Lines  written  on  reading  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope," ...         ...         ...  S7 

Lines  written  on  seeing  a  spider  dsirt  out  upon  a  fly,            88 

Lines  written  on  the  back  of  a  guinea  note,    ...         ...         93 

Lines  written  with  a  pencil  in  a  tap-r.iom,       90 

On  Alexander  Wilson's  emigration  to  America,         SG 

On  a  man  of  character,     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  7^ 

On  invocation,          ...         ...  14^ 

Ode — celebration  of  Bums'  birth-day,  1803, 135 

Ode — celebration  of  Burns'  birth-day,  1S''7, 138 

Ode — celebration  of  Burns' birth-Jay,  IS  10, 140 

Ode — in  imitation  of  Peter  Pindar ...  133 

Ode  for  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of 'rannahill 148 

Ode  to  jealousy,      131 

Parody  on '' Lullaby,"       89 

Prayer  under  aflliction,     1'12 

Prologue  to  the  "  Gentle  Shepherd," 129 

Rich  Gripus  pretends  he  is  my  patron  and  friend,     79 

Sonnet  to  sincerity, 87 

Stanzas  written  on  the  gravestone  of  a  depaited  friend,      ...         ...  85 

The  ambitious  mite,           117 

The  bacchanalians,             145 

The  choice, 144 

The  cockpit 127 

The  contrast,           130 

The  filial  vow,         84 

The  hauntet  wud, 134 

The  moralists,          93 

The  Parnassiad,       122 

The  poor  bowhnan's  remonstrance,       143 

The  portrait  of  guilt,         133 

The  promotion,        ...  79 

The  resolve, 120 

The  soldier's  return,          65 

The  storm, 119 

The  trifler's  Sabbath-day,             132 

To  a  person  noted  for  his  assumed  sanctity 80 

Towser 114 

Will  M'Ncil's  elegy,          80 


'^xu^  -  I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-25w-8,'46  (9852 )  444 


THE  TTm?AT?v 
UNIVERSITY  -irDR] 

LOS  Ai^GKLiiS 


fili-