We lean'd upon a flowery brae,
By which a burnie trotted;
On her I glowr'd my soul away,
While on her sweets I doated.
A thousand beauties of desert
Before had scarce alarm'd me,
Till this dear artless struck my heart,
And, bot designing, charm'd me.
Hurried by love, close to my breast
I clasp'd this fund of blisses,—
Wha smiled, and said, Without a priest,
Sir, hope for nocht but kisses.
I had nae heart to do her harm,
And yet I couldna want her;
What she demanded, ilka charm
O' hers pled I should grant her.
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,
Straight to the kirk I led her;
There plighted her my faith and trouth,
And a young lady made her.
Sweet the Bard.
[Written by John Burtt, for an anniversary of Burns held in Philadelphia.]
Sweet the bard, and sweet his strain,
Breath'd where mirth and friendship reig'n,
O'er ilk woodland, hill, and plain,
And loch o' Caledonia.
Sweet the rural scenes he drew,
Sweet the fairy tints he threw
O'er the page, to nature true,
And dear to Caledonia.
But the strain so lov'd is o'er,
And the bard so lov'd no more
Shall his magic stanzas pour
To love and Caledonia.
Ayr and Doon may row their floods,
Birds may warble through the woods,
Dews may gem the op'ning buds,
And daisies bloom fu' bonnie, O;
Lads fu' blythe and lasses fain,
Still may love, but ne'er again
Will they wake the gifted strain
O' Burns and Caledonia.
While his native vales among,
Love is felt, or beauty sung,
Hearts will beat and harps be strung
To Burns and Caledonia.
Auld Peter M'Gowan.
[Francis Bennoch.—Tune, "Bung your eye," now better known by the title of "The brisk young lad," &c.—Here first printed.]
Auld Peter M'Gowan cam' down the craft,
An' rubb'd his han's, and fidg'd and laugh'd—
O little thocht he o' his wrinkled chaft
As he wanted me to lo'e.
He patted my brow, an' stroked my chin,
He roosed my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss—but the laugh within
Cam' rattling out, I trew.
Oh, sirs! but he was a braw auld carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spak' o' his frien' the earl,
An' thocht he was courting me.
He spak' o' his gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsan'd yaud that I should ride,
Gin I wad be his bonnie wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang—
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang,
But I snapp'd my thumbs and I said, "Gae hang
Gin naething mair ye can do!"
Oh, sirs! but he look'd a silly auld man,
Nae langer he spak' o' his gear an' lan',
An' through the town like lichtnin' ran
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.
An' sae the auld carle speiled up the craft,
An' raved an' stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till the tear trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna mak' me lo'e.
It's better for me to be single, I said,
Then as warming pan in an auld man's bed,
He will be cunning that gars me wed
Wi' ane that I canna lo'e.
Na! na! he maun be a braw young lad,
A canty lad—a spunky lad,
O he maun be a spirited lad
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.
