There's Dickey, my cousin, frae Lunnun cam' down,
Wi' fine yellow buskins that dazzled the town;
But, puir deevil, he got ne'er a blink o' my e'e,
Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
But I saw a lad by yon saughie burn side,
Wha weel wad deserve ony queen for his bride,
Gin I had my will soon his ain I would be,
Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
I gied him a look, as a kind lassie should,
My frien's, if they kenn'd it, would surely run wud;
For tho' bonnieand guid, he's no worth a bawbee,
Oh! a' body's like to be married but me.
'Tis hard to tak' shelter behint a laigh dyke,
'Tis hard for to tak' ane we never can like,
'Tis hard for to leave ane we fain wad be wi'
Yet it is harder that a' should be married but me.
Nicol Jarvie's Journey.
[As sung by Mr. Mackay, in the Opera of "Rob Roy."—Air, "Quaker's Wife."]
You may sing o' your Wallace and brag o' your Bruce,
And talk o' your fechtin' Red Reiver,
But whare will ye find me a man o' sic use,
As a thorough-bred Saut Market Weaver?
Let ante Nicol Jarvie come under your view,
At hame whare the people adore me,
Whare they made me a baillie and councillor too,
Like my faither, the Deacon, before me.
These claverin' chiels in the elachan hard bye,
They'll no gi'e a body but hard words,
My faith! they shall find if again they will try,
A het poker's as guid as their braid swords;
It's as weel though to let that flee stick to the wa',
For mayhap they may chance to claymore me,
To let sleepin' dogs lie is the best thing ava,
Said my faither, the Deacon, before me.
Wy puir cousin Rab, O! his terrible wife
Was sae proud, that she chose to disown me,
Fient a bodle cared she for a magistrate's life,
My conscience! she was just gaun to drown me!
But if ever again in her clutches I pop,
Puir Matty may live to deplore me,
But were I in Glasgow, I'd stick to my shop,
Like my faither, the Deacon before me.
Now to think o' them hangin' a bailie so high,
To be picked at by corbies and burdies!
But if I were at Glasgow, my conscience! I'll try
To let their craigs feel the weight o' their hurdies.
But stop, Nicol! stop man! na, that canna be,
For if ane wad to hame safe restore ye,
In the Saut Market safe, I'd forget and forgie—
Like my faither, the Deacon before me.
The old Scotch air.
My mother sang a plaintive song,
Which winter nights beguiled;
And as its echo died along,
She wept, and yet she smiled.
I clasped my infant hands, and crept
Close to her parent knee,
And then I'd weep because she wept,
Yet wondered why 't might be.
My child, she said, I hear her yet,
Her kind eye bent on mine;
Thou'rt young, and dost perchance forget
That native land of thine,
That lies beneath the polar ray,
Far on the dark blue sea—
A land of heath and mountain grey,
But far from you and me.
I was a little child, like you,
When first I heard that strain,
And oft I dream of fountains blue,
And it comes back again;
And with it comes a broken font
Of tears, I deemed was dry;
Old faces, voices, come as wont,
And will not pass me by.
Your father, boy, loved that sweet trill—
He said I sung it well;
And why I weep to hear it still,
Fond memory can tell.
You were an infant when he left
His home for hostile shore—
The sword your father's life bereft—
I never saw him more.
