Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/169

Rh An' when she'll pe spoket ta laigh kintra jabber,

She'll gi'e hersel' out for ta laird o' Lochaber,

Shust come for amusements to turn habberdaber,

For tat will pe prawer tan herding ta cow.

She'll got a big shop, an' she'll turn'd a big dealer;

She was caution hersel', for they'll no sought no bailer,

But Tugal M'Tagger hersel' mak's a failure,—

They'll call her a bankrumpt, a trade she'll not knew.

They'll called a great meeting, she'll look very quate now.

She'll fain win awa', but they'll tell her to wait now;

They'll spoket a lang time, 'pout a great estate now;

She'll thocht that they'll thocht her the laird o' Glendoo.

They'll wrote a lang while about a trust deeder,

She'll no write a word, for hersel' couldna read her,

They'll sought compongzition, hough, hough, never heed her,—

There's no sic a word 'mang the hills o' Glendoo.

But had she her durk, hersel' would devour them,

They'll put her in jail when she'll stood there before them;

But faith she'll got out on a hashimanorum;

And now she's as free as the win's on Glendoo.

[ by, and published in Johnson's Museum. Dr. Fordyce perished at sea in the year 1755.]

[ author of this beautiful poem was, a son of the gardener at Kenmure castle in Galloway. Having studied for the church, he was employed as tutor by Mr. Macghie at Airds, an estate near the confluence of the Dee and the Ken. While residing there, about the year 1772, a gentleman named Alexander Miller, the lover of Miss Mary Macghie, was drowned at sea—and this gave occasion to the song which preserves Lowe's name. Lowe's life was unfortunate. He died in America towards the close of the last century.]

moon had climb'd the highest hill,

Which rises o'er the source of Dee,

And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree;

When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;

When soft and low, a voice was heard,

Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,

And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale, and hollow e'e.

"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.

Far, far from thee, I sleep in death,

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

Three stormy nights and stormy days,

We tossed upon the raging main;

And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain.