Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/183

Rh But a little bird sang at this fair captives grate,

And seem'd as it chirrup'd, to soften her fate.

Ah! Flora, fair Flora,—ah! Flora Macdonald!

Ah! Flora, the maid of Dunmore—

The maid of Dunmore, the maid of Dunmore,

Ah; weep for the maid, the maid of Dumnore!

The maid tied a note to this little bird's neck,

And pointed to home, like a far distant speck.

O'er land and o'er water away the bird flew,

Sought kinsman and lover;—the courier they knew;

But soon a brave knight burst the prison-house door,

And rescued his bride from the tow'r of Dunmore.

Ah! Flora, fair Flora,—ah! Flora Macdonald!

Ah! Flora, the maid of Dunmore—

The maid of Dunmore, the maid of Dunmore,

Ah! joy to the maid, the maid of Dumnore!

mither men't my auld breeks,

An' wow! but they were duddy,

And sent me to etg Mally shod

At Robin Tamson's smiddy;

The smiddy stands beside the burn

That wimples through the clachan,

I never yet gae by the door,

But aye I fa' a-laughin'.

For Robin was a walthy carle,

An' had ae bonnie dochter,

Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man,

Though mony lads had sought her;

And what think ye o' my exploit?—

The time our mare was shoeing,

I shppit up beside the lass,

An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks,

The time that we sat crackin',

Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts,

I've new anes for the makin';

But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me,

An' lea' the carle, your father,

Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,

Mysel', an' a' thegither.

'Deed, lad, quo' she, your offer's fair,

I really think I'll tak' it,

Sae, gang awa', get out the mare,

We'll baith slip on the back o't,

For gin I wait my father's time,

I'll wait till I be fifty;

But na;—I'll marry in my prime,

An' mak' a wife most thrifty.

Wow! Robin was an angry man,

At tyning o' his dochter:

Through a' the kintra-side he ran,

An' far an' near he sought her;

But when he cam' to our fire-end,

An' fand us baith thegither,

Quo' I, gudeman, I've ta'en your baira,

An' ye may tak' my mither.

Auld Robin gim'd an' sheuk his pow,

Guid sooth! quo' he, you're merry,

But I'll just tak' ye at your word,

An' end this hurry-burry;

So Robin an' our auld wife

Agreed to creep thegither;

Now, I ha'e Robin Tamson's pet,

An' Robin has my mither.

[ is one of "Peggy's" songs in 's "Gentle Shepherd." There were older words than Ramsay's to the tune of "Corn Rigs," the chorus of which was—

"O, corn rigs, and rye rigs.

And corn rigs are bonnie.

And gin ye meet a bonnie lass,

Prin up her cockemony."

Gay selected the tune for one of his songs in the opera entitled "Polly," printed in 1729.]

Patie is a lover gay;

His mind is never muddy;

His breath is sweeter than new hay;

His face is fair and ruddy.

His shape is handsome middle size;

He's stately in his walking;

The shining of his een surprise;

'Tis heaven to hear him talking.