Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/418

400 How often the beauty is hid

Amid shades that her triumphs deny!

How often the hero forbid

From the path that conducts to the sky!

A Helen has pined in the grove;

A Homer has wanted his name;

Useen in the circle of love,

Unknown to the temple of fame.

Yet let us walk forth to the stream,

Where poet ne'er wander'd before;

Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name,

How the echoes will spread to the shore!

If the voice of the muse be divine,

Thy beauties shall live in my lay;

While reflecting the forest so fine,

Sweet Esk o'er the valleys shall stray.

[, bookseller, Glasgow.—Tune, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon."]

modest flower, of matchless worth!

Thou sweet, enticing, bonnie gem,

Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,

And blest thine honour'd parent stem.

But doubly blest shall be the youth,

To whom thy heaving bosom warms;

Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,

He'll clasp an angel in his arms.

Though storms of life were blowing snell,

And on his brow sat brooding care,

Thy seraph smile would quick dispel

The darkest gloom of black despair.

Sure heaven hath granted thee to us,

And chose thee from the dwellers there,

And sent thee from celestial bliss,

To show what all the virtues are.

Johnnie the hynd o' Rigghead,

What think ye, he wad ha'e a wifie

To manage his meal and his bread,

For his siller was nae very rifie.

A laird i' the neist borough town,

Had doughters and siller a plenty,

Thinks he, gif the nest be na flown,

My chance it'll surely be dainty.

He puts on his braw plaiding trews,

And he scrapes aff his beard wi' a whittle;

And he puts on the best o' his blues,

And he rubs up his bonnet sae muckle.

He tak's the wide teeth'd stable kame,

And he gi'es his rough head a bit clautie,

He maist tore the hide frae the bane,

For O it was wond'rous tautie.

His headpiece put on aboon a',

He glowrs in a cogfu' o' water—

Says he, "O I'm bonnie and braw,

And I'm sure o' the lass and her tocher."

A staff in his han' fadam lang,

An' nickit, right sair it wad bruise ye;

He lilted awa' and he sang,

"Now I'm sure that she canna refuse me."

Arrived at the gentleman's door—

He ken'd na the gaits o' the gentry,

He lean'd a' his weight till't, and there

He fell wi' a blade i' the entry.

Miss Jean, for to haud up the joke,

She oxter'd him ben to her cham'er,

An' O! how he rifted an' spake,

An' he said that she shined like the am'er.

An' now, lass, my errand to you

Is to mak' ye a sort o' haff marrow

To wait on my housie, my dow,

While I'm at the pleugh an' the harrow.

I've already twa three-fitted stools,

A fit-gang, a bed, an' an am'ry,

A bink for our bickers an' bowls,

An' I break them right aft when I'm angry.

I've likewise twa gude horn spoons,

A flesh fork, a pot and a ladle,

A girdle for toasting our scones,

Baith poker an' tangs, an' a paddle.

Ye's get parritch an milk in the morning,

An' butter an' cheese to your dinner,

The same again' night for your corning;

An' ye'll swall just like auld lucky Ginner.