And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa'.
For there's nae luck, &c.
There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,
They've fed this month and mair;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
For wha can tell how Colin fared,
When he was far awa'.
For there's nae luck, &c.
See true heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,—
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck, &c.
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirl'd through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa',
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
For there's nae luck, &c.
Since Colon's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,—
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck, &c.
The Hameward Song.
[Hugh Ainslie.]
Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth—
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.
E'en the brutes they look social
As gif they would crack,
And the sang of the bird
Seems to welcome me back.
O, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away,
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.
Peggie.
[James Hogg.]
The bittern's quavering trump on high,
The beetle's drowsy distant hum,
Have sung the daylight's lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.
The golden primrose from the wood,
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel's buds, I've strewed
Deep in my maiden's woodland bower.
O come, my love, the branches link
Above our bed of blossoms new,
The stars behind their curtains wink,
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.
No human eye nor heavenly gem,
With envious smile, our bliss shall see;
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.
O let me hear thy-fairy tread
Come gliding through the broomwood still,
Then on my bosom lay thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.
And I will watch thy witching smile,
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till die the sweet perfume away.
