Let dorty dames say Na,
As lang as e'er they please,
Seem caulder than the snaw,
While inwardly they bleeze;
But I will frankly shaw my mind,
And yield my heart to thee—
Be ever to the captive kind,
That langs na to be free.
At Polwarth, on the green,
Amang the new-mawn bay,
With sangs and dancing keen
We'll pass the live-lang day.
At nicht, if beds be ower thrang laid,
And thou be twined of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad,
To take a part of mine.
'Twas summer tide.
[Written by John Grieve, to the tune of "Polwarth on the Green." Mr. Grieve was a hat manufacturer in Edinburgh, of literary tastes, who will always be remembered as one of the Ettrick Shepherd's earliest and kindest friends and patrons. Hogg dedicates Mador of the Moor to him, and also introduces him as one of the competing minstrels in the Queen's Wake. His death took place in 1836, long after he had retired from business.]
'Twas summer tide; the cushat sang
His am'rous roundelay;
And dews, like cluster'd diamonds, hang
On flower and leafy spray.
The coverlet of gloaming gray
On every thing was seen,
When lads and lasses took their way
To Polwarth on the green.
The spirit-moving dance went on,
And harmless revelry
Of young hearts all in unison,
Wi' love's soft witcherie;
Their hall the open-daisied lea,
While frae the welkin sheen,
The moon shone brightly on the glee
At Polwarth on the green.
Dark een and raven curls were there,
And cheeks of rosy hue,
And finer forms, without compare,
Than pencil ever drew;
But ane, wi' een of bonnie blue,
A' hearts confess'd the queen,
And pride of grace and beauty too,
At Polwarth on the green.
The miser hoards his golden store,
And kings dominion gain;
While others in the battle's roar
For honour's trifles strain.
Away, such pleasures! false and vain;
Far dearer mine have been,
Among the lowly rural train,
At Polwarth on the Green.
The rinaway bride.
[To a lively tune of the same name. The song is given in Yair's "Charmer," Edinburgh, 1751, and also in Herd's collection, 1776.]
A laddie and a lassie fair
Lived in the south countrie;
They ha'e coost their claes thegither,
And wedded wad they be:
On Tuesday to the bridal feast
Cam fiddlers flocking free—
But hey play up the rinaway bride,
For she has ta'en the gee.
She had nae run a mile or mair,
Till she 'gan to consider
The angering of her father dear,
The vexing of her mither;
The slighting of the silly bridegroom,
The warst of a' the three—
Then hey play up the rinaway bride,
For she has ta'en the gee.
Her father and her mither baith
Ran after her wi' speed;
And aye they ran and cried, How, Ann!
Till they came to the Tweed:
Saw ye a lass, a lovesome lass,
That weel a queen might be?
O that's the bride, the rinaway bride,
The bride that's ta'en the gee.
