And there is gentle Madeline,
Wi' een o' lovin' blue,
To hear her sing an auld Scotch sang
You'd bless her earnest mou'.
Aye when I gang frae Madeline,
Nae body by to tell,
The winsome sangs she sings to me
I whistle to mysel'.
Noo, can ye guess me whilk o' them
My wifie's like to be?—
In troth, I kenna weel mysel'—
They're a' sae dear to me!
Hills o' Caledonia.
[Alexander Hume.—Air, "Hey, Donald, ho, Donald."—Here first printed.]
O years ha'e come, an' years ha'e gane,
Sin' first I trod the warld alane,
Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But now, alas! a' round is gloom,
My ancient friends are in the tomb,
And o'er them waves the heather bloom,
On the hills o' Caledonia.
My father's name, my father's lot,
Is like a tale that's heeded not,
Or sang unsung, if no forgot,
On the hills o' Caledonia.
O' a' our house there's left nae stane,
A' swept away like snaw lang gane;
Weeds flourish owre the auld domain,
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The Tiot's banks are bare and high,
The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,
Like some sad heart maist grutten dry
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The birds sit silent on the tree,
The wild flow'rs droop upon the lea,
As if the kind things felt wi' me
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But friends can live, though cauld they lie,
If mirror'd in the memory;
When we forget them—then they die
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But though, however changed the scene,
My mem'ry an' my feelings green,
Yet green to my auld heart an' een
Are the hills o' Caledonia.
The Kiss ahint the Door.
[Thomas C. Latto.—First printed in "Whistlebinkie."]
There's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
Whyles mair than in a score;
But wae betak' the stouin smack
I took ahint the door.
"O laddie whisht! for sic a fricht
I ne'er was in afore,
Fu' brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door."
The wa's are thick, ye needna fear,
But gin they jeer an' mock,
I'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock.
There's meikle bliss, &c.
We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal;
And as for me I could ha'e crept
Into a rabbit's hole.
The mither lookt, saff's how she lookt!
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
There's meikle bliss, &c.
The douce gudeman, though he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he fuff'd his pipe,
And never fash'd his thoom;
But tittrin' in a corner stood
The gawky sisters four,
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Ha'e stood ahint the door.
There's meikle bliss, &c.
