An' when she'll pe spoket ta laigh kintra jabber,
She'll gi'e hersel' out for ta laird o' Lochaber,
Shust come for amusements to turn habberdaber,
For tat will pe prawer tan herding ta cow.
She'll got a big shop, an' she'll turn'd a big dealer;
She was caution hersel', for they'll no sought no bailer,
But Tugal M'Tagger hersel' mak's a failure,—
They'll call her a bankrumpt, a trade she'll not knew.
They'll called a great meeting, she'll look very quate now.
She'll fain win awa', but they'll tell her to wait now;
They'll spoket a lang time, 'pout a great estate now;
She'll thocht that they'll thocht her the laird o' Glendoo.
They'll wrote a lang while about a trust deeder,
She'll no write a word, for hersel' couldna read her,
They'll sought compongzition, hough, hough, never heed her,—
There's no sic a word 'mang the hills o' Glendoo.
But had she her durk, hersel' would devour them,
They'll put her in jail when she'll stood there before them;
But faith she'll got out on a hashimanorum;
And now she's as free as the win's on Glendoo.
The Black Eagle.
[Written by Dr. Fordyce, and published in Johnson's Museum. Dr. Fordyce perished at sea in the year 1755.]
Hark! yonder eagle lonely wails,
His faithful bosom grief assails;
Last night I heard him in my dream,
When death and woe were all the theme.
Like that poor bird I make my moan,
I grieve for dearest Delia gone;
With him to gloomy rocks I fly,
He mourns for love and so do I.
'Twas mighty love that tamed his breast,
'Tis tender grief that breaks his rest;
He droops his wings, he hangs his head,
Since she he fondly loved was dead.
With Delia's breath my joy expired,
'Twas Delia's smiles my fancy fired;
Like that poor bird I pine, and prove
Nought can supply the place of love.
Dark as his feathers was the fate,
That robb'd him of his darling mate;
Dimm'd is the lustre of his eye,
That wont to gaze the sun-bright sky.
To him is now for ever lost,
The heartfelt bliss he once could boast;
Thy sorrows, hapless bird, display,
An image of my soul's dismay.
Mary's Dream.
[The author of this beautiful poem was John Lowe, a son of the gardener at Kenmure castle in Galloway. Having studied for the church, he was employed as tutor by Mr. Macghie at Airds, an estate near the confluence of the Dee and the Ken. While residing there, about the year 1772, a gentleman named Alexander Miller, the lover of Miss Mary Macghie, was drowned at sea—and this gave occasion to the song which preserves Lowe's name. Lowe's life was unfortunate. He died in America towards the close of the last century.]
The moon had climb'd the highest hill,
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
When soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"
She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee, I sleep in death,
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
Three stormy nights and stormy days,
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
