The landwart hizzy winna speak;
Ye'll see her sitting like a craw
Amang the reek, while rattons squeak—
Her dawtit bard is now awa'.
But could I lay my hand upon
His whistle, keenly wad I blaw,
An' screw about the auld drone,
An' lilt a lightsome spring or twa.
If it were sweetest aye whan wat,
Then wad I ripe my pouch, an' draw,
An' steep it weel amang the maut,
As lang's I'd saxpence at my ca'.
For warld's gear I dinna care,
My stock o' that is unco sma'.
Come, friend, we'll pree the barley-bree
To his braid fame that's now awa'.
Glendochart Vale.
[Richard Gall.]
As I came through Glendochart vale,
Where mists o'ertap the mountains grey
A wee bit lassie met my view,
As cantily she held her way:
But O sic love each feature bore,
She made my saul wi' rapture glow!
An' aye she spake sae kind and sweet,
I couldna keep my heart in tow.
O speak na o' your courtly queans!
My wee bit lassie fools them a':
The little cuttie's done me skaith,
She's stown my thoughtless heart awa'.
Her smile was like the grey-e'ed morn,
Whan spreading on the mountain green;
Her voice saft as the mavis' sang;
An' sweet the twinkle o' her een:
A boon her brow, sae bonnie brent,
Her raven locks waved o'er her e'e;
An' ilka slee bewitching glance
Conveyed a dart o' love to me.
O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c.
The lasses fair in Scotia's isle,
Their beauties a' what tongue can tell?
But o'er the fairest o' them a'
My wee bit lassie bears the bell.
O had I never mark'd her smile,
Nor seen the twinkle o' her e'e!
It might na been my lot the day,
A waefu' lade o' care to dree.
O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c.
I winna gang back.
[Richard Gall.]
I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I'll never gae back to my mammy again;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron, &c.
Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonnie, an' bannet sae blue:
"O come awa', lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"
An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.
O come awa', lassie, &c.
He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his dow,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';
While I fell on his bosom, heart-tichtered an' fain,
An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I'll aye be your ain!"
While I fell on his bosom, &c.
Some lasses will talk to the lads wi' their e'e,
Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stappin'-stane,
Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.
For mony lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
I've held by her apron these aught years and ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron, &c.
Cradle Song.
[Richard Gall.]
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e!
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
