When Autumn.
[From a very elegant volume of poems, entitled, "Lays and Lyrics, by Captain Charles Gray, of the Royal Marines, F. R. A. S. E.:" Edinburgh, 1841.—Captain Gray has been long known as a successful song-writer. So far back as 1811, he published a small collection of "Poems and Songs," some of the latter of which have become established favourites with the public. The Captain is a native of Anstruther, in Fifeshire: and, after a service in the royal marine forces of nearly forty years, is now resident in Edinburgh, on the full-pay retired list. The present fine song has been set to music by Mr. Peter Macleod.]
When autumn has laid her sickle by,
And the stacks are theekit to hand them dry;
And the sapless leaves come down firae the trees,
And dance about in the fitfu' breeze;
And the robin again sits burd-alane,
And sings his sang on the auld peat stane;
When come is the hour o' gloamin grey,
Oh! sweet is to me the minstrel's lay.
When winter is driving his cloud on the gale,
And spairgin about his snaw and his hail,
And the door is steekit against the blast,
And the winnocks wi' wedges are firm and fast,
And the ribs are rypet, the cannel a-light,
And the fire on the hearth is bleezin' bright,
And the bicker is reamin' wi' pithy brown ale;
Oh! dear is to me a sang or a tale.
Then I tove awa' by the ingle-side,
And tell o' the blasts I was wont to bide,
When the nichts were lang and the sea ran high,
And the moon hid her face in the depths of the sky,
And the mast was strained, and the canvass rent,
By some demon on message of mischief sent;
Oh! I bless my stars that at hame I can bide,
For dear, dear to me is my ain ingle-side.
The Social Cup.
[At page 192 will be found the original version of this popular song, by Captain Charles Gray, which was written for the first anniversary of the Anstruther Musomanik Society, in October, 1814. We here give the author's latest improved copy, as it appears in his "Lays and Lyrics." The two versions, it will be seen, differ materially from each other.— Air, "Andro and his cutty gun."]
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we,
Blythe are we, ane and a';
Aften ha'e we cantie been,
But sic a nicht we never saw!
The gloamin saw us a' sit down,
And meikle mirth has been our fa';
Then let the sang and toast gae roun'
'Till chanticleer begins to craw!
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we—
Pick and wale o' merry men;
What care we though the cock may craw,
We're masters o' the tappit-hen!
The auld kirk bell has chappit twal—
Wha cares though she had chappit twa!
We're licht o' heart and winna part,
Though time and tide may rin awa!
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we—
Hearts that care can never ding;
Then let time pass—we'll steal his glass,
And pu' a feather frae his wing!
Now is the witchin' time of nicht,
When ghaists, they say, are to be seen;
And fays dance to the glow-worm's licht
Wi' fairies in their gowns of green.
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we—
Ghaists may tak' their midnicht stroll;
Witches ride on grooms astride,
While we sit by the witchin' bowl!
Tut! never speir how wears the morn—
The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky,
And, gif like her we fill our horn,
I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry!
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we—
Blythe out-owre the barley bree;
And let me tell, the moon hersel'
Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea!
Then fill us up a social cup,
And never mind the dapple-dawn.
Just sit awhile—the sun may smile
And licht us a' across the lawn!
Blythe, blythe, and merry are we;—
See! the sun is keekin' ben;
Gi'e time his glass—for months may pass
Ere we ha'e sic a nicht again!
