Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,
His Chirsty did o'er-hear him;
She doughtna let her lover mourn;
But, ere he wist, drew near him.
She spak' her favour wi' a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her:
He wisely this white minute took,
And flang his arms about her.
My Chirsty! witness, bonny stream,
Sic joys frae tears arising!
I wish this may na be a dream
O love the maist surprising!
Time was too precious now for tauk,
This point of a' his wishes
He wad na wi' set speeches bauk,
But wair'd it a' on kisses.
My only jo and dearie, O.
[This song is the production of Richard Gall, a young man who was brought up to the business of a compositor in Edinburgh, but who died in 1801, in the twenty-fifth year of his age. He was born at Linkhouse near Dunbar. After his death, a collection of his poetical pieces was published by Messrs. Oliver & Boyd, with a Memoir by the Rev. Alex. Stewart.]
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and dearie, O;
Thy neck is o' the siller dew
Upon the bank sae brierie, O.
Thy teeth are o' the ivory;
O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee:
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie, O.
The birdie sings upon the thorn
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,
Rejoicing in the simmer morn,
Nae care to mak' it eerie, O;
Ah! little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the care I ha'e to meet,
That gars my restless bosom beat,
My only jo and dearie, O.
When we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinkin' bonnie, O,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,
Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O.
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee,
And round about the thorny tree;
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
My only jo and dearie, O.
I ha'e a wish I canna tine,
'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O,
A wish that thon wert ever mine,
And never mair to leave me, O;
Then I would dawt thee night and day,
Nae ither warldly care I'd ha'e,
Till life's warm stream forgat to play,
My only jo and dearie, O.
Up amang yon cliffy rocks.
[The composition of Mr. William Dudgeon (often by mistake called Robert Dudgeon) the son of a farmer in East Lothian, and himself an extensive farmer for many years at Preston, in Berwickshire. He died in October, 1813, aged about sixty. It will be remembered, that Burns, on his Border tour in May, 1787, fell in with him at Berrywell, and thus records his opinion of him: "Mr. Dudgeon—a poet at times—a worthy remarkable character—natural penetration—a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty."]
Up amang yon cliffy rocks,
Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting o'er her native notes.
Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy's kind,
An' he's promis'd aye to lo'e me;
Here's a broach I ne'er shall tine,
Till he's fairly married to me;
Drive away, ye drone, Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.
"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep,
Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.
He's as fleet's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping aye his flock together;
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest norlan blast.
