Wha wad hae thocht at wooing time.
He'd e'er forsaken Mary,
And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade
Wi' boozin' Rab and Harry.
Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat,
She scarce could lift the ladle;
Wi' pithless feet 'tween ilka greet,
She rock'd the borrowed cradle.
Her weddin" plenishin' was gane,
She never thought to borrow:
Her bonny face was waxin' wan,
And Will wrought all the sorrow.
He's reelin' hame ae winter night,
Some later nor the gloamin';
He's ta'en the rig—he's miss'd the brig,
And Bogie's ower bim foamin'.
Wi' broken banes out ower the stanes,
He creepit up Strathbogie,
And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' might,
To keep him firae the cogie.
Now Mary's heart is light again,
She's neither sick nor silly;
For auld or young, nae sinfu' tongue
Could e'er entice her Willie.
And aye the sang through Bogie rang,
O! baud ye frae the cogie!
The weary gill's the sairest ill
On braes o' fair Strathbogie.
Red gleams the sun.
[Dr. Couper.—Air, "Niel Gow."]
Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap,
The dew sits on the gowan;
Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey,
Around Kinrara rowan.
Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass?
Alas! wert thou but near me,
Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye,
Would ever, ever cheer me.
The lav’rock sings amang the clouds,
The lambs they sport so cheerie,
And I sit weeping by the birk,
O where art thou my dearie?
Aft may I meet the morning dew
Lang greet till I be weary,
Thou canna, winna, gentle maid,
Thou canna be my dearie.
Sweet's the dew.
[The author of this and the following song was John Goldie, the original editor of the Paisley Advertiser. He was a native of Ayr, and for some time before he started the Paisley newspaper, which was the first ever published in that town, and was begun on the 9th Oct. 1824, he had teen engaged as editor of the Ayr Courier. Previous to this, too, in 1822, he had brought out by subscription a small volume of "Poems and Songs." He died suddenly, from the bursting of a blood-vessel, on the 27th Feb. 1826, in the twenty-eighth year of his age. At the time of his death, he was engaged in compiling for Mr. M'Phun of Glasgow a collection of songs, which was published in two small volumes, with the title of "The Spirit of British Song."]
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June,
And lily lair to see, Annie,
But there's ne'er a flower that blooms,
Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine,
The opening rose its beauties tine,
Thy lips the rubies far outshine;
Love sparkles in thy e'e, Annie.
The snaw that decks yon mountain top,
Nae purer is than thee, Annie;
The haughty mien, and pridefu' look,
Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie;
And in thy sweet angelic face,
Triumphant beams each modest grace.
"And ne'er did Grecian chissel trace,"
A form sae bright as thine, Annie.
Wha could behold thy rosy cheek,
And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie,
What heart could view thy smiling looks,
And plot to do thee wrang, Annie.
Thy name in ilk sang I'll weave,
My heart, my soul wi' thee I'll leave,
And never, till I cease to breathe,
I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
