I thocht gin I liv'd to be helpless an' auld,
Gin second childhood I should see—
Should providence spare, I had ane growin' up,
Wad then be a parent to me.
I taught you betimes, as a father should do,
The path o' true virtue to prize;
An' as far as I could, wi' the precepts I gave,
I gave you example likewise;
An' duly at morning an' evening I pray'd,
That gudeness wad aye be your guide—
But ye've chosen to walk i' your ain wilfu' ways,
And the blessing has yet been denied.
Ye've left me to see that I've rested my hopes,
On the perishing faith of a dream;
The dawn o' your promise—the day-spring o' life,
Ye've clouded wi' sin an' wi' shame.
Oh! lassie, I think wi' a sair broken heart,
On the licht happy time that's awa';
When smiling ye sat on your fond mither's knee,
An' prattl'd an' lisped—"mamma!"
My heart’s my ain.
[This very sensible ditty of a young maiden was first printed in Herd's collection of 1776. It is adapted to a tune called "We'll kick the world before us."]
'Tis no very lang sinsyne,
That I had a lad o' my ain;
But now he's awa' to anither,
And left me a' my lane.
The lass he is courting has siller,
And I ha'e nane at a',
And 'tis nought but the love o' the tocher
That's tane my lad awa'.
But I'm blythe that my heart's my ain,
And I'll keep it a' my life,
Until that I meet wi' a lad,
Wha has sense to wale a good wife.
For though I say't mysel',
That should nae say't, 'tis true,
The lad that gets me for a wife
He'll ne'er ha'e occasion to rue.
I gang aye fu' clean and fu' tosh,
As a' the neighbours can tell,
Though I've seldom a gown on my back,
But sic as I spin mysel';
And when I'm clad in my curtsey,
I think mysel' as braw
As Susie, wi' her pearling,
That's tane my lad awa'.
But I wish they were buckl'd thegither,
And may they live happy for life;
Though Willie now slights me, an's left me,
The chiel he deserves a gudewife.
But, O! I am blythe that I miss'd him,
As blythe as I weel can be;
For ane that's sae keen o' the siller,
Would never agree wi' me.
But the truth is, I am aye hearty,
I hate to be scrimpit or scant;
The wee thing I ha'e I'll mak' use o't,
And there's nane about me shall want:
For I'm a gude guide o' the warld,
I ken when to haud and to gi'e;
But whinging and cringing for siller
Would never agree wi' me.
Contentment is better than riches,
And he wha has that has enough;
The master is seldom sae happy
As Robin that drives the plough.
But if a young lad wad cast up,
To mak' me his partner for life,
If the chiel has the sense to be happy,
He'll fa' on his feet for a wife.
Say not the Bard.
[W. M'Laren.—First printed in "The Harp of Renfrewshire."]
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
And the blooming effulgence of summer is fled,
Though the voice that was sweet, as the harp's softest string,
Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,
Yet say not the Bard has turned old.
