Now safe retired, no more I'll stray
Ambition's faithless path alang,
But calmly spend the careless day
Dunoon's green winding vales amang:
And aft I'll climb this hoary pile,
When spring revives each flower and tree,
To view yon sweet sequester'd isle,
Whare Blue-eyed Anne first smiled on me.
What ails you, Pate.
[Tune, "For a' that an' a' that."—Written by Alex. Douglas, a weaver in Pathhead, Fifeshire, who published a volume of poems in 1806.]
What ails you now, my daintie Pate,
Ye winna wed an' a' that?
Say, are ye fley'd, or are ye blate,
To tell your love an' a' that?
To kiss an' clap, an' a' that?
O fy for shame, an" a' that,
To spend your life without a wife;
'Tis no the gate ava that.
Ere lang you will grow auld and frail,
Your haffets white an' a' that;
An' whare's the Meg, the Kate, or Nell,
Will ha'e you syne wi. a' that?
Runkled brow an' a' that;
Wizzen'd fece an' a' that;
Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane will ha'e
A kiss frae you, an' a' that.
O stand na up wi' where an' how,
Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that,
Wi' feckless scruples not a few:
Pu' up your heart an' a' that.
Crousely crack an' a' that;
Come try your luck an' a' that:
The hiney-moon will ne'er gang done,
If guidit weel an' a' that.
There's monie lass baith douce an' fair,
Fu' sonsy, fier, an' a' that,
Wad suit you to a veiry hair,
Sae clever they're an' a' that;
Handsome, young, an' a' that,
Sae complaisant an' a' that;
Sae sweet an' braw, and gude an' a';
What ails the chield at a' that
Come, look about, an' wale a wife,
Like honest fouk an' a' that;
An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life;
Ha'e plenty, peace, an' a' that;
A thrifty wife an' a' that,
An' bonnie bairns an' a' that,
Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a'
Smile ilka day an' a' that.
Mary.
[Daniel Weir.—Tune, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."]
How dear to think on former days,
And former scenes I've wander'd o'er;
They well deserve a poet's praise,
In lofty rhyme they ought to soar.
How oft I've wander'd by the Clyde,
When night obscured the landscape near,
To hear its murm'ring waters glide,
And think upon my Mary dear.
And when the moon shot forth her light,
Sweet glimm'ring through the distant trees,
How sweet to pass the peaceful night,
And breathe, serene, the passing breeze.
Though grand these scenes of peace and joy,
'Tis not for them I'd drop the tear;
Remembrance will my heart annoy,
When thinking on my Mary dear.
Far from my friends, far from my home,
I wander on a distant shore;
Far from those scenes I used to roam,
And scenes perhaps I'll tread no more.
My fancy still beholds the Clyde,
Her scenes of grandeur now appear;
What power can e'er my thoughts divide,
From Clyde's fair banks and Mary dear.
No power on earth can change my heart,
Or tear these scenes from out my mind,
And when this world and I shall part,
For them I'll cast a look behind.
Swift fly the time until we meet;
Swift fly away each day and year,
Until my early friends I greet,
And kiss again my Mary dear.
