As on the pebbly beach I strayed,
Where rocks and shoals prevail,
I thus o'erheard a Lowland maid
Her absent love bewail.
A storm arose—the waves ran high—
The waves ran high—the waves ran high—
And dark and murky was the sky—
The wind did loudly roar.
But merry rowed, merry rowed
The bonnie, bonnie bark!
O merry rowed the bonnie, bonnie bark,
And brought her love on shore!
Emigrant’s Death Song.
[The author of the two following songs, J. G. Cumming, M. D., is a native of Paisley. Dr. C. originated the first exclusively Scottish publication ever issued in America—the New York Scottish Journal. This journal he edited for nearly three years. It is now under the management of Dr. Paul, a native of Scotland. The songs have never hitherto appeared in any publication in this country.—Music by Miss B. G. Cumming.]
Farewell tae the burnie
That wimples sae clearly,
The rough bracken knowe, and the heather-clad brae,
The auld haunted tower,
Wi' its ivy-formed bower,
And a' the loved scenes o' my life's early day.
And thee, my ain dearie—
My heart aft was wearie
Tae think I sae lang had been parted frae thee.
Oh, think o' your lover,
When cauld divits cover
The bosom that aye beat sae warmly for thee.
And thee, my auld faither,
Loved sisters and brother,
And, mither! oh maun I say farewell tae thee,
I left thee in sorrow,
But oh, on the morrow
I cherished the hope thee again I wad see.
Kind fate, can ye sever
The cords that ha'e ever
Bae fondly united these objects wi' me;
Oh spare me, once spare me,
An' to them restore me,
For oh, 'twad be heaven amang them tae dee.
Wifie and me.
[J. G. Cumming.]
Oh, cozzy, cozzy i' the neuk,
My wifie sits wi' me;
We heedna winter's surly look,
Nor hoo the minits flee;
But happy by each ithers side,
The ingle bleezin' bricht,
Her wee bit tongie's winnin' wile
Mak's short the langest nicht.
For wifie is as sweet as morn,
An' blythe as day her e'e,
An' fairest flower upo' the thorn
Is na mair fair than she.
Her bozy's whiter than the snaw,
An' kinder than the doo,
Her cheeks are redder than the haw,
An' sweeter far her mou'.
Syne what mair need a body want;
Has earth ocht mair tae gi'e?
A bein wee wife's the bliss o' life—
Is bliss eneuch for me.
Sae, when declinin' years come on,
We'll totter down the brae;
Happy to think o' years by gane,
Content to heaven we'll gae.
The bonnie Moor-hen.
[Hunting song, written by Burns. Music by Lee.]
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a hunting ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen.
