He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie—
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know.
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na,
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten—
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen,
They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green:
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.
The Emigrant's Farewell.
[Written by the late Thomas Pringle, in 1819, on his departure to Southern Africa. It first appeared in the Harp of Caledonia, Vol. III. and is adapted to the tune of "My guid Lord John."]
Our native land—our native vale—
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Tiviotdale,
And Cheviot mountains blue.
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renown'd in song—
Farewell ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have lov'd so long.
Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow—
Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.
The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell—
The martyr's grave, and lover's bower,
We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main—
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land—our native vale—
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!
Maid of my Heart.
[This is another effusion of Thomas Pringle's, on his leaving his native land. It is adapted to the tune of "Logan Water."]
Maid of my heart—a long farewell!
The bark is launch'd, the billows swell,
And the vernal gales are blowing free,
To bear me far from love and thee!
I hate Ambition's haughty name,
And the heartless pride of Wealth and Fame,
Yet now I haste through Ocean's roar
To woo them on a distant shore.
Can pain or peril bring relief
To him who bears a darker grief?
Can absence calm this feverish thrill?
—Ah, no:—for thou wilt haunt me still!
Thy artless grace, thy open truth,
Thy form that breath'd of love and youth,
Thy voice by Nature fram'd to suit
The tone of Love's enchanted lute!
