My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels,
And the banes o' the drowned at sea;
The fisch are the deer that fill my parks,
And the water waste my drurie.
"And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves,
And paved wi' the yellow sand,
And in my chalmers grow bonnie white flowers
That never grew on land.
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom,
A leman on earth that wuld gi'e
Aiker for aiker o' the red ploughed land,
As I'll gi'e to thee o' the sea?
The mune will rise in half ane hour,
And the wee bricht sterns will shine;
Then we'll sink to my bouir 'neath the wan water
Full fifty fathom and nine."
A wild, wild skreich, gi'ed the fey bridegroom,
And a loud, loud laugh, the bride;
For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down
Under the silver'd tide.
Lenachan’s Farewell.
[James Hogg.—Air, "Ho cha neil mulad oirn," or "The Emigrant's adieu."]
Fare thee weel, my native cot,
Bothy o' the birken tree!
Sair the heart, and hard the lot,
O' the lad that parts wi' thee.
My good grandsire's hand thee rear'd,
Then thy wicker work was full;
Mony a Campbell's glen he clear'd,
Hit the buck, and hough'd the bull.
In thy green and grassy crook
Mair lies hid than crusted stanes;
In thy bien and weirdly nook
Lie some stout Clan-Gillian banes.
Thou wast aye the kinsman's hame,
Routh and welcome was his fare;
But if serf or Saxon came,
He cross'd Murich's hirst nae mair
Never hand in thee yet bred
Kendna how the sword to wield;
Never heart of thine had dread
Of the foray or the field:
Ne'er on straw, mat, bulk, or bed,
Son of thine lay down to die;
Every lad within thee bred
Died beneath heaven's open e'e.
Charlie Stuart he cam' here,
For our king, as right became;
Wha could shun the Bruce's heir?
Wha could tyne our royal name?
Firm to stand, and free to fa',
Forth we march'd right valiantlie,
Gane is Scotland's king an' law!
Woe to the Highlands and to me!
Freemen, yet I'll scorn to fret,
Here nae langer I maun stay;
But, when I my hame forget,
May my heart forget to play!
Fare thee weel, my father's cot,
Bothy o' the birken tree!
Sair the heart, and hard the lot,
O' the lad that parts wi' thee.
Life’s a faught.
[Robert Allan of Kilbarchan.—Air, "The glancing o' her apron."]
That life's a fausht there is nae doubt,
A steep and slipp'ry brae,
And wisdom's sel', wi' a' it's rules,
Will aften find it sae.
The truest heart that e'er was made,
May find a deadly fae,
And broken aiths and faithless vows
Gi'e lovers mickle wae.
When poortith looks wi' sour disdain,
It frights a body sair,
And gars them think they ne'er will meet
Delight or pleasure mair.
But though the heart be e'er sae sad,
And prest wi' joyless care,
Hope lightly steps in at the last,
To fley awa' despair.
For love o' wealth let misers toil,
And fret baith late and air',
A cheerfu' heart has aye enough,
