How sweet this lone vale, all the beauties of nature,
In varied features are here to be seen,
The lowly spread bush, and oaks' tow'ring stature,
Is mantled in foliage of gay lovely green.
Ah! here is the spot, O how sad recollection,
It is the retreat of my Mary no more,
How kind, how sincere was this dear maid's affection,
Till memory cease, I the loss must deplore.
How sweet this lone vale to a heart full of sorrow,
The wail of distress I unheeded can pour,
My bosom o'ercharg'd may be lighter to-morrow,
By shedding a flood in yon thick-twisted bower.
O Mary! in silence thou calmly reposes,
The bustle of life gives no trouble to thee,
Bemoaning my Mary, life only discloses
A wilderness vacant of pleasure to me.
Logie o’ Buchan.
[This fine natural song, which is united to an air equally beautiful and simple, has been ascribed to Lady Anne Barnard, the authoress of "Auld Robin Gray," but it is of older date than her life. Mr. Peter Buchan, formerly of Peterhead, now of Glasgow, says that it was written by a school-master at Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, of the name of George Halket, who died in 1756. Halket was a great Jacobite, and wrote various pieces in support of his party: one of the best known of these is the song called "Whirry, Whigs, awa', man." The Logie mentioned in the song is situated in Crimond, a parish adjoining the one where Halket resided, and the hero of the piece, was a James Robertson, gardener at the place of Logie. The original Ballad, according to Mr. Buchan, commences thus:
O woe to Kinmundy, Kinmundy the laird,
Wha's tane awa Jamie, that delved i' the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe, an' the viol sae sma',
Kinmundy's ta'en Jamie, the flower o' them a.']
O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird,
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma';
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'.
He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a'.
Tho' Sandy has ousan, has gear, and has kye;
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye:
Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land.
He said, Think nae lang, &c.
My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor:
Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do,
They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.
He said, Think nae lang, &c.
I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but ae saxpence, he brak it in twa,
And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gade awa'.
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
The Humble Beggar.
[This is an old song, although it cannot be traced farther back than to Herd's collection. The tune goes by the same name as the song, and is given in the fifth volume of Johnson's Museum.]
In Scotland there lived a humble beggar,
He had neither house, nor hald, nor hame,
But he was weel liked by ilka bodie,
And they ga'e him sunkets to rax his wame.
A nivefu' of meal, a handfu' of groats,
A dadd of bannock, or herring brie,
Cauld parradge, or the lickings of plates,
Wad mak' him as blythe as a beggar could be.
This beggar he was a humble beggar,
The feint a bit of pride had he,
He wad a ta'en his a'ms in a bikker,
Frae gentleman, or poor bodie.
His wallets ahint and afore did hang,
In as good order as wallets could be:
And a lang kail-gooly hang down by his side,
And a meikle nowt-horn to rout on had he.
It happen'd ill, it happen'd warse,
It happen'd sae that he did die;
And wha do you think was at his late-wake,
But lads and lasses of a high degree.
