But a' the road I stoiter'd hame,
An' three times clean gaed wil'
The miller's maid got a' the blame,
Yet I kept sichan aye the name
O' bonnie Mary Gill.
But a' the nicht, nae wink I got,
But pecht an' gran'd my fill;
An' felt my noddle a' afloat,
An' ilka ither thing forgot
Exceptin' Mary Gill.
I canna say I'll nae gang back
Nor can I say I will;
But my puir heart is on the rack,
While a' the niebours hae their crack
O' me an' Mary Gill.
Strephon and Lydia.
[Tune, "The Gordon's ha'e the guiding o't."—"The following account of this song," says Burns, "I had from Dr. Blacklock. The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 'Gentle Jean' celebrated somewhere in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connection, Strephon was sent abroad with; a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena, (in 1740). The author of this song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire."—William "Wallace was admitted a member of the faculty of advocates in 1734, and was married to a daughter of Archibald Campbell of Succoth in 1750, and died at Glasgow in 1763. There was another advocate of the same name, who flourished somewhat later in the century, and who became professor of Universal History in the University of Edinburgh.]
All lovely, on the sultry beach,
Expiring Strephon lay;
No hand the cordial draught to reach,
Nor cheer the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh
To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swimming eye,
Or smooth the face of death.
Far distant from the mournful scene,
Thy parents sit at ease;
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,
And all the spring to please.
Ill-fated youth! by fault of friend,
Not force of foe depress'd,
Thou fall'st, alas! thyself, thy kind,
Thy country, unredress'd.
Gilderoy.
[Thomas Campbell.]
The last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree!
The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?
No bosom trembles for thy doom,
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart?
Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter-garb was trim,
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight-hammer sound!
Ye cruel, cruel, that combin'd
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!
