O Mally’s meek.
[This was an almost extemporaneous effusion of Burns, on seeing a fair country girl walk along the High Street of Dumfries, with her shoes and stockings, more Scotico, in her hand, instead of on her feet. He sent it to Johnson's Museum, accompanied with an air resembling much the old tune of "Andro and his Cutty Gun." It was his last contribution to that publication!]
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet;
But O the road was very hard
For that fair maiden's tender feet.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,
Mally's every way complete.
It were mair meet, that those fine feet
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,
And 'twere more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
O Mally's meek, &c.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
O Mally's meek, &c.
The waes of Scotland.
[This pathetic Jacobite effusion was contributed by Allan Cunningham to Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. It is sung to the tune of "The Siller Crown."]
When I left thee, bonnie Scotland,
O fair wert thou to see!
And blythe as a bonnie bride i' the morn,
When she maun wedded be.
When I came back to thee, Scotland,
Upon a May-morn fair,
A bonnie lass sat at our town end,
A kaming her yellow hair.
Oh hey! oh hey! sung the bonnie lass,
Oh hey, and wae is me!
There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,
As een did never see.
Oh hey, oh hey, for my father auld!
Oh hey, for my mither dear!
And my heart will burst for the bonnie lad
Wha left me lanesome here.
I hadna gane in my ain Scotland
Mae miles than twa or three,
When I saw the head o' my ain faither
Borne up the gate to me.
A traitor's head! and, A traitor's head!
Loud bawl'd a bloody loon;
But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir,
And strack the reaver down.
I hied me hame to my father's ha',
My dear auld mither to see;
But she lay 'mang the black eizels,
Wi' the death-tear in her e'e.
O wha has wrought this bloody wark?
Had I the reaver here,
I'd wash his sark in his ain heart's blood,
And gi'e't to his love to wear.
I hadna gane frae my ain dear hame
But twa short miles an three,
Till up came a captain o' the Whigs,
Says, Traitor, bide ye me!
I grippet him by the belt sae braid,
It bursted i' my hand,
But I threw him frae his weir-saddle,
And drew my burly brand.
Shaw mercy on me, quo' the loon,
And low he knelt on knee,
And by his thigh was my father's glaive
Which gude king Bruce did gi'e;
And buckled round him was the broider'd belt
Which my mither's hands did weave—
My tears they mingled wi' his heart's blood,
And reek'd upon my glaive.
I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd,
When a' folk are asleep;
And I lie o'er my father and mither's grave
An hour or twa to weep.
O, fatherless and mitherless,
Without a ha' or hame,
I maun wander through my dear Sootland,
And bide a traitor's name.
