Yet let us walk forth to the stream
Where poets ne'er wander'd before,
Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name,
The echoes will spread to the shore;
If the voice of the muse be divine,
Thy beauties shall live in my lay,
While reflecting the forest so fine,
Sweet Esk o'er the valley shall stray.
O wat ye wha.
[Alexander Laing.—Air, "Wat ye wha cam' here, lassie."]
O wat ye wha cam' here yestreen?
A lad that may fu' weel be seen!
My luck for gowd I wadna gi'e,
I'm just as blythe as blythe can be;—
His frien'ly bow, an' frank gude e'en,
He gied them baith to sister Jean;
But a' the time as I could see,
His kindly looks he gied to me.
His frien'ly look, &c.
I wadna gi'e his looks yestreen,
For a' the blythesome sights I've seen—
I've waited lang, an' wearied been,
But a' my fears were tint yestreen.
A father's house—a pantry fu'
O' meal to bake, and maut to brew;
They're nae to slicht nor cast awa',
But his kindly looks are worth them a'.
A father's house, &c.
My dearie, if thou dee.
[This was written by Robert Crawfurd, and appears in the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. The beautiful air called "My dearie, if thou die" is older than Ramsay's day, but the original words of the song are supposed to be lost.]
Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee:
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggie, if thou dee.
Thy beauties did such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me;
Without thee I shall never live,
My dearie, if thou dee.
If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray!
In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs the silent day.
I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see:
Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggie, after thee.
No new-blown beauty fires my heart,
With Cupid's raving rage;
But thine, which can such sweets impart,
Must all the world engage.
'Twas this that like the morning sun,
Gave joy and life to me;
And, when its destined day is done,
With Peggie let me dee.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasures share,
Ye who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair:
Restore my Peggie's wonted charms,
Those charms so dear to me;
Oh, never rob them from those arms—
I'm lost if Peggie dee.
Wattle’s the waur o’ the wear.
[Tune, "Fy let us a' to the bridal."]
On Tysday gaun out i' the e'enin'
Amang the green woodlands alane,
I heard a fair maid complainin'
An' making a pityfu' maen,
An' this was the mournfu' occasion,
The source o' the saut gushin' tear,
An' burden o' her lamentation,
"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."
Ye birds in the green woodlands singing,
Ye shepherds o' dark ravin' Dee,
Ye rocks and ye wild echoes ringing,
