The Cottar’s Sang.
[From "Summer Months among the Mountains: by Andrew Mercer. Edinburgh, 1838." We are indebted to Patrick Maxwell, Esq. for the following particulars of Mercers life.—Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk in 1775, and died in Dunfermline on the 11th June 1842, aged 67. When fifteen years old he came to the University of Edinburgh, being destined for the Secession Church. Here he became the intimate associate of his fellow students Dr. John Leyden, and Dr. A. Murray, afterwards Professor of Oriental Languages, and contributed, like them, various essays in prose and verse to the Edinburith and Scots Magazines. Along with his literary pursuits, he conjoined a love of art; and, eventually, abandoning his theological studies, devoted himself to drawing and painting miniatures, but unhappily never attained to eminence. His gentle and amiable manners and unquestioned talents procured him many friends, and in 1804 they began and zealously promoted the publication of "The North British Magazine" for his behoof, but which unfortunately ceased to be continued after thirteen months. He ultimately settled at Dunfermline, where for many years he lived by teaching, and drew patterns for the damask manufacturers. He published a history of Dunfermline and of its celebrated Abbey in 1828, and ten years later the small collection of poems from which we extract the two following songs.—The first is to the tune of "The braes of Balquhidder."]
The hairst now is owre,
An' the stacks are a' theekit;
The barn-yard is fu',
An' the yett's fairly steekit.
The potatoes are up,
An' are a' snugly pitted;
The crap o' the puir man
For winter fare fitted.
O how happy the hynd
Wha's laid in for the winter,
Wi' his eldin an' meal,
His cow an' bit grunter.
Though he toil a' the day,
Through the cauld sleety weather,
By his ingle at e'en
It's forgot a' thegither.
Syne the bairns are drapin' in
Frae the neist farm-steadins,
To claver owre the news;
Or speak o' new cleadins:
Ilk ane tells his tale,
The day's simple story;
An' the cottar's fireside
Is a' in its glory!
The Jockies and Jennies
Are joking and jeering,
An' proud o' the braws,
They ha'e won at the shearing.
An' courtship is rife,
An' ilk look has a meaning,
As an e'e meets an e'e,
In the edge o' the e'ening.
There's love in ilka lane,
In ilka fine gloamin';
An' bridals there will be,
At Martinmas coming.
Their minds are a' made up,
An' a' thing looks cheerie;
O lang may it last,—
Ilk lad wi' his dearie.
The hour of Love.
[Andrew Mercer.]
When the fair one, and the dear one—
Her lover by her side,—
Strays or sits, as fancy flits,
Where yellow streamlets glide;
Gleams illuming—flowers perfuming—
Where'er her footsteps rove;
Time beguiling with her smiling,
O that's the hour of love!
When the fair one, and the dear one,
Amid a moon-light scene,—
Where grove and glade, and light and shade
Are all around serene—
Heaves the soft sigh of ecstacy,
While coos the turtle dove,
And in soft strains—appeals—complains—
O that's the hour of love!
Should the fair one, and the dear one,
The sigh of pity lend,
For human woe that presses low,
