My doughty laddie is handsome and brave,
And can as a soger and lover behave;
True to his country, to love he is steady;
There's few to compare with my soger laddie.
Sh'eld him, ye angels, frae death in alarms,
Return him with laurels to my langing arms;
Syne frae all my care ye'll pleasantly free me,
When back to my wishes my soger ye gi'e me.
O soon may his honours bloom fair on his brow,
As quickly they must, if he gets his due:
For in noble actions his courage is ready,
Which makes me delight in my soger laddie.
Patie and Peggie.
[From Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd.]
Patie.
By the delicious warmness of thy mouth,
And rowing eye, which smiling tells the truth,
I guess, my lassie, that, as weel as I,
You're made for love, and why should ye deny?
Peggy.
But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing's done:
The maiden that o'er quickly tines her power,
Like unripe fruit will taste but hard and sour.
Patie.
But when they hing o'er lang upon the tree,
Their sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye:
Red-cheeked you completely ripe appear,
And I have thol'd and woo'd a lang half year.
Peggy.
Then dinna pu' me; gently thus I fa'
Into my Patie's arms for good and a';
But stint your wishes to this frank embrace,
And mint nae farther till we've got the grace.
Patie.
A charming armsfu'! hence, ye cares, away,
I'll kiss my treasure a' the live-lang day;
A' night I'll dream my kisses o'er again,
Till that day come that ye'll be a' my ain.
Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise;
O lash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridal day:
And, if ye're wearied, honest light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night.
Cold, cold’s the hand.
[W. B. Sangster.—Here first printed.—The Lady on whom these verses are written died at Madeira, 8th November, 1842.]
Cold, cold's the hand that oft in mine
Hath thrill'd with hope and feeling,
And deadly still the gentle heart
On which the worm is stealing.
The glossy locks are now laid low,—
The cheeks, once warmly bloomin',
Are pale an' cold as winter's snow
Upon a winter's gloamin'.
The silvery notes that in mine ears
Have dropp'd like oil and manna,
Ah! they are mute as shedden tears—
The sacred voice of Anna.
My much lov'd maid is now no more;
We cannot meet by Banna;
Her place is void, and, oh! I'd soar,
To meet in heaven my Anna.
The Waefu’ Heart.
[Miss Blamire.—This is given in the third volume of Johnson's Museum, and Mr. Stenhouse says there, that both the words and music were taken from a single sheet published in London about the year 1788.]
Gin livin' worth could win my heart,
You would not speak in vain;
But in the darksome grave it's laid,
Never to rise again.
My waefu' heart lies low wi' his,
Whose heart was only mine;
And, oh! what a heart was that to lose—
But I maun no repine.
