Syne she tald what grand offers she aften had had,
But wad she tak' a man?—na, she wasna sae mad,
For the hale o' the sex she cared na a preen,
An' she hated the way she was kissed yestreen;
Kist yestreen, kist yestreen;
She hated the way she was kist yestreen;
'Twas a mercy that naithing mair serious had been,
For it's dangerous whiles to be kissed at e'en.
October Winds.
[The author of this song was James Scadlock, a native of the banks of the Levern in Renfrewshire, and by profession a copper-plate engraver. He was an intimate friend of Tannahill's. After his death, which took place in 1818, a small volume of his poems was printed for the benefit of his family.—Air, "O my love's bonnie."]
October winds, wi' biting breath,
Now nip the leaves that's yellow fading;
Nae gowans glint upon the green,
Alas! they're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.
As through the woods I musing gang,
Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,
Save little Robin's lanely sang,
Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.
The sun is jogging down the brae,
Dimly through the mist he's shining,
And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,
As day resigns his throne to e'ening.
Oft let me walk at twilight grey,
To view the face of dying nature,
Till spring again wi' mantle green,
Delights the heart o' ilka creature.
O’er the muir to Maggy.
[This is the name of an old Scottish air. The original words to the tune, however, are scarcely fit for quoting. The following is Ramsay's version of the song.]
And I'll owre the muir to Maggy,
Her wit and sweetness call me;
There to my fair I'll show my mind,
Whatever may befall me:
If she love mirth, I'll learn to sing
Or likes the Nine to follow,
I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring,
And invocate Apollo.
If she admire a martial mind,
I'll sheathe my limbs in armour;
If to the softer dance inclined,
With gayest airs I'll charm her;
If she love grandeur, day and night
I'll plot my nation's glory,
Find favour in my prince's sight,
And shine in future story.
Beauty can wonders work with ease,
Where wit is corresponding,
And bravest men know best to please,
With complaisance abounding.
My bonnie Maggy's love can turn
Me to what shape she pleases,
If in her breast that flame shall burn,
Which in my bosom bleezes.
Mary’s Grave.
[T. M. Cunningham.]
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
Ye flow'ry fells, an' sunny braes!
Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'
The pleasures o' my youthfu' days.
Amang your leafy simmer claes,
And blushin' blooms, the zephyr flies,
Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
Around the grave whare Mary lies.
Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
Can cheer the weary winged hours
As up the glen I joyless stray:
For a' my hopes ha'e flown away,
And when they reach'd their native skies,
Left me, amid the world o' wae,
To weet the grave whare Mary lies.
It is na beauty's fairest bloom,
It is na maiden charms consign'd,
And hurried to an early tomb,
