When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I!
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I play'd my harp cheery, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang:
But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me,
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.
I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane.
Though Rosie is faithless, she's no the less fair,
And the thoughts of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my besom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.
As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast:
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er,
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull,
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.
Here's to the king, sir.
[Jacobite song.—Tune, "Hey, tuttie taitie."—The allusion in the last verse but one to the king of Sweden proves the song to belong to about the beginning of the last century, when Charles XII. of Sweden was expected to espouse the cause of the Stuarts.]
Here's to the king, sir!
Ye ken wha I mean, sir;
And to every honest man,
That will do't again.
Fill, fill your bumpers high;
Drain drain your glasses dry;
Out upon him, fy! oh ly!
That winna do't again.
Here's to the chieftains
Of the gallant Highland clans!
They ha'e done it mair nor ance,
And will do't again.
Fill, fill, &c.
When you hear the trumpet sound
Tuttie taitie, to the drums;
Up wi' swords and down your guns,
An' to the loons again.
Fill, fill, &c.
Here's to the king o' Swede!
Fresh laurels crown his head!
Shame fa' every sneaking blade,
That winna do't again!
Fill, fill, &c.
But to mak' a things right, now,
He that drinks maun fight, too,
To show his heart's upright, too,
And that he'll do't again!
Fill, fill, &c
Landlady count the lawin.
[Tune, "Hey, tuttie, taitie."—Altered by Burns from an old ditty. The last verse of this song formed originally the first verse of the previous song.]
Landlady, count the lawin,
The day is near the dawin;
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys,
And I'm but jolly fou.
Hey tuttie, taitie,
How tuttie, taitie—
Wha's fou now?
Cog an' ye were aye fou,
Cog an' ye were aye fou,
I wad sit and sing to you,
If ye were aye fou.
Weel may ye a' be!
Ill may we never see!
God bless the king, boys,
And the companie!
Hey tuttie, taitie,
How tuttie, taitie—
Wha's fou now?
