It's lang sin' I lost baith my father an' mother,
I'm simple an' poor, an' forlorn on the way;
I had ane that I likit, an only dear brother,
My Willie—but he's lying cauld i' the clay.
Sandyford Ha'.
[Andrew Park.—Air, "Laird o' Cockpen."]
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha',
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha';
When summer returns wi' her blossoms sae traw,
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'.
This dwelling though humble is airy and clean,
Wi' a hale hearty wifie baith honest and bien,
An' a big room below for the gentry that ca',—
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'.
A wooden stair leads to the attics aboon,
Whar ane can look out to his friends in the moon,
Or rhyme till saft sleep on his eyelids shall fa',—
Ye'll a' get a bidding to Sandyford ha'.
An' when a lang day o' dark care we ha'e closed,
An' our heart wi' the bitter ingredient is dozed,
We'll puff our Havana, on hope we will ca',
An' our chief guest be pleasure at Sandyford ha'.
Ye'll no need to ask me to sing you a sang,
For the wee thochtless birdies lilt a' the day lang;
The lintie, the laverock, the blackbird an' a',
Ilk' day ha'e a concert at Sandyford ha'.
There's palace-like mansions at which ye may stare,
Where Luxury rolls in her saft easy-chair,—
At least puir folks think sae,—their knowledge is sma',
There's far mair contentment at Sandyford ha'.
There's something romantic about an auld house,
Where the cock ilka morning keeps crawing fu' crouse,
An' the kye in the byre are baith sleekit an' braw,
An' such is the case at blythe Sandyford ha'.
In the garden we'll sit 'neath the big beechen tree,
As the sun dips his bright-burnish'd face in the sea,
Till night her grey mantle around us shall draw,
Then we'll a' be fu' cantie in Sandyford ha'.
At morning when music is loud in the sky,
An' dew, like bright pearls, on roses' lips lie,
We'll saunter in joy where the lang shadows £a',
'Mang the sweet-scented groves around Sandyford ha'.
The Maid o' Montrose.
[Alex. Laing.—Air, "O tell me the way for to woo."—Here first published.]
O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
When saftly, by Rossie-wood brae,
The merle an' mavis are hymning!
The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
An' sweet are the moments, when o'er the blue ocean.
The full moon arising m majesty glows;
An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion
Wi' my lovely Mary, the maid o' Montrose.
The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
Is proud wi' his ilka new deary,
To shine at the fair an' the ball,
But gi'e me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom,
Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose
An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom,
My ain lovely Mary, the maid o' Montrose.
O what is the haill warld's treasure,
Gin nane o' its pleasures we prove,
An' where can we taste o' true pleasure
Gin nae wi' the lassie we love.
O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose,
An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
But sweeter is Mary, the maid o' Montrose.
Mary, 'tis nae for thy beauty,
Though few are sae bonnie as thee:
O Mary, 'tis nae for thy beauty,
Though handsome as woman can be.
The rose' bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows:
But the charms o' thy mind are the ties mair enduring—
These bind me to Mary, the maid o' Montrose.
