I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam,
A snood of bonnie blue,
And promised, when our trystin' cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh, no! sad an' slow!
The time it winna pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether'd on the grass.
O now I see her on the way,
She's past the witches' knowe;
She's climbin' up the brownie's brae—
My heart is in a lowe.
Oh, no! 'tis na so!
'Tis glaumrie I ha'e seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.
My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill;
When Colley barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh, no! sad an' slow!
The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow of the trystin' bush
Is fix'd like ony stane.
Lucy's flittin'.
[This deeply pathetic song was composed by William Laidlaw, for many years the steward and trusted friend of Sir Walter Scott. It is sung to the tune of "Paddy O'Rafferty."]
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in,
And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear:
For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer;
She cam' there afore the flower bloomed on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her,
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';
Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see:
Fare ye weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in;
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin',
Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',
And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.
Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I ha'e tint my pair heart a'thegither,
Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my e'e.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me;
Yestreen, when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy!
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He could nae say mair but just, Fare ye weel, Lucy!
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;
The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea:
But Lucy likes Jamie,—she turn'd and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!
Captain Wedderburn.
[This diverting ditty was at one time very popular among the country people of Scotland. It can be traced no farther back than to the "New British Songster," a collection published at Falkirk in 1785.]
The Laird of Roslin's daughter
Walked through the wood her lane;
And by cam' Captain Wedderburn,
A servant to the king.
He said unto his serving man,
"Were't not against the law,
I wad tak' her to my ain bed,
And lay her neist the wa'."
"I am walking here alane," she says,
"Amang my father's trees;
And you must let me walk alane,
