Are spent amang the lasses, O
There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow, etc.
The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
But gie me a canny hour at e’en
My arms about my Dearie, O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest Man the warl’ saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
ROBERT BURNS
Lament for Culloden
The lovely lass o’ Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn she cries, Alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
Drumossie moor – Drumossie day –
A waefu’ day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear.
My father dear, and brethren three.
Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be:
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.
ROBERT BURNS
Hay Making
Upon the grass no longer hangs the dew;
Forth hies the mower, with his glittering scythe,
In snowy shirt bedight, and all unbraced,
He moves athwart the mead with sidling bend.
And lays the grass in many a swathey line:
In every field, in every lawn and meadow,
The rousing voice of industry is heard;
The haycock rises, and the frequent rake
Sweeps on the fragrant hay in heavy wreaths.
The old and young, the weak and strong, are there,
And, as they can, help on the cheerful work.
The father jeers his awkward half-grown lad,
Who trails his tawdry armful o’er the field,
Nor does he fear the jeering to repay.
The village oracle, and simple maid,
Jest in their turns and raise the ready laugh;
All are companions in the general glee;
Authority, hard-favoured, frowns not there.
Some, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick,
Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast.
In loose attire, and swelling ruddy cheek.
With taunts and harmless mockery she receives
The tossed-up heaps from fork of simple youth,
Who, staring on her, takes his arm away,
While half the load falls back upon himself.
Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar:
The mower busied on the distant lawn,
The carter trudging on his dusty way,
The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss in air,
And roar across the field to catch her notice:
She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head,
And then renews her work with double spirit.
Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil
Till the bright sun, now past his middle course,
Shoots down his fiercest beams which none may brave.
The stoutest arm feels listless, and the swart
And brawny-shouldered clown begins to fail,
But to the weary, lo! there comes relief!
A troop of welcome children o’er the lawn
With slow and wary steps approach: some bear
In baskets oaten cakes or barley scones,
And gusty cheese and stoups of milk or whey.
Beneath the branches of a spreading tree,
Or by the shady side of the tall rick,
They spread their homely fare, and seated round,
Taste every pleasure that a feast can give.
JOANNA BAILLIE
Will Ye No Come Back Again?
Bonnie Charlie’s now awa,
Safely owre the friendly main:
Mony a heart will break in iwa.
Should he ne’er come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be,
Will ye no come back again?
Ye trusted in your Heiland men,
They trusted you, dear Charlie;
They kent you hiding in the glen.
You cleedin was but barely.
Will ye no, etc.
English bribes were a’ in vain.
An’ e’en tho’ pulrer we may be
Siller canna buy the heart
That beats aye for thine and three.
We watched thee in the gloaming hour.
We watched thee in the morning grey;
Tho’ thirty thousand pounds they’d gie.
Oh there is nane that wed betray.
Sweet’s the laverock’s note and lang,
Lifting wildly up the glen;
But aye to me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna
Will ye no come back again?
CAROLINE OLIPHANT
The Land o’ the Leal
I’m wearin’ awa’, John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John,
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day’s aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John,
And oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o’ the leal.
But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,
And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,
The joy that’s aye to last,
In the land o’ the leal.
Sae dear’s that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu’ man e’er brought
To the land o’ the leal.
Oh! dry your glist’ning e’e, John,
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o’ the leal.
Oh! haud ye leal and true, John,
Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld’s cares are vain, John,
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,
In the land o’ the leal.
CAROLINE OLIPHANT
Love is like a dizziness
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness;
It winna let a puir body
Gang about his biziness!
JAMES HOGG
The Village of Balmaquhapple
D’ye ken the big village of Balmaquhapple,
The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple?
’Tis steep’d in iniquity up to the thrapple,
An’ what’s to become o’ poor Balmaquhapple?
Fling a’ aff your bannets, an’ kneel for your life, fo’ks,
&nb
sp; And pray to St Andrew, the god o’ the Fife fo’ks;
Gar a’ the hills yout wi’ sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu’ occasion:
‘O, blessed St Andrew, if e’er ye could pity fo’k,
Men fo’k or women fo’k, country or city fo’k,
Come for this aince wi’ the auld thief to grapple,
An’ save the great village of Balmaquhapple
Frae drinking an’ leeing, an’ flyting an’ swearing,
An’ sins that ye wad be affrontit at hearing,
An’ cheating an’ stealing; O, grant them redemption,
All save an’ except the few after to mention:
‘There’s Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne’er to need ye,
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, an’ sae greedy;
Wha prays every hour as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses;
He’s cheated a thousand, an’ e’en to this day yet,
Can cheat a young lass, or they’re leears that say it
Then gie him his gate; he’s sae slee an’ sae civil,
Perhaps in the end he may wheedle the devil.
‘There’s Cappie the cobbler, an’ Tammie the tinman,
An’ Dickie the brewer, an’ Peter the skinman,
An’ Geordie our deacon, for want of a better,
An’ Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her.
O, worthy St Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as well as a body can tell ye,
If these gang to heaven, we’ll a’ be sae shockit,
Your garret o’ blue will but thinly be stockit.
‘But for a’ the rest, for the women’s sake, save them,
Their bodies at least, an’ their sauls, if they have them;
But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an’ sma’ it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails;
An’ save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk’s bonny daughters, an’ Bell in particular,
For ye ken that their beauty’s the pride an’ the staple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple!’
JAMES HOGG
Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
from The Prelude
O pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, us who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven! O times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress – to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
The beauty wore of promise – that which sets
(As at some moments might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of Paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers, – who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it; – they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves; –
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their hearts’ desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish, –
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, – subterranean fields, –
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, – the place where, in the end,
We find our happiness, or not at all!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey
On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. – Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
’Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye;
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration: – feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man’s life.
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: – that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on, –
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid aslee
p
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the bearings of my heart –
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro’ the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Floating Island
Harmonious powers with nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake and sea
Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze,
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold – how, no one knew,
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind,
Might see it from the mossy shore
Dissevered, float upon the lake,
Float with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety, there they find;
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives – and die:
A peopled world it is, in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little island may survive,
But nature (though we mark her not)
Will take away, may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn – the isle is passed away,
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