On Leader haughs and Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's bank or Cowdenknowes.
That, taen wi' thy enchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' nature here;
Mair comely far, and fair to sight,
When in her easy cleedin' dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tiber's or on Arno's shore.
O Bangour!* now the hills and dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore,
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore,
Near what bright burn or crystal spring,
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The muse shall there, wi' watery ee,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Who mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
HORACE, ODE XI., LIB. I.
NE'ER fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrip's kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running;
* William Hamilton of Bangour, author of the beautiful ballad "The Braes of Yarrow."
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowie thought opprest.
Whether we see mair winters come,
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.
Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa's
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne'er let your hope o'ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care ae straw about the morn.
WILL ye gang o'er the lee-rigg,
My ain kind deary, O!
And cuddle there sae kindly
Wi' me, my kind deary, O!
At thornie dike, and birken tree,
We'll daff, and ne'er be weary, O;
They'll scug ill een frae you and me,
Mine ain kind deary, O!
*No previous edition of Fergusson, with the single exception of the one issued under the very capable editorial supervision of Dr. A. B. Grosart, embraces a copy of this long familiar song, which unmistakably served as the model for Burns when he came to write his immortal lyric on the same theme. The verses are given here exactly as they appear-in their original form- in Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, whence they were communicated by Burns, and in the notes to which it is stated that "the verses beginning 'Will ye gang o'er the lea rig' were written by Robert Fergusson in one of his merry humours." In composing his song (albeit in a merry humour"! Fergusson, no less than Burns, as it appears, fructified on a yet earlier hint, embraced in a set of verses the following fragment of which alone has been preserved—
"I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
Nae herds wi' kent, or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O;
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air
Shall woo, like me, their deary, O.
While others herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows
Wi' you, my kind deary, O!
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O."
In Whitelaw's Book of Scottish Song, as in other Collections, three double stanzas of inferior merit, from the tinkering hand of William Reid of Glasgow, are tagged on to Fergusson's performance. George Farquhar Graham, with still worse taste, suggests them in a note as a suitable continuation of Burns's exquisite lyric. They are never sung, and are appended here solely for the sake of comparison :
"At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, 0:
And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e,
When absent frae my dearie, O;
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O,
Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn,
When wi' my kind dearie, O.
"Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft ha'e I sat fu' cheerie, O,
Upon the bonnie greensward howes,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O;
I've courted till I heard the craw
Of honest Chanticleerie, O,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
When wi' my kind dearie, O.
"For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O;
While in this weary warld of wae,
This wilderness sae dreary, O,
What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O."
Now gae your wa's-though ance as gude
As ever happit flesh and blude,
Yet part we maun.-The case sae hard is
Amang the writers and the bardies,
That lang they'll bruik the auld, I trow,
Or neibours cry, "We'll bruik the new!"
Still makin' tight, wi' tither steek,
The tither hole, the tither eke,
To bang the bir o' winter's anger,
And haud the hurdies out o' langer.
Siclike some weary wight will fill
His kyte wi' drogs frae doctor's bill,
Thinkin' to tack the tither year
To life, and look baith hale and fier,
Till at the lang-run death dirks in,
To birse his saul ayont his skin.
You needna wag your duds o' clouts,
Nor fa' into your dorty pouts,
To think that erst you've hain'd my tail
Frae wind and weet, frae snaw and hail,
And for reward, when bald and hummil,
Frae garret high to dree a tummil.
For you I cared, as lang's ye dow'd
Be lined wi' siller or wi' gowd:
Now to befriend, it wad be folly,
Your raggit hide and pouches holey;
For wha but kens a poet's placks
Get mony weary flaws and cracks,
And canna thole tae hae them tint,
As he sae seenil sees the mint?
Yet round the warld keek, and see
That ithers fare as ill as thee;
*This poem was the last Scottish piece of Fergusson's which appeared in Ruddiman's Magazine; and only his "Last Will" and "Codicil" (which are not in the vernacular), followed.
For weel we loe the chiel we think
Can gie us tick, or gie us drink,
Till o' his purse we've seen the bottom,
Then we despise, and hae forgot him.
Yet gratefu' hearts, to mak amends,
Will aye be sorry for their friends,
And I for thee;-as mony a time
Wi' you I've speel'd the braes o' rhyme,
Where, for the time, the muse ne'er cares
For siller, or sic guilefu' wares,
Wi' whilk we drumly grow, and crabbit,
Dour, capernoited, thrawin'-gabbit;
And brither, sister, friend, and fae,
Without remeid of kindred, slay.
You've seen me round the bickers reel
Wi' heart as hale as temper'd steel,
And face sae open, free, and blythe,
Nor thought that sorrow there could kyth;
But the neist moment this was lost,
Like gowan in December's frost.
Could prick-the-louse but be sae handy
As mak the breeks and claes to stand aye,
Through thick and thin wi' you I'd dash on,
Nor mind the folly o' the fashion:
But, hegh! the times' vicissitudo
Gars ither breeks decay, as you do.
The macaronies, braw and windy,
Maun fail-Sic transit gloria mundi!
Now, speed you to some madam's chaumer
That butt and ben rings dule and clamour;
Ask her, in kindness, if she seeks
In hidling ways to wear the breeks.
Safe you may dwall, though mould and motty,
Beneath the veil o' under-coatie:
For this, mair fau'ts nor yours can screen
Frae lover's quickest sense, his een.
Or, if some bard, in lucky times,
Should profit meikle by his rhymes,
And pace awa', wi' smirky face,
In siller or in gowden lace,
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