But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer.
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou;
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near,
And, the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear :
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd wi' the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
SLOW Spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires;
To Evan banks with temperate ray
Home of my youth, it leads the day.
Oh! banks to me forever dear!
Oh! stream whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside,
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.
And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye!
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine,
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde.
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to mem'ry brings,
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost;
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH IN
NOVEMBER.
WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!1
I wad be laith2 to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle! 3
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou 'may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker4 in a thrave5
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,6
And never miss 't.
Thy wee bit housie, too in ruin!
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
1 Hurry. 2 Loth. 3 Plough staff. 4 Ear of corn. sheaves. 6 The rest. 7 Biting.
Now thou 's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch1 cauld!
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,2
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gly,3
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY night.
NOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 4 The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee things, todlin,5 stacher6 thro'
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin? noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle,8 blinkin9 bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve10 the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out amang the farmers roun':
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentiell rin
A cannie12 errand to a neebor town:
1 Hoar frost. 2 Thyself alone. wind. 5 Tottering. 6 Stagger. 10 By and by. 11 Considerate.
3 Wrong. 4 Rushing noise of the 7 Fluttering. 8 Fire. 9 Blazing. 12 Dexterous.
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a brawl new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers :2
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,
Gars3 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent4 hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out of sight, to jauk6 or play :
"An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins5 is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it 's nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's not ill ta’en ;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye 7.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But, blates and laithfu',9 scarce can weel behave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn 's respected like the lave.10
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide,
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