Abbildungen der Seite

And mak’ their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak’ haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;
And mak’ the table neat and clean,

Gar ilká thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.

0 giỏe me down my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearl blue; 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

[ocr errors]

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,'

His breath's like caller air! His very foot has music in't,

As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy with the thought,

In troth, I'm like to greet.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I ha’e him safe,

Till death we'll never part:
But what puts parting in my head ?

It may be far awa';
The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,

I ha’e nae crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I'm blest above the lave:
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth, I'm like to greet.



Now mirk December's dowie face
Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,

The bleer-eyed sun,
Wi' blinkin' light and stealing pace,

His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

From Borean cave;
And dwyning Nature droops her wings,

Wi' visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, ’midst his nipping train,

Wi' frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a' his bleak' domain,

And guides the weir.
Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
What snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth,
While round they gar the bicker roll

To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule Day comes, I trow, You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou

O’gusty gear And kickshaws, strangers to our view

Sin' fairn-year.

Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then come and gie's the tither blaw

O’reaming ale,
Mair precious than the Well of Spa,

Our hearts to heal.

Then, though at odds wi' a' the war?,
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Though Discord gie a cankered snarl

To spoil our glee,
As lang's there's pith into the barrel

We'll drink and 'gree.

[ocr errors][merged small]

For naught can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel;
It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence.

Let mirth abound; let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear,

To crown our joy;
Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of aqua vita!
Wha sways'the empire of this city,
When fou we're sometimes capernoity,-

Be thou prepared
To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City Guard.



When I think on the happy days

I spent wi' you, my dearie;
And now what lands between us lie,

How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,

As ye were wae and weary!
It was na sae ye glinted by

When I was wi' my dearie.




Be this, ye rural Magistrates, your plan:
Firm be your justice, but be friends to man.
He whom the mighty master of this ball
We fondly deem, or farcically call,
To own the patriarch's truth however loth,
Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth.
Frail in his ius, in his heart, too, frail,
Born but to err, and erring to bewail;



Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore,
And give to life one human weakness more?
Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
Still mark the strong temptation and the need;
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call,
At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

For him

who, lost to every hope of life,
Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair;
For the poor vagrant, feel while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought;
Believe with social mercy and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore
The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore,
Who, then no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed;
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain,
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptized in tears!



Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the water and the blood
From Thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

« ZurückWeiter »