And though you be weary, And his loyal train. We'll bring down the track deer, Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And his friend The M'Lean. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, If aught will invite you "Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen, All ranged on the heather, With bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores, CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.* 'TWAS on a Monday morning, The young Chevalier. An' Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; As Charlie he came up the gate, An' Charlie is my darling, &c. Then ilka bonny lassie sang, As to the door she ran, Our King shall hae his ain again, An' Charlie is the man: For Charlie he's my darling, &c. * Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published in the "Jacobite Relics."-Hogg. Out ow'r yon moory mountain, An' Charlie he's my darling, &c. Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain; Our Highland swords are metal keen, An' Charlie he 's our ain. An' Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling; LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS. AIR-" Paddy's Wedding." I LATELY lived in quiet ease, Love is like a dizziness, To tell my feats this single week, Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I wrought that morning out an' out, Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, Love is like a dizziness, O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.* O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay, That wons in yonder glen; * This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day-a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, "Gude faith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.-Hogg. |