Here we go upon the deep,
Pull away, gallant boys!
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away!
Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs,
That whene'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys!
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away!
O, SAW YE THIS SWEET BONNY LASSIE O' MINE?
O, SAW ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine,
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine;
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!
It's no that she dances sae light on the green,
It's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
But O, it's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
That makes me as happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss-
On earth here there's naething is equal to this!
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd :
But O, there's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss-
On earth sure there's naething is equal to this!
HERSELL pe auchty years and twa,
Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
She twell amang te Heelan hills,
Ayont the reefer Spey, man.
Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
She first peheld te licht, man;
my father in tat stoureA plaguit, vexin' spite, man.
I've feucht in Scotland here at hame,
In France and Shermanie, man;
And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,
Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man.
But wae licht on te nasty cun,
Tat
pe porn, man; Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,
Her leaves pe never torn, man.
Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,
Phane'er it cam my turn, man;
Put a' te force tat I could gie,
Te powter wadna purn, man.
A filty loon cam wi' his cun,
Resolvt to to me harm, man;
And wi' te tirk upon her nose,
Ke me a pluddy arm, man.
I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,
And felt his nepour teit, man;
Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
Hewt aff te haf o's heit, man.
Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks;
My oons pe nae tiscrace, man;
Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
Ter a pefore my face, man.
AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE
AWAY!*
AH, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away,
An' left me here to languish,
I canna fend anither day
In sic regretfu' anguish.
My mind 's the aspen i' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean.
* This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.
I downa bide to see the moon
Blink owre the glen sae clearly;
Aince on a bonnie face she shone---
A face that I lo'ed dearly!
An' when beside yon water clear,
At e'en I'm lanely roaming,
I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile,
Thy words sae free an' kindly,
Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
The unbidden tear will blind me.
The rose's deepest blushing hue
Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou'
Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Oh! in the slippery paths of love,
Let prudence aye direct thee;
Let virtue every step approve,
An' virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alak! I am nae stranger;
An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang
Is best aware o' danger.
May still thy heart be kind an' true,
A' ither maids excelling;
May heaven distil its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early;
An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loo'd thee dearly.
GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.
I'LL sing of yon glen of red heather,
An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither,
Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime,
Love beckons in every sweet motion,
Commanding due homage to gie;
But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.
I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
Το gang to the brakens wi' me;
But though neither lordly nor saucy,
Her answer was- "Laith wad I be!
I neither hae father nor mither,
Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never
To gang to the brakens wi' thee."
"Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,
An' try your ain love to beguile?
For ye are the richest young lady
That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree, An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me!"
She turn'd her around an' said, smiling, While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear, "You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, O, you have valued it dear:
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