Ye thought nae on my bridal bed, Ye thought upon the lands o' Nith, Away, ye cruel fause leman! Nae mair my bosom wring; There is a bird into yon bower, O gin ye heard it sing!" Lady, beware! Some words there are That secrets may betray No utterance gives them to the air— "It hirples on the bough, and sings, His cheek is on the cauld, cauld clay, Nae belt or brand has he ; His blood is on a kinsman's spear O wae's me, dame, for thee!"" My yeomen line the wood, ladye, An' you maun dree a dulefu' weird, Or mount an' ride wi' me." What gars Caerlaverock yeomen ride Sae fast in belt and steel? What gars the Jardine mount his steed, An' scour o'er moor and dale? The Johnstones, with an hundred strong, Have pass'd the sands o' Dryfe, As if some treasure they had lost That dearer was than life. Why seek they up by Liddel bower, The heiress of the lands of Nith Is lost to all her kin. O lang, lang may her mother greet, Down by the salt sea-faem; An' lang, lang may the Maxwells look, And lang may every Douglas rue, An' ban the deed for aye That deed was done at Liddel bower, About the break of day. AULD ETTRICK JOHN. THIS, and the four songs that follow, are all compositions of my early youth, made for the sphere around the cottage hearth and the farmer's kitchen-ingle, without the most distant prospect of any higher distinction. Therefore, with all the hankerings of early youth, even in my own estimation they are below par in poetical merit, and ought not to have been here. But they have been such general favourites among the class for which they were framed, for the last thirty years, that to them the leaving out of these songs would make a petrifying blank; it would be like a parent denying the first of his offspring. For the sakes, therefore, of the shepherds, cottagers, and rosy servant maids, these homely songs are preserved, while scores of more polished ones are left out; for nothing can be more satiating than a whole volume of songs all of the same grade. THERE dwalt a man on Ettrick side, An honest man I wat was he, His name was John, an' he was born He wed a wife when he was young, But she had dee'd, and John was wae; He wantit lang, at length did gang To court Nell Brunton o' the Brae. Auld John cam daddin' down the hill, His shoon war four punds weight a-piece, His doublet strang was large an' lang, His breeks they hardly reach'd his knee; His coat was thread about wi' green, The moths had wrought it muckle harm, The pouches war an ell atween, The cuff was fauldit up the arm; He wore a bonnet on his head, The bung upon his shoulders lay, An' by its neb ye wad hae read That Johnnie view'd the milky way: |