O POVERTY! ALEXANDER HUME, 1835. ELIZA was a bonnie lass, an', oh, she lo'ed me weel, I went unto her mother, an' I argued an' I fleech'd, I neist went to her brother, an' I told him a' my pain- O wealth! it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, But wait a wee; oh, love is slee, and winna be said nay, HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. Modernised version of the older song. I WISH I were where Helen lies- O Helen, fair beyond compare! Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And died for sake o' me. Oh, think nae but my heart was sair When my love fell and spak' nae mair; On fair Kirkconnell lea. I laid her down, my sword did draw, Oh, that I were where Helen lies; "Oh, come, my love, to me!" O Helen fair, O Helen chaste! I wish I were where Helen lies- LUCY'S FLITTIN'. WILLIAM LAIDLAW, died 1846. Mr. Laidlaw was the steward, amanuensis, and tried and trusted friend of Sir Walter Scott. "TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer; She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her— Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. She heard the craw sayin't high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? Then what gars me wish ony better to be? Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, Though now he said naething but, Fare ye weel, Lucy! The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit, The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie: she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! MY AIN FIRESIDE. ELIZABETH HAMILTON, authoress of the "Cottagers of Glenburnie." I HAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's As the bonnie blythe blink o' my ain fireside! Oh, cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside! My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! Ance mair, Gude be thanket, round my ain heartsome ingle Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer: My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! When I draw in my stool on my cosey hearthstane, And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee; Oh, there's nought to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! OUR AIN FIRESIDE. From Peter Buchan's manuscript collection of ancient Scottish songs. My country, o'er thy mountains wild Though stormy clouds may ride, Sits round thy fireside. Her ain fireside, my friends, Her ain fireside; May ne'er a tyrant's ruthless arm How cheery round the ingle-cheek Our ain fireside, my friends, Our ain fireside; I'm glad to see ye a' set round The poison'd shafts that malice throws While honest worth an' cheerfu' mirth Sit round the fireside. Our ain fireside, my friends, Our ain fireside; The warmest glow o' friendship's flame On human worth by length of purse The heart to share the world's care Aye heats the fireside. Our ain fireside, my friends, Our ain fireside; The sterling value o' the heart Aye gilds the fireside. |