From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.
UPON a fair morning, for soft recreation,
I heard a fair lady was making her moan,
With sighing and sobbing and sad lamentation,
Saying, My black bird most royal is flown.
My thoughts they deceive me, reflections do grieve me,
And I am o'erburden'd wi' sad miserie;
Yet if death should blind me, as true love inclines me,
My black bird I'll seek out wherever he be.
Once into fair England my black bird did flourish,
He was the flower that in it did spring;
Prime ladies of honour his person did nourish,
Because he was the true son of a king.
But since that false fortune, which still is uncertain,
Has caused this parting between him and me,
His name I'll advance in Spain and in France,
And seek out my black bird wherever he be.
The birds of the forest all met together;
The turtle has chosen to dwell wi' the dove;
And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather,
Once in the spring to seek out my love.
He's all my heart's treasure, my joy and my pleasure,
And justly, my love, my heart follows thee,
Who art constant and kind, and courageous of mind :
All bliss on my black bird wherever he be!
In England my black bird and I were together,
Where he was still noble and generous of heart;
Ah, woe to the time when first he went thither!
Alas, he was forced from thence to depart!
In Scotland he's deem'd and highly esteem'd,
In England he seemeth a stranger to be;
Yet his fame shall remain in France and in Spain:
All bliss to my black bird wherever he be!
What if the fowler my black bird has taken!
Then sobbing and sighing will be all my tune;
But if he is safe, I'll not be forsaken,
And hope yet to see him in May or in June.
For him through the fire, the mud, and the mire,
I'll go; for I love him to such a degree,
Who is constant and kind, and noble of mind,
Deserving all blessings wherever he be!
It is not the occan can fright me wi' danger,
Nor that like a pilgrim I wander forlorn;
I may meet wi' friendship from one is a stranger,
More than of one that in Britain is born.
I pray Heaven, so spacious, to Britain be gracious,
Though some there be odious to both him and me;
Yet joy and renown and laurels shall crown
My black bird with honour, wherever he be!
The "black bird" was a name given to the "Chevalier" for his dark complexion. It has often excited surprise that Allan Ramsay should have admitted so dangerous a song into his harmless and loyal collection. The allegory can scarcely be said to have been obscure and complicated enough to have deceived him as to its real meaning.
DR. ALEXANDER GEDDES, born 1737, died 1802.
Air-"Oh, an' ye were deid, gudeman!'
Он, send Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I daurna name;
Though his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa'!
Ochon, my Highlandman!
O my bonnie Highlandman!
Weel would I my true-love ken
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.
Oh, to see his tartan trews,
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes,
Philabeg aboon his knee!
That's the lad that I'll gang wi'.
This lovely youth of whom I sing
Is fitted for to be a king;
On his breast he wears a star,-
You'd tak' him for the god of war.
Ochon, &c.
Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear;
Then begins the jub’lee year.
Ochon, &c.
The "Lewis Gordon" of this song was a son of the Duke of Gordon. He was implicated in the affair of 1745, but fled to France after the defeat of Culloden.
WHAT'S a' the steer, kimmer?
What's a' the steer?
Charlie he is landed,
An', haith, he'll soon be here.
The win' was at his back, carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena, sin' he's come, carle,
We were na worth a plack.
I'm right glad to hear't, kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear't;
I hae a gude braid claymore,
And for his sake I'll wear't.
Sin' Charlie he is landed,
We hae nae mair to fear;
Sin' Charlie he is come, kimmer,
We'll hae a jub’lee year.
I HAE nae kith, I hae nae kin,
Nor ane that's dear to me;
For the bonnie lad that I lo'e best,
He's far ayont the sea.
He's gane wi' ane that was our ain,
And we may rue the day
When our king's ae daughter came here
To play sic foul play.
Oh, gin I were a bonnie bird
Wi' wings, that I might flee!
Then would I travel o'er the main,
My ac true-love to sec.
Then I wad tell a joyfu' tale
To ane that's dear to me,
And sit upon a king's window
And sing my melody.
The adder lies i' the corbie's nest
Aneath the corbie's wing,
And the blast that reaves the corbie's brood
Will soon blaw hame our king.
Then blaw ye east, or blaw ye west,
Or blaw ye o'er the faem,
Oh, bring the lad that I lo'e best,
And ane I darena name.
WE'LL NEVER SEE PEACE SIN' CHARLIE'S AWA'
From Buchan's "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald.",
By Carnousie's wa's, at the close of the day,
An auld man was singing, wi' locks thin and gray;
And the burden o' his sang, while the tears fast did fa',
Was, there'll never be peace sin' Charlie's awa'.
Our kirk's gaen either to ruin again.
Our state's in confusion, an' bravely we ken,
Though we darena weel tell, wha's to blame for it a';
But we'll never see peace sin' Charlie's awa'.
My sire and five brethren wi' Charlie they gaed,
On the muir o' Culloden now green grows their bed;
I ran wi' my life,-oh, how didna I fa'!
For nae pleasure I've seen sin' my prince was awa'.
Our auld honest master, the laird o' the lan',
He bauldly set aff at the head o' the clan ;
But the knowes o' Carnousie again he ne'er saw,
An' a's gaen to wreck sin' Charlie's awa'.
Yon pale Lammas moon has come threescore times roun’
Sin' my laird tint his lan' and my prince miss'd his crown;
Threescore years I've wander'd without house or ha’,
And I'll never see pleasure sin' Charlie's awa'.
This song, long supposed to have been lost, was recovered by Mr. Peter Buchan. The song by Burns, which immediately follows, was founded upon it.
By yon castle-wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing the tears down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yaird:
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
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