Volume Ii Part 7 (2/2)
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, I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
O, love, love, love! &c.
Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business!
O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.[58]
O, weel befa' the maiden gay, In cottage, bught, or penn, An' weel befa' the bonny May That wons in yonder glen; Wha loes the modest truth sae weel, Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal, An' pure as blooming asphodel Amang sae mony men.
O, weel befa' the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!
'Tis sweet to hear the music float Along the gloaming lea; 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note Come pealing frae the tree; To see the lambkins lightsome race-- The speckled kid in wanton chase-- The young deer cower in lonely place, Deep in her flowing den; But sweeter far the bonny face That smiles in yonder glen!
O, had it no' been for the blush O' maiden's virgin flame, Dear beauty never had been known, An' never had a name; But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell'd by an angel's frame, The power o' beauty reigns supreme O'er a' the sons o' men; But deadliest far the sacred flame Burns in a lonely glen!
There 's beauty in the violet's vest-- There 's hinney in the haw-- There 's dew within the rose's breast, The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again, An' lace wi' burning goud the main-- The rainbow bend outow'r the plain, Sae lovely to the ken; But lovelier far the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!
[58] 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 compet.i.tion 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 compet.i.tions 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 compet.i.tions, 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._
THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.
AIR--_”The Blue Bells of Scotland.”_
What are the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel-- The lovely flowers of Scotland, All others that excel?
The thistle's purple bonnet, And bonny heather-bell, O, they 're the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel!
Though England eyes her roses With pride she 'll ne'er forego, The rose has oft been trodden By foot of haughty foe; But the thistle in her bonnet blue, Still nods outow'r the fell, And dares the proudest foeman To tread the heather-bell.
For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the gem away.
But the thistle in her bonnet blue Still bobs aboon them a'; At her the bravest darena blink, Or gie his mou' a thraw.
Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we 'll be.
A foe had better brave the deil, Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather-bell.
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