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Poems & Lyrics by John Collie (1856)

by John Collie (1834-1893)

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1.
Solitude 11:58
OH give me near some swelling stream to stray, 0r tread the windings of some pathless wood, For I am wearied of the bustling day, And long to meet thee, gloomy Solitude: That I with thee may climb those shelfy steeps, Which frown majestic o’er the boiling deeps. What are the joys and pleasures of the world Z Nought save a pleasing but deluding show ; From off its stage how soon are mortals hurled, To taste the slumbers of the grave below; While others, in succession, rise to claim Each boasted title of departing fame. They in their turn can flourish but a day, And as a rainbow in an evening clear, Their power and splendour for a time display; At last they feel a solemn change is near ; The dear-loved treasure which they hugg’d before, Loses its charms, and can be hugg’d no more. I envy not the pamper’d slave of State, Who wrongs his country to uphold a king; I envy not the luxuries of the great, To me such trifles can no pleasures bring ; But nature’s grandeurs in their wildest forms, Can yield me joys and never-dying charms. And thou, oh Solitude, my dearest friend, With thee I ever feel a chief delight, Thy solemn stillness captivates my mind, And shows me mankind in a clearer light ; And points me out their many hidden snares, To catch my human frailties unawares. In this sequester’d spot, n0 jarring sound Disturbs the listening and attentive ear, The wind is hushed, and silence so profound Tells me that solemn solitude is near; Each tree and bush seem having as their aim, To add a something to the general calm. Oh how unlike the busy, bustling street Of some proud city, with its airy crowd, Is this secluded yet adored retreat ; Though vulgar eyes may deem its wildness rude, Yet I can draw from it a source of pleasure, ' A feast of happiness, and a golden treasure. These clifl's which long have stood the wintry shock Of Time’s all ruthless and destroying hand; These yew trees, grappling with the rugged rock, Our admiration and respect command ; Each little floweret with its honey bell, Has something great and wonderful to tell. How many changes have o'er-swept the earth Since first those crags stood up to guard the glen ; Where are the faces which once beam‘d with mirth? Where are the warriors of a Bruce’s reign Z .Alas, to where we go they all have fled; Tradition only tells us what they did. Still, there is something pleasing to the mind To ponder on the things which once have been ; To muse on some much loved and honoured friend, On whose lone grave the grass may now wave green. For when the mind on early joys may rest, There’s something pleasing though the joys be past. Perhaps in this deep melancholy shade, Some youthful “ Ossian" may have tuned his lyre, And sung the praises of some artless maid, Whose winning smiles had set his heart on fire ; Or it may be he loved to sing of war, The flying squadron and the charioteer. Or who can tell but in this dreary glen, When Superstition held her mystic sway,— Like tyrant ruling o’er the minds of men, A dreadful fiend, too dreadful to pourtraye— ' Some one possessed of a transcendent mind, May here have wept to see his brothers blind. Or it may be some Cov’nanting band Fixed for a time their lone abode, To shun the scourge of Persecution’s wand, To love their fellows and adore their GOD ; Out from the world with all its ties alluring, They sought a something better worth procuring. But those dark days, those days of feuds and broils, Are now all number'd ’mongst the things that were; A calmer dawn o’er Scotia’s mountains smiles, Her sons less savage, though not less severe; The thirst for wealth seems now the ruling passion Of Peasant, Prince, and in a word, the nation. And why for gold make all this great confusion? , Why thus embrace our greatest earthly foe 'Q Why nurse and cherish such a vain delusion, , \Vhich seems to threaten with eternal wer Dispel the thoughts of gold, and bid Ambition cease, This world would then become a world of peace. How happy might we be, e’en pilgrims as we are, On this thrice grand and glorious earthly sphere, Would man but feel for those oppressed with care, _ And love his neighbour as his brother dear ; The wheels of life would then move smoothly round, The harsh word DEATH would have a sweeter sound. 0h why is man by his own passions crush’d, \Vhy murmur o’er each little fancied wrong; How soon are all those anxious passions hush’d, “ Man wants but little, nor that little long.”* Just as the cloud that sweeps athwart the sky, Man lives to know that he but lives to die. The grove, the meadow, and the lonely glen, Where warblers warble, and where wild flowers bloom, Which man exultingly believes his own, Must soon be bartered for the gloomy tomb; His wealth, his acres, and his mansions fair, Appear as nothing when Death’s arm is near. .Yet but a few short years, and I must pass away, And leave each hoary crag and quiet pellucid rill ; And yet, methinks, I hear bright fancy say, “ Oh, though departed, thou canst love them still ; o If aught can claim a Spirit’s admiration, Sure it must be this beautiful Creation." Oh Scotia dear, thrice dear thou art to me, 1 love thy mountains and thy caverns hoar; Oh, were thy sons heroic only free From vain Ambition’s undermining power; Were luxury banish’d, and were pride laid low, I My heart would leap with gladness at the blow. But why need I thus mourn my country’s woes, Why thus bewail the evils which I see ; I Can I not here indulge in sweet repose, Beneath the shadow of this aged tree, Safe from the glare of avaricious Pride, My Muse my comforter, my GOD my guide?
2.
I SCORN to stoop ' neath a foreign yoke , Or crouch at a tyrant's nod ; For my home is the mountain and rock , And my bed is the grassy sod . And all is mine in my flowery West , From the hill to the ocean blue ; And I love to skim o'er the ocean's breast In my rough but swift canoe . I ask no aid from a foreign arm My legal rights to guard ; With my faithful tribe I fear no harm , And the forests me food afford . For me the trees which deck my plains , With their luscious burdens bend ; And the streams which roll through my wild domains , For me o'er their crags descend . Could I be so base as resign my right To the gold - enamoured slave ; Or shrink from the front of the bloody fight , My worthless life to save ? No , no ; the ghosts of departed worth Would rise and round me howl ; And fearful forms would spring into birth , To crush my guilty soul . But I will be free as the flower that breathes , And free as the balmy gale , As it rides o'er the Andes snowy wreaths , And plays in my flowery vale .
3.
THE cauld blast of winter Is howling o’er the moor; The groves which smiled in summer days, Seem cheerless, lone, and bare. The mellow Warblers of the wood Nae langer chant their lay ; For, oh! it’s a bitter, biting blast, The blast of a wintry day. Nae mair the wee wild flowers are seen adown the woody vale, Nae mair we feel their balmy breath, Come floating on the gale; Nor on the mossy mountain sides, Nae mair the lambkins play; For they cower beneath the biting blast, The blast of a Wintry day. Nae mair upon the grassy bank The shepherd tunes his reed, but shuddering stands behind the bush, Wrapt in his rough-spun plaid. While round him winter wildly howls In terrible array ; And he shrinks to brave the biting blast, The blast of a wintry day. Nae mair we hear the cushet’s coo The waving woods amang, nae mair we hear the linnet’s lay, nor the milkmaid’s simple sang. Nae mair we hear the humming bee come laden down the brae, for it’s a bitter biting blast, the blast of a wintry day. Nae mair the loving pair are seen adown the hawthorn shade; the hawthorn now hath lost its charms and the loving pair have fled. For a howling wind from the angry north has filled them with dismay; and the hawthorn shakes its naked boughs to the blast of a wintry day. Oh give me back the summer days, the gaudy days of yore; that I might sing with joysome glee ‘mongst nature’s harmless choir; and let me muse adown the vale and o’er the mountains stray – for it’s a pure refreshing breeze, the breeze of a summer’s day.
4.
THE sweet breath of summer blows fresh o’er each plain, The woods have resumed their lost grandeur again; The groves with the notes of the blackbird are ringing, By fountain and streamlet the wild flowers are springing. And the breath of the heather bell sweetens the breeze, And the old stormy ocean lies slumbering in peace; And the wild bees are humming around the wild flowers, Afar above earth the lark proudly soars; The bleat of the lamb on the moss-cover’d hill, The sound of the shepherd’s pipe jocund and shrill, All tell in a language most striking and plain, T hat summer, fair summer, is reigning again, The old face of nature her smiles has put on, And the blustery appearance of winter has flown.
5.
Autumn 03:51
A U T U MN . AGAIN old Autumn murmurs from the hill , His annual toils already are begun ; His angry blast howls down the fertile vale , Gust after gust with melancholy moan . Ah , what a change ! no flowers bedeck the grove , Nor fill the air with odoriferous sweets ; No warbler pours his melting lay of love , No honey - laden bee the traveller meets . No sporting lambs skip down the mountain's side , Where heather bells in clusters lately waved ; Nor where the sun , when in his summer pride , When o'er the lake he floods of silver laved . The spreading oak , by smiling summer dress't In waving garments of a glossy green , Is ' reft of all by Autumn's ruthless blast , Which rides triumphant o'er the arid plain . The naked willow by the silent lake Sighs to the gale , dejected and forlorn ; As when the mother to her griefs awake , When from her breast her early hopes are torn : All seems to tell in language strong That nought is stable on this earthly sphere ; The grave , the gay , the aged , and the young , Stand on a ladder weak and insecure . I've seen at evening with intense delight A lovely flower that scarce its form had shown , And ere the morning både farewell to night , Its looks were faded and its beauties flown : Thus flowers must fade , and man , too , must decline , As snows dissolve and swallowed are by earth , And death's proud fetters will his frame entwine , Nor count his lineage nor his honoured birth . The Spring again will lightly trip the plain , And leave her mantle on the hawthorn boughs ; Her gentle voice will wake the woodland's train , Her beamy smiles again recall the rose But when will Spring bring gladness to the tomb ? Where lord and beggar on a level lie ; That dreary house of solitude and gloom , Where Discord , Envy , and Ambition die .
6.
Nature 03:13
GIVE me to wander , at the close of day , In some lone vale or unfrequented grove , Where I may muse the twilight hours away , Where music mingles with the notes of love ; And let me draw from NATURE's fountain pure , A cooling draught the wounded mind to cure . Nature hath charms , and charms which may be won , Let reason dictate and thou'lt find it so ; The balmy air , the glorious evening sun , The cloud - top't mountains , and the plains below : Each calls to reason , come and learn of me , To live in peace and joyous harmony . The blood - stained warrior may delight to hear The clang of armies and the battle's howl ; The frenzied drunkard has his midnight cheer , When to his lips he lifts the maddening bowl ; But these are charms which vanish with a breath , And days of sadness follow hours of mirth . But Nature's charms can know of no decay , Each passing season some ripe offering brings ; The lark's shrill whistle and the linnet's lay , Each tree that blossoms and each flower that springs , Invite proud man his follies to forsake , And come to Nature and her gifts partake . Then come , ye revellers , come to Nature's shrine , All ye who sport in taverns and at balls : ' Tis Wisdom's summons , ' tis a voice divine , In cheerful accents , who ever on you calls ; Each opening bud contains for thee a balm , To soothe thy sorrows , and thy soul to calm .
7.
DEAR scenes of childhood , still by me beloved , Though distant far I from your charms have roved Through spicy groves where crystal rivers run , And wild flowers wither ' neath a southern sun ; Yet all I leave , their charms I bid adieu , And fly in haste , my native land , to you . Swift through the waves the noble vessel steers , And at the last my native land appears . Hail to her cliffs ! their grandeur swells my soul , And tears of gladness down my wan cheeks roll ; With joy I claim her crags , to me long lost , I see her mountains , and I scan her coast ; And longing wait that I again may be Wbere floats the banner of the brave and free . No longer fears exist , nor doubts beguile Once more I tread upon my native soil : I view her oliffs , though rugged , yet sublime , By storms unalter'd , and unchanged by time ; All seem the same as when in youthful pride . I roamed exulting by their foamy side . With rapid steps I leave the rocky shore , To tread the footsteps often trod of yore ; Each winding path where I in youth have strayed , Each flowery mead where I in youth have played , Each hazel bush , and moss - encircled stone , Bid woes and sorrows for a time be gone , Sorrows depart , and woes no longer live , They die , alas , but soon again revive . I reach my home , I view the rustic chair , I seek a parent , but no parent's there ; I gaze around in quest of former friends , I call , I listen , but no voice responds . Sad recollections of my early bliss , No friend now hails me with a friend's embrace ; All are departed , and in dust are laid ; My home deserted , and my home decayed , I take my seat beneath the aged tree , Whose hoary arms in youth oft sheltered me ; Then o'er my soul the biting grief returns , My woes surround me , and my bosom burns , To think that all my promised joys are vain , And I must linger out a life of pain . Then farewell joy , since I no more can share A parent's friendship , or a parent's care , And welcome grief , that I my woes may mourn , Till death's last summons seal me in my urn .
8.
MY native land, my native land, To sing thy praise I’ll try, For I nae ither garland have Around thy brow to tie. I winna sing of wars you’ve seen, Nor blood once on you shed; I winna sing the noble deeds Your gallant sons once did. But I will of your mountains sing, Your caverns, and your glens; Where Solitude in all his pomp In mighty grandeur reigns. And I will of your valleys sing, And heathy knowes so fair, For beauty in her gayest charms Is ever lingering there. That there are fairer lands on earth, I readin agree; But what are all those fairy elimes, Sweet home, compar’d with thee 2 Then, wheresoe’er I chance to stray, Or wheresoe’er I roam; I’ll ever long and wish for thee, My dear lov’d Scottish home.
9.
I SING of the land where in youth I have rambled, I sing of her heroes who long, long have gone; And I sing of her steep crags where of t I have scrambled, When dull pining cares to me were unknown, How oft I have roamed o’er her blue misty mountains, And cull’d her wild cowslips and heather bells fair; And lightly I’ve stroll’d by her clear winding fountains, Inhaling with rapture the sweet summer air. How oft I have gazed on the sky lark ascending, To pour forth her praise at the dawn of the day ; While dewy and lovely the pine boughs were bending, Attired in the greenest of nature’s array. How oft in the evening I’ve seen with emotion The mountain kids sporting when Phoebus retires To glad other regions concealed by the ocean; But away, what can rival the land of my sires? Green spot of my heart, the brightest the fairest, Thrice sacred the memory for ever of you; Sweet haunts of my childhood, to me ever dearest, Though now with a tear I must bid you adieu. Thus, like to the miser who clings to his riches, I cling to the land of the thistle and pine; Her snow-cbver’d hills my soul so bewitches, Oh! would but the past with its pleasures were mine. But, alas! those loved scenes I must leave now to others, For fate has decreed that I shall not remain ; So adieu to the land of my youth and my fathers, To seek for a home o’er the wild foaming main. But, still I will think on a mother’s caresses, When far o’er the blue sea I waft with the gale; I And still I will cherish a father’s advices, Who pledged me his blessing adown the green vale. But away, ye dull thoughts, for I cannot endure you, Go, war with another and leave me alone ; For the fathomless ocean I’m' destined to brave now, So blow fair ye breezes and let me be gone. Then adieu to the land of my youth, Farewell to her crags, steep and hoary ; Farewell to the scenes of my birth, And adieu to the land of my glory.
10.
To the Ocean 03:37
OLD ocean , your sound has a charm for my ear , It reminds me of days that are gone , When o'er your rugg'd boundaries , a stranger to fear , I have travelled , and travelled alone . I have laughed when your billows , like mountains , were leaping , And heaving their foam o'er the wild troubled shore , While o'er your white bosom the petrels were sweeping , Forgetting your wrath , and unheeding your roar . As the roe of the mountain delights to be free , And bounds o'er the plains with the speed of the wind , Disdaining the mark of the sportsman to be , But depends on his swiftness , and leaves him behind , So I , like the roe , had no cares to enthral me When last I your watery bosom surveyed ; No gloomy forebodings e'er dared to recall me From the grandeur your foam - crested billows dis played . But how like the flower that is nursd by the sunshine , That shoots forth its blossoms and blooms for a while , Till around it the hoar - frosts of Autumn encircle , And leave but the stem to adorn the vale . So the Autumn of age is o'er me impending , The leaf now is yellow and begun to decay ; The fruit now is ripe , and the twig now is bending , And the first breeze of winter may waft all away .. Yet though Time's silent hand all my senses have shaken , Though in care’s gloomy garments my soul is arrayed , When I gaze o'er the blue sea my fancies awaken I To bright recollections , long , long since decayed . Then roll on in splendour , thou white foamy ocean , In majesty , greatness , and grandeur roll on ; Though dim be my eye , my heart swells with emotion , When I think on the gay happy days that are gone .
11.
I MET FOUR CHIELS . I MET four chiels the ither night , I trow they were a daiz'd like sight , The Deil himsel had gotten a fright , Had he but been wi ' me , O. I speer'd at them where they had been , Or what misconduct they had deen , Gif aught unyirthly they had seen , I bade them tell me free , O. Ane o ' them was a souter gude , As e'er put rozet on a thread , I trow he was a jovial blade , But sair forefought was he , 0 Quo ' he , mysel ' and cronies three , Hae been this fortnight on the spree , An ' fint a plack now left hae we , And sair's our drouth to dree , O. We ca'd at yonder cot down by , ' Tis said they keep it on the sly , But though our tongues were tinder dry , The deil a drap they'd gie , 0 O’d , when I heard their waefu ' tale , I drew frae out my black coat tail A flagon I had for mysel ' , O'Hieland usquebaugh , O. We set us down upon the bank , Syne drew the cork , and blithely drank , Till down before ' s the souter sank , To try't upon his knee , O. Faith , when I saw ' im before us lie , I thought we'd better hameward try , For fear some body might come bye We wouldna ' wish to see , O. We raised him noo upon his pins , And pat a prop before his shins , Syne bade him t ' repent his sins , That pardoned he might be , 0 . Hoo they gat hame I canna tell . I scarce ken hoo I wan mysel ' ; But noo I'm here an ' soun ' an ' hale , An ' fairly coured the spree , 0 . credits
12.
13.
YE Scots , wha like to taste a drap O ' sterling usquebaugh , A sad misfortune's on us fa'en , An ' frae't we canna flee . A certain birkie i ’ the south , Wha ' tis I winna name , Has run awa to Lunnan town , An ' played's a bonny game . He tell's afore the Lunnan folks ' Bout a ' our drunken rants ; And syne he pictures forth to them Our lamentable wants . He tells them a ' that we hae spent On this thing an ' the ither ; And syne wi ' scientific lair He adds them a ' thegither . And when he has them a ' summed up , Losh man , hoo sly he looks ; Syne claps them down on black an ' white , In what he ca's his books . That what we drink is a ' our ain , He darna ance dispute ; But gif we were to tell him that , He would us a ' confute . He has sae mony cunnin ' words , So deep is read in Latin , That wi ' him we'd hae little chance , Unless we took the batton . Besides he has so mony folks To stuff his lugs wi ' haivers , Wha would auld Scotland's wizen nick , Were it to gain them favours . They've gi'en auld Scotland mony a stab , In ae time or anither ; But gif they gie her mony mair , They'll rip her a ' thegither , They change our laws an ' new anes mak , Ilk chiel to suit himsel ; And syne they'll nobly cock their crests , An say ' tis for our weal . And faith they would hae us believe That Englishmen we're turnin ' ; But ere I heard them tell me that , I'd rather see them burnin ' . They tryst awa auld Scotia's wealth To far famed Lunnan town , To sip their wine and sit at court , And compliment the Queen . Besides , they gae the right to rule To a bit German carlie , And banished frae our Hielan glens The rightful heir Prince Charlie . My lucky , honest ' oman said , When she was in her teens , She fed the Prince , her lawful lord , Three days on curly greens . Now try your German gents wi ' that , And see hoo they would sneer ; They'd tell you that their German gabs Were made for better cheer . But Scotland , lass , ye've lien owre lang , Get up an ' fa ' to wark ; And kilt your tartan petticoats , And draw your rusty dirk . And stamp your fit on English grun , And tell them wha ye are ; Syne bid them mind on Bannockburn , And famous Preston Muir . And gif ye dinna get redress , Tak vengence just an'ample ; Nick aff three score o ' English heads , And leave them for a sample . Syne tack my word ye'll get your will , Ye shanna lang be stintit ; They'll gie you onything ye like , Gif ye but merely hint it . For weel they ken auld Scotland's might , Gif ance her temper's ruffled ; They ken her sons ' ll no be beat , They'll die afore their baffled . Oh ! gif her sons wad tak the field , I'd sune throw by my sadness ; I'd heave my bonnet i ' the air , And dance and sing wi ' gladness . I'd sune throw aff this hamper'd coat , And , dress'd in Celtic order , Wi ' dirk and pistol and claymore , We'd march across the border . We'd cross the Tweed at Coldstream brig , By Flodden's heights we'd wander ; And drap a tear amang the heath , Where Jamie lost his grandeur.t For Lunnan neist we'd tak the road , Though lang it be an ' cheerless ; The piper's drone would help us on , Our rights would mak us fearless . Ld , hoo the Lunnan louns would shake , When we our blades would bare ; Our tartan kilts and naked houghs Would mak them sweat wi ' fear . They'd sune frae out their amries bring Beef , bread , and cheese à routh ; Besides , they'd bring their nappy brown , To quench our Scottish drouth . We'd sune get back our mutchkin stoup , The wimplin ' worm an'a ' ; They'd gie's our ancient rights again , To get's to wear awa . Auld Scotland then her head might kaive , An ' prance like ony stagie ; An ' roar an' sing an ' drink her fill , Syne play her wi ' her coggie . Then may her sons sune come to see Their critical position ; And may they sune some project try To better their condition .
14.
The Thistle 03:04
THOUGH Scotia canna boast her palms , Her spicy shrubs , nor healing balms , Yet she can boast a plant that claims As much respect As a ' Arabia's costly gems Tied in a sack . Come forth , thou thistle , rear thy head , Great type of Freedom's charter'd blade ; Point to the spots where thou'st been fed On England's gallants ; Wha aften i ' the dust were laid By Scotia's callants . On hillock , height , or mountain drear , By rippling rill and river clear , When foreign foe e'er ventur'd near , To gaur us smart , Thou like a patriot wast there , To tak thy part . Full many a gallant loun has faen , Auld Scotia's honours to maintain , And that thy head might still remain Unscathed , unseered , To deck our noble father lan ' , Loved and revered . In days of yore , when I was free To rant and play upon the lea , The jags and scars I gat frae thee , There's few that kens ; Yet a ’ your fauts I noo forgie , Thou best ofriens . There may be some wha slight thy name , And turn thy greatness into game ; But were they here we would them tame , And gar them claw ; O'thy rough shanks we'd mak ’ a flame , And roast them a ' . Then lang may thy auld prickly pow Be seen to nod on ilka knowe , And may ye never need to bow To foreign chiels ; But should they come , let's make a vow To jag their heels .
15.
HERE’S a health to my cronies where’er they reside, Whether this side or that o’ yon big rowin’ tide ; I care na what country or kingdom they claim, Be they English or Irish to me it’s the same, Gif their hearts to a glass o’ gude whisky incline, I instantly class them as “Cronies o’ mine.” Awa wi’ yon nabob purse-proud o’ his gear, Neither he nor his wealth hae charms for us here; Awa wi’ yon fop wi’ his clear headed cane, A bit trip through the warld, it’s use may explain; But welcome my cronies wherever ye be, To join in this gude reekin’ bumper wi’ me. A fig for the wealth that this warld can gie, We naething brought here, sae we’ve naething to lea; The farmer wi’ ousen an’ acres galore, Has his crosses just now, an’ may sune count on more; Then come here, my cronies, let’s kick awa care, As lang’s we’ve a groat or a shilling to spare.
16.
By my faith , sirs , this canna lang dee , I'll hae to gie o'er and repent ; I've been sax weeks an ' mair on the gee . Till my very internals are rent . Now , Landlord , ye'll just bring ae bottle , Ae bottle an ' I'll be content ; And to - morrow I'll join the teetottle , And in sackcloth and ashes repent . My finances hae now fa'en so low , That I scarce hae a shilling to spare ; And my dudds are but just so an ' so , A sma ' thing the warse o ' the wear . My friens are a praying and preaching , And bidding me turn and grow wise ; And yet a ' their wonderful teaching Seems but for the sake o ' advice . Gif I ask ane's assistance in speaking , Man , how he'll blether and puff ; But if twa three bright Geordies I'm seeking , He'll shortly gae aff i ' the huff . I admit that my conduct's been bad , But what can a poor body do ; Its surely nae use being sad , When ane can be blythe when he's fou . There's a set o ' bright callant's ca’ed bards , Wha hae cost me mony a crown ; And yet I aye reap my rewards , When wi ' ane o ' the craft I sit down . For they are the lads wha can crack ' Bout the kirk , the State , and the nation ; And e'en though I say't , ' tis a fact , They can point out the way to Salvation . Though they had nae a saxpence but ane , Without e'er a grumble they'd spend it ; And to ease the distress o ' a frien ' , The coat aff their back they would lend it . Yet in duty I'm bound to admit , That their follies are mair than they should be ; But then , their bright flashes o’wit Mak their follies thought less o ' than would be . Then farewell , ye Knights o ' Parnassus , For a time I your haunts måun forsake , To dwell amang dunces and asses , Wha scarce can a joke gie nor take . Then , Landlord , ye'll bring me a bottle , And for ance I'll gie care a bit kick ; And to - morrow I'll join the teetottle , And till’t like a bur I will stick
17.
WHAT deil's the matter wi ' you , Meg ? I think ye're cracket fairly , that ye would marry Bob , A puir bow't backet carlie . He well your grandfather might be , Think shame , ye glaiket hizzy ; Thae men will some day put you daft , You're head's already dizzy . But , mither , what am I to do ? Am I to dee a wanter ? See , muckle Betty o'er the gate , Has buckled Charlie Hunter ; Besides , I've lien ower lang my lane , The very thought me rouses , I want to ken the loving joys The married life produces . Weel , faith , gif that be your look out ,I fear ye're lanted sairly , You'll find a shabby share o ' heat About yon cankert carlie. But tak advice , an ' wait a wee , A paction ye may mak yet , Some honest sonsie farmer chiel Ye hae a chance to get yet . Noo , mither , whisht , ye brawly ken , I'm thirty - five and mair , An ' fint a ane this mony a year , Hae come my price to speer . In trying to catch the farmer loun , I lost the smith and miller , I'll rue the day that e'er I thought To win the heart o siller . But I'll the present chance embrace , As lang ' s a chance is offered , Neist week I'll grapple Robin's hand , As lang's that hand is proffered ; What care I though the neibours say , His jolly days are past , I'll strive to do the best I can , Let Robin do the rest .
18.
’OD, Christy lass, can ye divine, What may the reason be, That ilka night that Robin comes, He seems sae fond 0’ me. He kisses me frae lug to lug, An’ ca’es me a’ his aim ; But there’s something that the laddy wants, The thing’s baith clear and plain. II. I aften hae made up my mind, To ask him what he meant ; But ne’er has had the courage yet, To gie ’im the bit hint. I try to do the best I can, And seem baith fond and fain; And yet there maun be something wrang, The thing’s baith clear and plain. III. Last Hallowe’en he came to me, A wee bit on the spree; But I trust this winna farder gang, Than just ’tween you and me. For stories are mischievous things, Which always end in pain;An’ gif he kent he would gang daft, The thing’s baith clear and plain. IV. That night he at my window knock’t, An“ bade me let him in; An’ I thought to keep him stanin’ out Would be a waefu’ sin.So I wi ' haste unbarred the door , An ' wow but he was fain ; There's a something i ' your head , quo ' I , The thing's baith clear and plain . IV. That night he at my window knock’t, An“ bade me let him in; An’ I thought to keep him stanin’ out Would be a waefu’ sin. So I wi’ haste unbarrcd the door, An’ wow but he was fain; There’s a something i’ your head, quo’ I, The thing’s baith clear and plain. V. ' Had ye but seen hoo he rampaged, Sae cracky and sae crouse ; I thought nae but he would alarm The auld folks ’bout the house. An’ aye he drew me till his breast, An’ ca’ed me a’ his aim; But he had something in his e’e, The thing’s baith clear and plain. VI. Its only but a towmont past, At Martinmas last year, Sin’ he began wi’ tainty steps, Our hallan to draw near. An’ but to you an’ cousin Meg, I never taul’t to ane; So I trust ye’ll do the best ye can, My question to explain.
19.
ADIEU , adieu , to bonnie Tweed , Adieu , her banks so green ; Adieu , adieu , each sylvan grove , Where often I have been . Adieu , adieu , each hoary height ; Farewell , each whin - clad brae ; Adieu , her bonnie blooming howes , That ever smile so gay . Oft have I roam'd upon her banks , When gentle zephyrs blew , While o'er her pure and crystal breast The twittering swallows few . With blooming Mary by my side , I had no cause to fear ; My heart was light , my griefs were few , When Mary thus was near . But now , alas ! those joys have pass’d , And Mary now is gone To rest , among departed friends , Beneath the moss - clad stone ; And I am left to sigh and pine In this drear world of care , And cannot even view the spot Where rests my sleeping fair . Oh , farewell , all ye earthly joys , Ye ne'er were deign'd for me , A chequer'd mind oppress'd with woes Can ill with mirth agree . But give me near some rippling rill My weary life to end , And give me Nature's book to read , And I'll be Nature's friend
20.
AULD Satan , when ye first gae through Your regions dark and awful , A sma ' bit favour I would crave , Gif ye but think it lawful . Gie my respects to Souter Will , The first time ye forgather ; And tell him that I'm wae to think Him lost for a ’ thegither . For ministers and others say He straught to you was taken ; ' Cause he the creed o ' Scotland's kirk Had mony a day forsaken . Gif that be true , as it may be , Though faith I'm misbelieving , You ne'er met wi ' a slier coof , Since ye took to deceiving . But use him well , and gif ye can , Oh gie ' im a bit promotion ; O ' a ' your buts and a ' your bens He ' shortly hae a notion . But keep him aye beneath your thumb , And work him smooth and sweetly ; Or o'er your head he'll tak your trade , And dam your luck completely ,
21.
OH wha hasna heard 0’ the artist ca’ed Blain, For mony a portrait in Coldstream he’s taen; Be they young, be they auld, be they gentle or semple, He hurries them afi' without wrinkle or pimple. And yet he’s aye true, and never beguiles, For the auld hae their frowns and the young has their smiles ; And some even think that he deals wi’ Auld Nicky, He speaks aye so cunning, so pithy, and tricky. The auld wives they run wi’ braids i’ their hair, And the lasses wi’ breaches and breastknots are there, And the gentry on horseback wait their turn at the door, For he maks nae distinction ’tween wealthy and poor. Ane seated before him he looks for a wee, Her beauty, her smiles, and her features to see, Sync he. cunningly shuts himsel’ up i’ the dark, Sae as name may disclose his magical wark. An” what he does there nae body can tell, Gif he deals wi‘ the Devil, he kens best himsel’; But ae thing is true, and nae ane dare doubt it, That, for taking a likeness, he’s nae lang about it. His wide-spreading fame a’ the country alarms, And the wabsters 0’ Hawick hae flown to their armsf‘ And a strong opposition they swear to maintain ’Gainst the king 0’ the artists, our ain Jamie Blain. But, ye knights of the shuttle, I bid you beware, Lest our lang-headed callant for you lay a snare : He’ll harass you in front, an’ assail you behind, And ye’ll hae to gie up what ye canna defend. Then success to you, Jamie, an’ lang may ye shine, And lang may the Muses around you entwine ; May joy and contentment be yours while on earth, And may peace seal your eyes in the moments of death.
22.
Why did I leave my native home ? Why did I o'er the billows roam ? Why did I leave Britannia's Isles , That fairy land , where freedom smiles , To seek a home where Slavery reigns In triumph o'er his wild domains ? Oh gold , of ' luring , doubtful fame , For thee I o’er the billows camé , For thee I fled my native vale , For thee I bade my friends farewell ; For thee I braved the ocean's roar , To pine upon a foreign shore . Thus , as the rainbow's colours bright , Thy witching charms rose in my sight ; But , as the rainbow's tints decay , So passed thy airy charms away , And left me here to sigh alone , With blighted hopes , and prospects gone . The morning sun's resplendent rays Recall to mind my early days , When I could claim a filial friend , To calm the current of my mind , And snatch from me the sting of care , Which oft has laid this bosom bare . But now , alas , no friend is near To shed for me one sacred tear ; No mother's hand my bed to smooth , No father's prayer my pangs to soothe ; All seems a bleak and cheerless waste , As wild to me as ocean's breast . Yet while the blood flows through my veins , And while the spark of life remains , I yet may hope to view once more My own , my rough , my rugged shore ; Misfortune may its bands release , And I may end my days in peace .
23.
Oa ! had I only known thy name , How I thy praise would sing ; A garland of the gayest flowers To deck thy brow I'd bring . I'd pull the bracken frae the brae , The daisy frae the lea ; And the heather bells o ' Scotland's dales , To weave a wreath for thee . I'd raise for thee a gaudy bower , In some deep sylvan shade ; I'd chant for thee an artless lay , And roll thee i ' my plaid . For thou canst boast a noble mind , Unscath'd by wild Ambition ; Oh , would that Scotia's females had But half thy erudition .
24.
What aileth thee , my darling boy , Why starts the big tear in thine eye ? It wounds this bleeding breast of mine , To hear thy father's orphan cry . What can it be that o'er thee hangs , And wraps thy youthful soul in gloom ? Oh ! would that I could share thy pangs , And snatch the canker from thy gloom . Wipe off that tear , my early hope , It ill becomes thy father's son To sigh in this thy early morn , Thy griefs and cares are soon begun Thou yet hast days enough in store , And many sleepless nights are thine ; Thy breast may yet its anguish pour , When sigh and sob have ceased in mine . Thou’rt but a plant in early spring , Thy bud has scarce begun to form ; Thou ne'er hast seen life's summer sun , Nor felt life’s nipping wintry storm . Yet soon , too soon , the bud will burst , The flower and fruit will then appear , And thou wilt feel , as feel thou must , The yellow leaf has much to fear . Yet thou art young and free to roam , The field of fame for thee is wide ; But if thou travel'st free of cares , ' Tis more than e'er thy mother could . Then come , my early hope , be still , And wipe away that briny tear ; Thou yet hast time to weep thy full , When none will for your weeping care .
25.
. TO A SNOW DROP . WITH joy I hail thee , lovely gem , From out thy icy bed ; Thy silken drop , and slender stem , Tell the wintry winds hae fled . Sweet harbinger of brighter days , And skies more calm and clear , The sun will shine with warmer rays , Sweet flower , since thou art here . But ah ! what changes we have seen , Since last thy welcome forin Burst forth to deck the cheerless green , And the drooping heart to charm We've seen the summer's gaudy plumes Adorn each bank and brae ; We've tasted of their rich perfumes , And we've seen them pass away . We've seen old autumn thin and pale , With the sear and yellow leaf ; We've seen him stalking down the vale , With his sickle and his sheaf . And we've felt the grasp of winter's hand , As he roared o'er the snow - top'd hill ; And we've seen him bind in his iron band , The lake and the rippling rill . Then lift thy head , sweet floweret fair , Thy modest praise I'll sing ; And I'll tend thee with a lover's care , Thou Fairy Queen of Spring .
26.
FAREWELL to thee , charming deceiver , No more will I crouch at thy gate ; I once was an earnest believer , And my folly I see when too late . I once had a whimsical notion , That woman was nothing but love , As true as the tides of the ocean , And as sweet as the flower of the grove . But experience has taught me a lesson , A lesson I ever will mind ; And the clear undisguised voice of reason Says , thy kindness at best was unkind . You laughed at my weakness , and said , It was only a childish affection ; My caresses with scorn you repaid , Which hurried me on to dejection . Did I weep , when ye bade me begone ? Yes , I wept till I could weep no more Did I sigh ? ' twas for pangs then unknown , And griefs which I ne'er felt before . Did I love ? yes , I loved without measure , My soul to her inmost was charmed ; I nursed and I fondled my treasure , Till its sting all my senses disarmed , But why need I weep and complain , Since fate has approved the decree ; And time now has severed the chain , Which bound those affections to me . But yet , when I try to seem light , My idol is ever at hand ; Who crushes me down with the weight The weight of her magical wand . Can the bird of the forest be gay , When deprived of her young feathery brood ? Can the traveller , when wandering astray , Look blyth in a desolate wood ? Or can love , unrequitted , rejoice , When neglected , despised , and forlorn ? No , the spark that flies upward soon dies , But love still continues to burn . But words are all useless and vain , Though they , too , at times must have vent ; ' Tis hard to be always in pain , But ' tis worse to be never content . Then farewell , thou charming deceiver , No more will I crouch at thy gate ; I once was an earnest believer , And my folly I see when too late .
27.
The dying monarch raised his head And shook his hand , and wildly said , Ah , what is this , what's this I feel ? Ye Satraps bow the knee and tell What hand is this that does me bind , What weight is this that does me grind ; Some mightier arm than man's is here , I see and feel a keener spear . Ah , there again , I feel the dart Pierce with a venom to my heart ; It seems to grapple with my breath , Sure this must be the hand of Death . What's all my deeds of daring fame , Compared with this unequal game . I've thrown aside the bolts of war , I've rushed against the naked spear , I've conquered kings , empires o'erthrown , I've gathered laurels and renown ; But what do all these deeds avail , When verging on the brink of Hell ? Though nobles stoop and princes bow , What's their obedience to me now ? Though thousands at my high command , Would each display a gleaming brand , And rush with madness on the foe , And hurl him to the shades below , Yet , all their bravery , all their might , Their in the bloody fight Would feel convulsed , would turn aside , Before death's sharp unsheathed blade . Though richest fruit my table decks , Though smiling plenty on me becks , Though luxury's unbridled steed Revels and riots round my bed , Though gayest garbs and textures fine Around my fever'd head entwine , Though all my vassals strive to please , Nought can this tortured spirit ease . Tell me , ye menials , tell we where I might a peaceful moment share ; Is it in the cottar's shed ? Is it on the peasant's bed ? If so , I'd willingly retire To some lone hut , and there expire . But thoughts like these are wild and vain , I hear Death rattling with his chain ; I must depart , I hear the call , I must forsake each gilded hall . But , oh ! tis terrible to die , I fain would , but I cannot fly ; I fain would wrench from Death that brand He waves triumphant in his hand ; But , ah ! ' tis useless , now I feel His pointed weapon , fare - thee - well . The monarch ceased , the courtier train Shook , muttered , gazed , and shook again ; They saw life's dying embers fade , They felt the sting of horror's blade . Before them lay a lifeless form , Which once had life with passions warm ; The hand was stiff , which oft had reined The war horse , and the prisoner chained . A lifeless lump of senseless clay The stern despotic MONARCH lay .
28.
And thus the sire began “ What kind of knowledge doest thou seek ? Come tell me , oh , my son . Doest thou wish to see the heroes great Who have long from the world been gone ? Would'st thou wish to hear each chief relate The deeds which he has done ? Or would'st thou thy knowledge rather acquire From the aged sons of the harp and lyre ? " I said “ ' twere a noble sight to see The mighty men of old , Who bled that their countries might be free From the tyrants ' fatal hold , Yet I'd deem it a nobler sight by far To behold the sons of the harp and lyre . ” Yet I'd deem it a nobler sight by far To behold the sons of the harp and lyre . ” a drew near , He waved his golden wand on high And a band of the sons of song drew nigh ; The first that pass'ed had a Grecian lyre , And he breathed on its strings his soul of fire , He spoke of the great Achilles ' fame , And I heard him lisp Ulysses ' name , And he vanished from my sight . Then Ossian , son of Scottish song , With a firm step next pass'd along , And he sung of Fingal's might . Another son of song And he held in his hand a Roman lyre , And he sung of Roman fame He spoke of Æneas ' flight from Troy , And he sung of the heaven - protected Boy , But he vanished , and Orpheus came And pass'd , for the crowd came thicker on , With sounds and songs to me unknown With harps and lyres of ancient mould Too great and many to be told , Or e'en for pen to name . As on they press'd I clearly heard The voice of the famed Baotian Bard , Great Pindar , son of fame . Thespis , prince of the Tragic Muse , Ovid and Horace of deathless lays , And Sappho , the queen of song , In pleasing concord press'd along ; And yet the crowd grew thicker still As mist which gathers on the hill , As clouds which roll athwart the sky , The mighty host pass'd slowly by , With varied sounds , harsh , soft , and clear , Which charmed my keen enquiring ear . At last I thought they all were gone , When , lo ! another host came on With harps and lyres of British make , And I gloried for Britannia's sake , To think that such a mighty host Should sally from the rugged coast . The mighty Milton first me pass't , Immortal Shakspeare followed fast ; Before me lofty Chaucer stood Like some gigantic sculptured God ; Fletcher , Beaumont , and mighty Ben , Came hand in hand with Hawthornden . Next , in russet garb , appeared Immortal Burns - old Scotia's Bard A cloak was o'er his shoulders flung , A trumpet from his waist was slung ; From ' neath his robes a harp he took , He touched its chords , my spirit shook , He sung of Scotia's plains and fells , Her heathy knowes and classic vales , Her misty mountains blue . The roaming spirits of the sky Seemed charmed with minstrelsy , And still he louder blew . Some mighty helpmate from above Seemed to the minstrel given His big soul melted into love While he sung to “ Mary in Heaven ; " But he pass'ed away , and immortal Pope , And Campbell , the mighty prince of hope , Came closely up behind . Great Byron , with his British lyre , And Cowley , with Pindaric fire , And Harry , the minstrel blind . The lofty Dryden , prince of song , , With a golden lyre next pass'd along , And thoughtful Young drew near , And'when he spoke of the awful day When man again would resume his clay , It seemed his soul to cheer . Next Goldsmith , Addison , and Gay , The witty Swift , the gloomy Grey , Kirke White the sage and young All hurried on with rapid haste , As if by some opponent prest , With instruments unstrung . And straight methought before me stood The mighty Shelley in a cloud , And his strain seemed deep and wild ; He charmed my heart , for I felt the power Of this mighty monarch of the lyre , And I deemed him nature's child . Next Scotia's border minstrel eame , And Chatterton of youthful fame ; Cowper the noble bard pass'd by , While Pollock on time's wings did fly , Next Ramsay with his lovers gay , And Thomson with his flowery May ame slowly me before ; While Nicoll , the son of song , drew near , Who saw his Maker everywhere , On mountain , tree , and flower . Next came a bard of brighter days , By his looks I could discern Oh , heavens ! ' twas the prince of the Ury lays , And he sung “ The Mitherless Bairn . " My bosom heaved at his touching strain , I tried to weep , but tried in vain . Enough I cried , I can bear no more , For tones like these make the bosom sore , And quick as the lightning in its flight All disappeared from my sight . My guide with his silvery hairs was gone , And I stood , or thought I stood , alone .
29.
The Coggie 04:00
The norlin blast wi ' angry sough , Blaws throu the willow boggie , 0 ; But let it blaw , sae lang as we Hae plenty in our coggie , 0 . O ; The coggie is the thing to cheer The heart when press’d wi ' sorrrow , The present time is only ours , Let’s ne'er think on the morrow , 0 . Were we to sit an ' fret an pine On what may yet befa's , O , I doubt they throu a needle's e'e , In twa three weeks micht draw us , O. a Some folks wha naething better ken , Misca ' puir chields for drinking , 0 ; But I mysel ' whiles toom my cog , To keep my mind frae thinking 0 . The richest nabob i ' the land , Wha rides an ' drives sae voggie , 0 , Was ne'er sae happy's I hae been , When seated round my coggie , 0 . Let's toom our coggie ance or twice , An ' syne we a ' get happy , 0 ; We think nae mair on book or bills , Sae lang’s we hae the drappy , 0 . The shepherd swain wha roams a ' day , O'er mountain , moor , an craggie , O , Forgets the wind , the frost , the rain , When seated round his coggie , 0 . The cotter labourin ' i ' the field , At e'en looks blyth an ' cheerie , 0 ; When seated round the cozy hearth , Wi ' coggie , brat , an ' dearie , 0 . Awa wi ' wealth , awa wi ' kings , Awa wi ' pride sae dressy , 0 ; Bring Shakspear's plays an ' Burns ' lays , My coggie an ' my lassie , O. Gif fortune then wi ' that wou'd gie , A muckle hearted crony , 0 ; A ' pilfered gowd I would despise , An ' happy be as ony , 0 credits

about

Poems and Lyrics (in the English and Scotch dialects)

an adaptation of the book by John Collie (1834-1893)
of Boyndie, Scotland.

The music is played here by his descendants.

It's a work in progress, recorded 2018-2023, with some tracks planned to be added or re-recorded.

John Collie published his book in 1856, then emigrated to New Zealand in 1858.

He settled in Dunedin then Wellington. In the 1870s he helped build the original railway line over the Remutakas to the Wairarapa.

www.fiffdimension.com/tag/19th-century

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released May 24, 2022

John Collie (1834-1893) - lyrics

Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar, banjo, ukulele, bass, harmonica, vocal
Hans Landon-Lane - ukulele, accordion, vocal
Celeste Rochery - acoustic guitar & vocal (7)
Megan Edwards-Rochery - vocal (13)

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fiffdimension Featherston, New Zealand

Outsider music from Aotearoa NZ and beyond, by Dave Edwards and collaborators (from 1856 to 2024).

Spans acoustic & electric noise, rock, folk, spoken word, postpunk, free jazz, gamelan, lo fi, electronica, & ethnomusicology.

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