The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 29

Sae lest 'mid fortune's suns.h.i.+ne we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poort.i.th's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' gra.s.s keps its ain drap o' dew.

WIFIE, COME HAME.

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame!

Oh, but ye 're far awa, Wifie, come hame!

Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e, Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.

Come wi' the gowd ta.s.sels fringin' thy hair, Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air, Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame!

Oh, my heart wearies sair, Wifie, come hame!

Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.

Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree; Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye, Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.

THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben; And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day, The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay; The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun, Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun; The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow, And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low; The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best-- The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

CREEP AFORE YE GANG.

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang; c.o.c.k ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang.

Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang.

The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie; They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang-- Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.

Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, The puirest bodie is still your brither; The king may come in the cadger's gate-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither; Let ilk help ither to climb the brae-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

The highest among us are unco wee, Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither; h.o.a.rd na, man, what ye get sae free!-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

Life is a weary journey alane, Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither; Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain-- Ae gude turn deserves anither.

THE NAMELESS La.s.sIE.

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie la.s.sie's name, There 's nane may ken the humble cot my la.s.sie ca's her hame; Yet though my la.s.sie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.

She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair, Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare; While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea-- For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e, Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain; The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless la.s.sie's e'e.

BONNIE BONALY.

Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream; Falling where silver light gleams on its breast, Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, Flooding with music its own tiny valley, Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.

Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers, Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers; Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom; Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom; Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.

Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest, Peerless Edina expands her white breast, Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between; Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily; Friends.h.i.+p and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.

SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, La.s.sIE.

Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, la.s.sie, Saft is the blink o' thine e'e; An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, As kindly it glints upon me.

The ringlets that twine round thy brow, la.s.sie, Are gowden, as gowden may be; Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, When he 's just going to drap in the sea.

Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', la.s.sie, As sweet as a body may pree; And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou', E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.

Thou hast a lily-white hand, la.s.sie, As fair as a body may see; An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand, At e'en when thou partest wi' me.