35 Scottish Lyrics and other Poems

There’s teuch sauchs growin’ i’ the Reuch Heuch Hauch
 [ ... ]

Lourd on my hert as winter lies
 [ ... ]

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
Delight some lily of ev’ry lustiness
Richest in bounty, and in beauty clear
And ev’ry virtue that is held most dear,
Except only that ye are merciless.

Into your garth this day I did pursue,
There saw I floeris that were fresh of hue,
Baith white and reid maist lusty were to seen,
and hale some herbis up on stalk is green:
Yet leaf nor floe’er find could I nane of rue.

I doubt that Merch with his cauld blast is keen,
Has slain that gentle herb that I of mean,
Whose piteous death does to my hert sic pain
That I would mak to plant his root again,
Sae comfort and his leaves unto me been.

I dinna want a wee man, a wee man, a wee man
 [ ... ]

Great, Good, and Just, could I but rate
My grief with thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again.

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,
I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds.

The auld men o’ the sea
 [ ... ]

“Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a hen."
“I wadna whistle,” quo' the wife,
“Though ye wad gi'e me ten”

“Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a cock.”
“I wadna whistle,” quo' the wife,
“Though ye'd gi'e me a flock.”

“Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
And ye'se get a goun."
“I wadna whistle,” quo' the wife,
“For the best ane i' the toun.”

“Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An ye'se get a coo.”
“I wadna whistle,” quo the wife,
“Though ye wad gi'e me two.”

“Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a man.”
“Wheeple-whauple,” quo' the wife,
“I'll whistle as I can.”

"Why does your brand sae dreep wi' blude,
     Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae dreep wi' blude,
     And why sae sad gang ye, O?"
"O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
     Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
     And I had nae mair but he, O."

"Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
     Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
     My dear son, I tell thee, O."
"O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
     Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
     That erst was sae fair and free, O."

"Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
     Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
     Some other dule ye dree, O."
"O I hae kill'd my father dear,
     Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my father dear,
     Alas, and wae is me, O!"

"And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
     Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
     My dear son, now tell me, O."
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
     Mither, mither;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
     And I'll fare ower the sea, O."

"And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
     Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
     That were sae fair to see, O?"
"I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
     Mither, mither;
I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
     For here never mair maun I be, O."

"And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
     Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
     When ye gang owre the sea, O?"
"The warld's room: let them beg through life,
     Mither, mither;
The warld's room: let them beg through life;
     For them never mair will I see, O."

"And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
     Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
     My dear son, now tell me, O?"
"The curse of hell frae me shall ye bear,
     Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me shall ye bear:
     Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!"

I have been in this garden of unripe fruit
 [ ... ]

A bonnie ‘No’, with smiling looks again,
  I wald ye learn’d, sen they so comely are.
As touching ‘Yes’, if ye suld speak so plain,
  I might reprove you to have said so far.
  Nocht that your grant, in ony ways, micht gar
Me loathe the fruit that courage ocht to choose;
  But I wald only have you seem to skar,
And let me tak it, feigning to refuse;

And warsle, as it were against your will,
  Appearing angry, though ye have no ire:
For have, ye hear, is halden half a fill.
  I speak not this as trowing for to tire;
  But as the forger, when he feeds his fire,
With sparks of water maks it burn more bauld;
  So, sweet denial doubles but desire,
And quickens courage fra becoming cauld.

Wald ye be made of, ye maun mak it nice;
  For dainties here are delicate and dear,
Bot plenty things are priz’d to little price.
  Then, though ye hearken, let no wit ye hear,
  But look away, and len them aye your ear:
For, follow love, they say, and it will flee.
  Wald ye be lov’d, this lesson maun ye leir;
Flee whilom love, and it will follow thee.

I wha aince in Heaven’s height
 [ ... ]

'There's a hound at the door, Sean O'Farrell,
There's a hound at the door.
If you take down the bar or the shutter,
I shall see you no more,
I shall see you no more!'

'Oh, it is but the sea that is loosing
The white dogs of its spray.
Take your gentle young arms from about me,
For I must on my way.'

'But they whine at the window, O'Farrell,
How they sniff at the pane!'
'Oh, it is but the wind in its passing,
The wild wind and the rain.'

'How they keen in their waiting, O'Farrell,
So I hold you, afraid.'
''Tis some soul that's nigh lost in the tempest
Who so calls for my aid.'

'It's a witch of the waters, O'Farrell,
All sea-cold and wave-white,
With her hounds that will fawn till you follow
To your death in the night.'

He has opened the door, Shawn O'Farrell,
And gone forth to the dark;
The wild hounds by his heel race and quarrel,
How they leap and they bark!

He has launched his frail boat on the waters—
He has pushed from the shore!
Pray, oh, pray for the soul of O'Farrell,
He shall come back no more.
'Sean O'Farrell, O'Farrell, O'Farrell,
I shall see you no more!'

O luely, luely cam she in
And luely she lay doun:
I kent her by her caller lips
And her briests sae sma' and roun'.

A' thru the nicht we spak nae word
Nor sinder'd bane frae bane:
A' thru the nicht I heard her hert
Gang soundin' wi' my ain.

It was about the waukrife hour
When cocks begin to craw
That she smool'd saftly thru the mirk
Afore the day wud daw.

Sae luely, luely cam she in
Sae luely was she gaen
And wi' her a' my simmer days
Like they had never been.

O wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom
To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch of the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

The trees were like bubblyjocks
 [ ... ]

Robin shure in hairst,
  I shure wi' him;
Fient a heuk had I,
  Yet I stack by him.

I gaed up to Dunse,
  To warp a wab o' plaiden;
At his daddie's yett,
  Wha met me but Robin!
Robin shure in hairst...

Was na Robin bauld,
  Tho' I was a cotter,
Play'd me sic a trick
  An' me the Eller's dochter!
Robin shure in hairst...

Robin promis'd me
  A' my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three
  Goose feathers and a whittle!
Robin shure in hairst...

O steer her up, an' haud her gaun -- 
Her mither's at the mill, jo; 
An' gin she winna tak a man, 
E'en let her tak her will, jo. 
First shore her wi' a gentle kiss, 
And ca' anither gill, jo, 
An' gin she tak the thing amiss, 
E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, an' be na blate, 
An' gin she tak it ill , jo, 
Then leave the lassie till her fate, 
And time nae langer spill, jo! 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 
But think upon it still, jo, 
That gin the lassie winna do't, 
Ye'll find anither will, jo. 

O weel I mind the bonnie morn,
Richt early in the day,
When he cam’ in by oor toun end
To buy a sou o’ hay.

For O he was a handsome lad,
An’ weel did cock his beaver! –
He gar’t my heart play pit-a-pat:
Yet – speired but for my faither!

I turned aboot and gied a cast
That plainly said – ‘Ye deevil! –
Altho’ ye be a braw young lad
Ye needna be unceevil!’

He glower’t at me like ane gaen wud
Wi’ his daurin’ rovin’ een;
At that I leuch and wi’ a fling
Flew roun’ the bourtree screen.

There's news, lasses, news, 
Gude news I've to tell,
There's a boatfu' o' lads 
Come to our town to sell. 

The wean wants a cradle, 
An' the cradle wants a cod, 
An' I'll no gang to my bed, 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mither, quo she, 
Do what you can, 
I'll no gang to my bed, 
Till I get a man. 
 
The wean wants a cradle, 
An' the cradle wants a cod, 
An' I'll no gang to my bed, 
Until I get a nod. 

I hae as gude a craft rig 
As made o' yird and stane; 
And waly fa' the ley-crap, 
For I maun till't again. 
 
The wean wants a cradle, 
An' the cradle wants a cod, 
An' I'll no gang to my bed, 
Until I get a nod.

The moon beams kelter in the lift
 [ ... ]

Wha kens on whatna Bethlehems
 [ ... ]

Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
   And I'm but jolly fou.
Chorus: 
 Hey tutti, taiti, 
 How tutti, taiti, 
 Hey tutti, taiti, 
 Wha's fou now? 

Cog, an ye were ay fou, 
Cog, an ye were ay fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you, 
   If ye were ay fou! 

Weel may ye a' be! 
Ill may ye never see! 
God bless the king 
   And the companie!

The blaffering wind blows from Southwest
 [ ... ]

Ootside!... Ootside!
 [ ... ]

Her face it was that fankl’t me
 [ ... ]

Could I bring back lost youth again
And be what I have been,
I’d court you in a gallant strain,
My young and fair Florine.

But mine’s the chilling age that chides
Devoted rapture’s glow,
And Love that conquers all besides
Finds time a conqu’ring foe.

Farewell, we’re severed by our fate
As far as night from noon;
You came into the world too late,
And I depart so soon.

When I was young and ower young,
I wad a deid aud wife;
But ere three days had gane by,
Gi Ga Gane by, I rued the sturt and strife.
Sae to the kirk-yaird furth I fared,
And to the Deil I prayed:
“O, muckle Deil o’ Bogie,
Bi Ba Bogie, Come tak the rankled jade”.
When I got hame the soor auld bitch
Was deid, ay, deid enough.

I yokkit the mare to the dung-cairt,
Ding Dang Dung-cairt, 
And drove her furth and leuch!
And when I cam to the place o’ peace,
The grave was howk’d, and snod:
“Gae canny wi’ the corp, lads,
Ci Ca Corp, lads; You’ll wauk her up, b’ God.
Ram in, ram in the bonnie, bonnie yird
Up on the ill-daein wife
When she was hale and herty,
Hi Ha Herty, She plagued me o’ my life.”

But when I gat me hame again,
The hoose seemed toom and wide.
For juist three days I waited,
Wit Wat Waited, Syne took a braw young bride.
In three short days my braw young wife
Had ta’en to lound ‘rin me.
Gie’s back dear Deil o’ Bogie,
Bi Ba Bogie, My auld calamitie.

Als erster kommt der Hahn
 [ ... ]

 ... 

Fehlt's am Begriff: wie sollt' er sie vermissen?
Er wiederholt ihr Bild zu tausend Malen.
Das zaudert bald, bald wird es weggerissen,
Undeutlich jetzt und jetzt im reinsten Strahlen;
Wie könnte dies geringstem Troste frommen,
Die Ebb' und Flut, das Gehen wie das Kommen?

Verlasst mich hier, getreue Weggenossen!
Lasst mich allein am Fels, in Moor und Moos;
Nur immer zu! euch ist die Welt erschlossen,
Die Erde weit, der Himmel hehr und groß;
Betrachtet, forscht, die Einzelheiten sammelt,
Naturgeheimnis werde nachgestammelt.

 ... 

Was soll ich denn ansehen
Und deiner nicht gedenken?
Ja, Ort und Stunde weiß ich nicht,
Die leis nicht deinen Namen spricht.

Bei schöner Morgenfrühe,
Wie muss ich dein gedenken!
Ob Tag, ob Abend glühe,
Doch muss ich dein gedenken!
Und fährt die Nacht her, ruhevoll,
Weiß nicht, was ich sonst denken soll.

La belle est au jardin d'amour, 
Voilà z’un mois ou six semaines, 
Son père la cherche partout 
Et son amant est bien en peine.
Berger, berger, n'as-tu pas vu 
N'as-tu pas vu la beauté même?

‘Comment est-elle donc vêtue?
Est-elle en soie est-elle de laine?’ 
Elle est vêtue de satin blanc, 
Et dans ces mains blanches mitaines;
Ses chevaux, qui flottent aux vent,
Ont une odeur de marjolaine.

Elle est là-bas dans ces vallons, 
Assise au bord d'une fontaine; 
Dans ses mains tient un bel oiseau, 
A qui la bell’ conte sa peine.
Petit oiseau, tu es heureux 
D'être entre ainsi auprès de ma belle !

Et moi je suis son amoureux, 
Je ne puis m'approcher d'elle.
Peut on être auprès du rosier, 
Sans pouvoir cueillir la rose? 
‘Cueillissez si vous voulez,
Car c'est pour vous qu'elle est déclose.’

Je descendis dans mon jardin,
Pour y cueillir du romarin;
Etait il tard ou bien matin?
Je ne sais plus; je ne sais rien.

N’en avais pas cueilli trois brins,
Que tu parus dans le chemin;
Etait il tard ou bien matin?
Je ne sais plus; je ne sais rien.

Tu m’as demandé ce butin;
Je te l’ai donné, mais en vain;
Etait il tard ou bien matin?
Je ne sais plus; je ne sais rien.

Adieu, douceur furtive et rare...
Etait ce un mal? était ce un bien?
Fallait il se montrer avare?
Je ne sais plus; je ne sais rien.

Au miroir de ma mère,
J'ai vu le long passé,
Les chemins de la terre
Où ses pieds ont marché;

Au miroir de ma mère,
J'ai vu le cheveux lourds
Qu'elle enroulait naguère,
En ses simples atours;

Au miroir de ma mère,
J'ai vu le pauvre nid,
La lutte ardente et fière,
L'amour jamais fini;

Au miroir de ma mère,
J'ai vu le long souci,
J'ai vu vie entière,
Et la mort blanche aussi.