Out spake this bonny lassie,
“My soldier lad, forbear,
I wodna spoil thee bonny plume
That decks thy raven hair;
Come buckle up thy sword again,
Put on thy cap o’ steel,
I carena for my pitcher, nor
My uncle Jock McNeil.”
I often think, my comrades,
About this Northern queen,
And fancy that I see her smile,
Though oceans roll between.
But should you meet her Uncle Jock,
I hope you’ll never tell
How I squared the broken Pitcher,
With the lassie at the well.
The Benks o’ the Aire.
It issent the star of the evening that breetens,
Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends,
Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,
Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends,
That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,
And leave the gay festive for others ta share;
But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer me only,
In a sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.
How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,
In that cot, wi me Mary, I cud pass the long years:
In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,
And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.
We’d wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor shining,
Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark soar’d the air,
An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining,
From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.
Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our loves wor forbidden,
Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny,
How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden,
Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.
An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feeling
Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we share
For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing,
We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ the Aire.
Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying,
Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;
For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying,
Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.
The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,
Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;
How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure
Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.
But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will ivver;
The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,
Wen fate may ordain us no longer to sever,
Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.
For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,
If it wor in the desert, Mary, we were;
But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,
In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.
Dear Harden.
Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so dear,
Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;
Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,
An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.