There's a yellow thread in the Gordon plaid,
But it binds na my love an' me;
And the ivy leaf has brought dool and grief
Where there never but love should be.
For my lad would 'list: when a Duchess kiss't
He forgot a' the vows he made;
And he turned and took but ae lang, last look,
When the "Cock o' the North" was played.
O, her een were bright, an' her teeth were white
As the silver they held between;
But the lips he pree'd, were they half as sweet
As he vow'd 'at mine were yestreen?
A poor country lass, 'mang the dewy grass,
May hae whiles to kilt up her goon;
But a lady hie sae to show her knee,
And to dance in a boro' toon!
Gin I were the Duke, I could nae mair look
Wi' love on my high-born dame;
At a kilt or plaid I would hang my head,
And think aye on my lady's shame.
By my leefu' lane I sit morn an' e'en,
Prayin' aye for him back to me;
For now he's awa' I forgie him a'
Save the kiss he was 'listed wi'.
THE OUTLAW'S LASS
Duncan's lyin' on the cauld hillside,
Donal's swingin' on the hangman's yew:
Black be the fa' o' the sergeant's bride
Wha broke twa troths to keep ae tryst true.
The red-coats march at the skreek o' day,
An' we maun lie on the brae the night;
Then here's to them safely on their way,
Speed to the mirk brings the mornin's fight.
Here's luck to me if you chance to fa',
An' here's to luck if it favours you;
For she's but ane, an' o' us there's twa,
To him that's left may she yet prove true.
In days to come, when the reivers ride,
They'll miss ae sword that was swift an' keen,
An' you or I, as the Fates decide,
Will curse the glint o' a woman's een.
A parting cup, we will drink it noo,
Syne break the quaich to a shattered faith;
Here's happiness to the lass we lo'e,
The lying lass wha deceived us baith.
The soldiers drink in the change-house freet
The tinker's clinkin' a crackit quaich;
But cuddlin' there on the sergeant's knee
Wha is the lass that is lauchin' laich?
CHARON'S SONG
Another boat-load for the Further Shore,
Heap them up high in the stern;
Nae ane o' them ever has crossed before
An' never a ane'll return.
Heavy it rides sae full, sae full,
Deep, deep is the River,
But light, light is the backward pull,
The River flows silently on.
A cargo o' corps that are cauld I trow—
They're grippy that grudge the fare—
An' the antrin quick wi' his golden bough
That's swappin' the Here for There.
Heavy it rides sae full, sae full,
Slow, slow is the River,
But light, light is the backward pull,
The River flows silently on.
In vain will they look wha seek for a ford,
Where the reeds grow lank an' lang:
This is the ferry, an' I am the lord
An' king o' the boat an' stang.
Heavy it rides sae full, sae full,
Black, black is the River,
But light, light is the backward pull.
The River, my River, flows on.
VIRGIL IN SCOTS
ÆNEID, BOOK III, 588-640
Neist mornin' at the skreek o' day
The mist had newlins lifted;
The sky, a whylock syne sae grey,
To fleckit red had shifted:
When suddenly our herts gaed thud
To see a fremt chiel stalkin',
Wi' timorous steps fae out the wud,
As fleyed-like as a mawkin.
Lod! sic a sicht, half hid in glaur,
It made us a' feel wae, man;
His hams were thin, his kyte was waur,
It hung sae toom that day, man.
His mattit beard was lang an' roch 's
Gin it had ne'er been shorn;
His kilt could barely fend his houghs
Fae stobs, it was sae torn.
A Greek was he, wha short afore
At Troy was in the brulzie,
An' tho' a halflin then, he bore
A man's pairt in the tulzie.
As soon's he spied our Trojan graith
He nearhan' swarfed wi' fear;
But maisterin' his dread o' skaith
At last he ventured near.
"I charge you by the stars," he cried,
"And by the powers on high,
To snatch me hence, nor lat me bide
At Cyclops' hands to die.
I'll no deny that I'm a Greek,
Or that I was at Troy;
Nor yet to hide the part, I'll seek,
That I took in the ploy.
Sae gin ye judge my fau't sae sair
That grace ye daurna gie,
Tear me to bits, fient haet I care,
And sink me in the sea.
I'll meet my death without a wird,
If dealt by men like these,"
He said: syne flang him on the yirds
An' glammoched at our knees,
Wi' kindly mint we stilled his fear,
Enquired his name an' clan,
An' what fell bluffert blew him here
Wi' sic a hertless flan.
To set him further at his ease
Anchises gae him 's han',
An' heartened by our kindliness
The chiel at last began:
"My name is Achaemenides,
An' Ithaca my land;
An' some ooks syne I crossed the seas
Wi' poor Ulysses' band.
Oh, why left ever I my hame?
I'd troubles there enew;
My comrades left me, to their shame,
When fae Cyclops they flew.
Cyclops himsel', wha can describe?
The stars are ells below him;
Gude send we ne'er may hae to bide
Within a parish o' him.
His dungeon large, a hauddin' fit
For sic an awsome gleed;
There at his fae's dregies he'll sit
And spairge aboot their bleed.
Wi' horrid scouk he frowns on a'
An' heedless o' their skraichs,
He sweels their monyfaulds awa'
Wi' wauchts fae gory quaichs.
I saw him, sirs, as sure's I live,
Ance as he lay at easedom,
Twa buirdly chiels tak' in his neive,
Syne careless fae him heeze them.
They fell wi' sic a dreadfu' thud,
Whaur stanes lay roun' in cairns;
The causey ran wi' thickened blood
Like stoorum made wi' harns.
I watched him tak' their limbs an' cram
Them ower his weel-raxed thrapple;
The life scarce left the quivering ham
That shivered in his grapple.
But never was Ulysses slack
To pay where he was awin',
An' starkly did he gie him 't back,
An' bravely cleared the lawin'.
For while the hoven monster snored,
An' rifted in his dreams,
We first the great God's help implored
An' blessing on our schemes;
The kavils cuist: a feerious thrang
Syne gaithered roond aboot,
An' wi' a sturdy pointed stang
We bored his ae e'e oot."
HORACE IN SCOTS
Ye needna speer, Catriona, nae spaewife yet could tell
Hoo short or lang for you an' me the tack o' life will rin,
We'll better jist dree oot the span as we hae dane the ell,
Content gin mony towmonds still we're left to store the kin,
Or this the last we'll see the rocks tashed wi' the weary seas;
Hae sense an' set the greybeard oot; wi' life sae short for a'
They're daft that plan ae ook ahead; Time keeks asklent an' flees
E'en as we crack; the nicht is oors, the morn may never daw.