Nakit tho' we're born an' equal,
Lucky anes are made Police;
An' if civil life's the sequel,
Honours but wi' age increase,
Till a Baillie, syne selected
Ruler ower the Council Board,
An' tho' never re-elected,
"Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"
Credit's got by advertisin'
Ye hae siller still to lend;
Get the word o' early risin',
Ye can sleep a week on end.
Gie a man a name for fightin'—
Never need he wear a sword;
Men will flee afore his flytin'—
"Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"
But for mischief name a body,
He can never win aboon 't,
Folk wad swear he chate the wuddy
In the lint-pot gin he droon't;
For unless ye start wi' thrivin',
A' your virtues are ignored,
Vain a' future toil an' strivin'—
"Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"
IN THE GLOAMIN'
Why sinks the sun sae slowly doon
Behind the Hill o' Fare?
What restless cantrip's ta'en the moon?—
She's up an hour an' mair.
I doubt they're in a plot the twa
To cheat me o' the gloamin';
Yestreen they saw me slip awa',
An' ken where I gang roamin'.
The trees bent low their list'nin' heads
A' round the Loch o' Skene;
The saft winds whispered 'mang the reeds
As we gaed by yestreen.
The bee, brushed fae the heather bell,
Hummed loudly at our roamin',
Syne hurried hame in haste to tell
The way we spent the gloamin'.
The mavis told his mate to hush
An' hearken fae the tree;
The robin keekit fae a bush
Fu' pawkily an' slee.
An' now they sing o' what they saw
Whenever we gang roamin';
They pipe the very words an' a'
We whispered in the gloamin'.
The wintry winds may tirr the trees,
Clouds hide baith sun an' moon,
An early frost the loch may freeze,
An' still the birdies' tune.
The bee a harried bike may mourn,
An' mirk o'ertak' the gloamin',
But aye to thee my thochts will turn,
Wherever I gang roamin'.
THE MAID O' THE MILL
The cushie doos are cooin' in the birk,
The pee-weets are cryin' on the lea,
The starlings in the belfry o' the kirk
Are layin' plans as merry as can be.
The mavis in the plantin' has a mate,
The blackbird is busy wi' his nest,
Then why until the summer should we wait
When spring could see us happy as the rest?
There's leaves upon the bourtree on the haugh,
The blossom is drappin' fae the gean,
There's buds upon the rantree an' the saugh,
The ferns about the Lady's Well are green.
A' day the herd is liltin' on the hill,
The o'ercome o' ilka sang 's the same:
"There are ower mony maidens at the Mill,
It's time the ane I trysted wi' cam' hame!"
THE WITCH O' THE GOLDEN HAIR
Auld carlins ride on their brooms astride
Awa' thro' the midnight air,
But they cast nae spell on a man sae fell
As the Witch o' the Golden Hair.
Nae a fairy free 'neath the hazel tree
That dances upon the green
Ever kent a charm that could heal or harm
Like the glint o' her twa blue een.
Fae the earth she's reived, fae the Heav'n she's thieved,
For her cauldron's deadly brew;
She laughs at the stounds o' the hearts she wounds,
For what recks the Witch o' rue?
Lang, lang may the vine in its envy twine
To compass a bower sae rare,
As will peer, I trow, wi' her broad low brow
An' her wavin' golden hair.
The bloom fae the peach that we ne'er could reach
The red that the apple missed,
You'll find if you seek on the Witch's cheek,
Left there when the summer kissed.
The blue drappit doon fae the lift aboon
To shine in her dancin' een;
An' the honey-bee sips fae her red, red lips,
Syne brags o' the sweets between.
Wi' a magic wile she has won the smile
That the mornin' used to wear,
An' the gold the sun in his splendour spun
Lies tangled amang her hair.
The saft south wind cam' to her to find
A haven to sink an' die,
An' the breath o' myrrh it bequeathed to her
You'll find in the Witch's sigh.
The dimples three that you still can see
Are a' she can claim her ain,
For in Nature fair naught can compare
With them; they are hers alane.
ARLES
For arles he gae me a kiss,
An' twa ilka day was my fee;
A bargain nae surely amiss,
If paid where naebody could see.
But scarce was the compact complete
Ere I would hae broken't again,
The arles he gae were sae sweet,
For mair o' them, Sirs, I was fain.
It's braw wi' the tweezlock to twine
Lang rapes in the barn sae lythe,
Yet better by far when it's fine,
An' I gaither after his scythe.
O busy's the banster at e'en
Till bedtime he sits an' he glooms,
An' aye he cries "Lassie, a preen"
An' worries the stobs in his thooms.
The laddie is tired wi' the rake,
Sleep soon puts a steek in his e'e,
An' I slip awa' to the break
An' cannily gather my fee.
WHERE LOVE WAS NANE