Song—The Birks Of Aberfeldy
Tune—“The Birks of Abergeldie.”
Chorus.—Bonie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy! Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o’er the crystal streamlets plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c. While o’er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c. The braes ascend like lofty wa’s, The foaming stream deep-roaring fa’s, O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws— The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c. The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers, White o’er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi’ misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c. Let Fortune’s gifts at randoe flee, They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me; Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.
The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water
To the noble Duke of Athole. My lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.1 The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; [Footnote 1: Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.—R.B.] If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by. That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober lav’rock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show’rs. And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav’n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow’s wat’ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn. So may old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonie lasses!
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Written with a Pencil on the Spot.