John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. But we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
Robert Bruce's Address to his Army.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie!
Now's the day and now's the hour
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw! Freeman stand or freeman fa'; Caledonian! on wi' me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be - shall be free! ·
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Forward! let us do or die!
250. THE BANKS O' Doon.
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds't me o' the happy days
When my fause luve was true.
Thou❜lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wistna' o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.
251. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae1 the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil 2 is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin,4 stacher 5 through
To meet their dad, wi' flicterin" noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle," blinkin 3 bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a’9
a' '9 his weary carking 10 cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.
Belyve" the elder bairns come drappin in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' 12 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 13 rin
A cannie 14 errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won 16
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers;
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos 19 that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view:
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,
Gars 20 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' with admonition due.
Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent 21 hand,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play:
"An', O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray.
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o' the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e’e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins 22 is afraid to speak;
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;
A strappan 24 youth, he taks the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta’en;
The father cracks 25 of horses, pleughs, and kye.26
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate 27 an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave:
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave,
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.29
O, happy love! where love like this is found!
O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage éxperience bids me this declare,
“If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, -
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth,
That can, with studied, sly, insnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The healsome parritch,31 chief o' Scotia's food:
The soupe
32 their only hawkie 33 does afford,
That 'yont 34 the hallan 35 snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hained 36 kebbuck,37 fell,38
An' aft he's pressed, an' aft he ca's it good;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond 39 auld,40 sin 41 lint was i' the bell.“
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big Ha'-Bible,43 ance his father's pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart 44 haffets 45 wearin' thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales 48
a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God," he says, wi' solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's 47 wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs,47 worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin 47 beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the Royal Bard 48 did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How His first followers and servants sped,
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he 49 who lone in Patmos 50 banishéd,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays;
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
That thus they all shall meet in future days;
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
44 Gray. 45 The temples, the sides of the head. 46 Chooses. 47 The names of Scottish psalm-tunes.
50 An island in the Archipelago, where John is supposed to have written the book of Revelation.
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