Macgibbon's gane: Ah! waes my heart!
The man in Music maist expert,
Wha could sweet melody impart,
And tune the reed,
Wi' sic a slee and pawky art;
But now he's dead.
Ilk carline now may grunt and
Ilk bonny lassie mak great mane,
Since he's awa', I trow there's nane
The blithest sangster on the plain!
Alake, he's dead!
Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,
And crabbed queer variety
Of sounds fresh sprung frae Italy,
A bastard breed!
Unlike that saft-tongu'd melody
Which now lies dead.
Could lav'rocks at the dawning day,
Could linties chirming frae the spray,
Or todling burns that smoothly play
O'er gowden bed,
Compare wi' Birks of Invermay?
But now they're dead.
O Scotland! that could aince afford
To bang the pith of Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi' joint accord,
To battle speed?
And fight till Music be restor❜d,
Which now lies dead.
Ar Hallowmas, whan nights grow lang,
And starnies shine fu' clear,
Whan fouk, the nippin' cauld to bang,
Their winter hap-warms wear,
Near Edinbrough a fair there hauds,
I wat there's nane whase name is,
For strappin dames and sturdy lads,
And cap and stoup, mair famous
Than it that day.
Upo' the tap o' ilka lum
The sun began to keek,
And bade the trig-made maidens come
A sightly joe to seek
Without, the cuissars prance and nicker,
And owre the ley-rig scud;
In tents, the carles bend the bicker,
And rant and roar like wud.
Then there's sic yellowchin and din,
Wi' wives and wee-anes gabblin,
That ane might trow they were a-kin
To a' the tongues at Babylon,
Confus'd that day.
Whan Phoebus ligs in Thetis' lap,
Auld Reikie gies them shelter,
Whare cadgily they kiss the cap,
And ca't round helter-skelter.
Jock Bell gaed furth to play his freaks;
Great cause he had to rue it ;
For frae a stark Lochaber ax
He gat a clamihewit
"Ohon! (quo' he), I'd rather be
By sword or bagnet stickit,
Than hae my crown or body wi'
"Sic deadly weapons nickit."
Wi' that he gat anither straik
Mair weighty than before,
That gart his feckless body aik,
And the reekin gore
He pechin on the cawsey lay,
O' kicks and cuffs weel sair'd;
A Highland aith the sergeant gae,
"She maun pe see our guard.”
Out spak the weirlike corporal,
Bring in ta drucken sot:"
They trail'd him ben, and by my saul, He paid his drucken groat
Gude fouk, as ye come frae the fair,
Bide yont frae this black squad;
There's nae sic savages elsewhere
Allow'd to wear cockade.
Than the strong lion's hungry maw,
Or tusk o' Russian bear,
Frae their wanruly fellin paw
Mair cause ye hae to fear
Your death that day.
A wee soup drink does unco weel,
To haud the heart aboon ;
It's gude, as lang's a canny
Can stand steeve in his shoon.
But, gin a birkie's owre weel sair'd,
gars him aften stammer
To pleys that bring him to the guard,
And eke the council-chaumir,
Wi' shame that day.
HERDS! blithesome tune your canty reeds,
And welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang.
Unfauld ilk buss, and ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To Him whase voice delights the spring ;
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.
The trees in simmer cleedin drest,
The hillocks in their greenest vest,
The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blithely to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts o' Spring.
Whan fields hae gat their dewy gift,
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang your wa's thro' hight and howe,
Seek caller haugh or sunny knowe,
Or ivy craig, or burn-bank brae,
Whare Industry shall bid you gae,
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