Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of strongly-marked features. As a literary antiquary, he was held in high estimation by the men of learning in the capital. As a poet he composed several songs in early life, which are worthy of a place among the modern minstrelsy of his country.
My wife 's a winsome wee thing, A bonnie, blythesome wee thing, My dear, my constant wee thing, And evermair sall be; It warms my heart to view her, I canna choose but lo'e her, And oh! weel may I trow her How dearly she lo'es me!
For though her face sae fair be, As nane could ever mair be; And though her wit sae rare be, As seenil do we see; Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me, Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me, Nor baith sae lang retain'd me, But for her love to me.
When wealth and pride disown'd me, A' views were dark around me, And sad and laigh she found me, As friendless worth could be; When ither hope gaed frae me, Her pity kind did stay me, And love for love she ga'e me; And that 's the love for me.
And, till this heart is cald, I That charm of life will hald by; And, though my wife grow auld, my Leal love aye young will be; For she 's my winsome wee thing, My canty, blythesome wee thing, My tender, constant wee thing, And evermair sall be.
Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, Waste not a thought on me; My heart and mind are a' my store, And they were dear to thee. But there is music in his gold (I ne'er sae sweet could sing), That finds a chord in every breast In unison to ring.
The modest virtues dread the spell, The honest loves retire, The purer sympathies of soul Far other charms require. The breathings of my plaintive reed Sink dying in despair, The still small voice of gratitude, Even that is heard nae mair.
But, if thy heart can suffer thee, The powerful call obey, And mount the splendid bed that wealth And pride for thee display. Then gaily bid farewell to a' Love's trembling hopes and fears, While I my lanely pillow here Wash with unceasing tears.
Yet, in the fremmit arms of him That half thy worth ne'er knew, Oh! think na on my lang-tried love, How tender and how true! For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart My breaking heart to see, Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed, And yet maun thole for thee.