I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame, In France and Shermanie, man; And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons, Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man. But wae licht on te nasty cun, Tat ever she pe porn, man; Phile koot klymore te tristle caird, Her leaves pe never torn, man.
Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot, Phane'er it cam my turn, man; Put a' te force tat I could gie, Te powter wadna purn, man. A filty loon cam wi' his cun, Resolvt to to me harm, man; And wi' te tirk upon her nose, Ke me a pluddy arm, man.
I flang my cun wi' a' my micht, And felt his nepour teit, man; Tan drew my swort, and at a straik Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man. Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks; My oons pe nae tiscrace, man; Ter no pe yin pehint my back, Ter a pefore my face, man.
AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE AWAY![60]
Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away, An' left me here to languish, I canna fend anither day In sic regretfu' anguish. My mind 's the aspen i' the vale, In ceaseless waving motion; 'Tis like a ship without a sail, On life's unstable ocean.
I downa bide to see the moon Blink owre the glen sae clearly; Aince on a bonnie face she shone-- A face that I lo'ed dearly! An' when beside yon water clear, At e'en I 'm lanely roaming, I sigh an' think, if ane was here, How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile, Thy words sae free an' kindly, Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile, The unbidden tear will blind me. The rose's deepest blushing hue Thy cheek could eithly borrow, But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou' Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Oh! in the slippery paths of love, Let prudence aye direct thee; Let virtue every step approve, An' virtue will respect thee. To ilka pleasure, ilka pang, Alak! I am nae stranger; An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang Is best aware o' danger.
May still thy heart be kind an' true, A' ither maids excelling; May heaven distil its purest dew Around thy rural dwelling. May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing Around thee late an' early; An' oft to thy remembrance bring The lad that loo'd thee dearly.
[60] This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.
I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather, An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither, Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime, Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gie; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.