The Lass Of Cessnock Banks 1780 A Song of Similes Tune - "If he be a Butcher neat and trim." On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lasses a' she far excels, An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. She's sweeter than the morning dawn, When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her looks are like the vernal May, When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her hair is like the curling mist, That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her bosom's like the nightly snow, When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een. Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een Her breath is like the fragrant breeze, That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush, That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen; 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her rogueish een. Back to Addresses O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day 1771 -1779 Tune - "Invercauld's Reel, or Strathspey." Chorus: O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wad na been sae shy; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. When coming hame on Sunday last, Upon the road as I cam past, Ye snufft and ga'e your head a cast - But trowth I care't na by. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. But, if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice: Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad speir your price, Were ye as poor as I. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. There lives a lass beside yon park, I'd rather hae her in her sark, Than you wi' a' your thousand mark; That gars you look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c. Back to Addresses A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter 1784 Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me, If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie, Shall ever daunt on me or awe me, My bonie lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tyta or daddie. Tho' now they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter To gie ane fash. Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter, Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for, And tho' your comin' I hae fought for, Baith kirk and queir; Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for, That I shall swear! Wee image o' my bonie Betty, As fatherly I kiss and daut thee, As dear, and near my heart I set thee Wi' as gude will As a' the priests had seen me get thee That's out o'hell. Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a' tint, Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't The better ha'f o't. Tho' I should be the waur bestead, Thou's be as braw and bienly clad, And thy young years as nicely bred Wi' education, As ony brat o' wedlock's bed, In a' thy station. Lord grant that thou may aye inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit, Without his failins, 'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it, Than stockit mailens. For if thou be what I wad hae thee, And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee, The cost nor shame o't, But be a loving father to thee, And brag the name o't. Back to Addresses Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary? 1786 Tune - "Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion." Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic roar? O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o' time! Back to Addresses My Highland Lassie, O 1786 Tune - "The deuks dang o'er my daddy." Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse's care: Their titles a' arc empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Chorus Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down wi' right guid will, To sing my Highland lassie, O. O were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine! The world then the love should know I bear my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen &c. But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea! But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen &c. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O. Within the glen &c. For her I'll dare the billow's roar, For her I'll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen &c. She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret troth and honour's band! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen &c. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen &c. Back to Addresses To Mary In Heaven 1789 Tune - "Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff." Thou ling'ring star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray; Till too, too soon, the glowing west, Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser-care; Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Back to Addresses