Fareweel, ye bughts by James Thomson
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bloomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae ma...Fareweel, ye bughts by James Thomson
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bloomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
Come ferry me o'er to Charlie By John Milne
Come ferry me o'er, come ferry me o'er
Come ferry me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gie John Ross anither bawbee
To ferry me o'er to Charlie.
Though Cumberland is marchi...Come ferry me o'er to Charlie By John Milne
Come ferry me o'er, come ferry me o'er
Come ferry me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gie John Ross anither bawbee
To ferry me o'er to Charlie.
Though Cumberland is marching North,
He'll find we winna parley;
Wi' Lewie Gordon at our head,
We a' will fecht for Charlie.
To deal a blow at good Fa'kirk
I last did cross the ferry;
Though 'twere to do ten times again,
There's no a man would tarry.
Aboyne is up! Glentanner's up!
And left unsown their barley;
Come here, John Ross! - anither bawbee -
An' ferry me o'er to Charlie!
Bonnie Doon by Robert Burns
The Banks Of Bonnie Doon
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie...Bonnie Doon by Robert Burns
The Banks Of Bonnie Doon
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume 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 me o' the happy days
When my fause* Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na 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.
*fause = false, ilka = every, staw = stole
Here is a poem in Scots by Alexander Gray telling the familiar tale of "No room at the inn".
Christmas Carol
'Twas a cauld, cauld nicht i' the back o' the year;
The snaw lay deep, and the sta...Here is a poem in Scots by Alexander Gray telling the familiar tale of "No room at the inn".
Christmas Carol
'Twas a cauld, cauld nicht i' the back o' the year;
The snaw lay deep, and the starns shone clear;
And Mary kent that her time was near,
As she cam to Bethlehem.
When Joseph saw the toon sae thrang,
Quo' he: 'I houp I be na wrang,
But I'm thinkin' we'll find a place ere lang;'
But there wasna nae room for them.
She quo', quo' she: 'O Joseph loon,
Rale tired am I, and wad fain lie doon.
Is there no a bed in the hail o' the toon?
For farrer I canna gae.'
At the ale-hoose door she keekit ben,
But there was sic a steer o' fremmyt men,
She thocht till hirsel': 'I dinna ken
What me and my man can dae.'
And syne she spak: 'We'll hae to lie
I' the byre this nicht amang the kye
And the cattle beas', for a body maun try
To thole what needs maun be,'
And there amang the strae and the corn,
While the owsen mooed, her bairnie was born.
O, wasna that a maist joyous morn
For sinners like you and me?
For the bairn that was born that nicht i' the sta'
Cam doon frae Heaven to tak awa'
Oor fecklessness, and bring us a'
Safe hame in the hender-en'.
Lord, at this Yule-tide send us licht,
Hae mercy on us and herd us richt.
For the sake o' the bairnie born that nicht,
O, mak us better men!
Meaning of unusual words:
starns=stars
thrang=crowded
quo'=said
loon=lad
fain=want
farrer=further
keekit ben=peeked through
sic a steer o' fremmyt men=such a crowd of strange men
ken=know
syne=since
kye=cow
thole=endure
strae=straw
owsen=oxen
bairnie=child
fecklessness=weakness, incomptence
hender-en'=latter days of life
Fareweel, Ye Bughts - Poem by James Thomson
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS...Fareweel, Ye Bughts - Poem by James Thomson
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
Fareweel to A' Our Scottish Fame
by Robert Burns
Robert Burns - Scottish Poet
I.
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory!
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name.
Sae fam'd in martial story!
N...Fareweel to A' Our Scottish Fame
by Robert Burns
Robert Burns - Scottish Poet
I.
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory!
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name.
Sae fam'd in martial story!
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands --
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
II.
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro' many warlike ages
Is wrought now by a coward few
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;
But English gold has been our bane --
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
III.
O would, ere I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour
I'll mak this declaration :-
We're bought and sold for English gold --
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What could be more fitting for Remembrance/Veterans Day...
The Flowers Of The Forest
The lady who wrote this haunting song of national sorrow was the daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justic...What could be more fitting for Remembrance/Veterans Day...
The Flowers Of The Forest
The lady who wrote this haunting song of national sorrow was the daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justice-clerk of Scotland. She died in 1805. It is said that, following a talk about the disaster at Flodden, Sir Gilbert offered a bet that Miss Jean could not compose a ballad on the subject. How magnificently she pieced together the fragments of a lost ballad may be judged from this reply to the challenge.
I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At buchts, in the morning, nae biythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae damn', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for aince, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.
Weir hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Jean Elliot.
A Letter From the Trenches to a School Friend
by Charles Sorley
I have not brought my Odyssey
With me here across the sea;
But you'll remember, when I say
How, when they went down Sparta way,
To sandy Spar...A Letter From the Trenches to a School Friend
by Charles Sorley
I have not brought my Odyssey
With me here across the sea;
But you'll remember, when I say
How, when they went down Sparta way,
To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn
Horses were harnessed, rations drawn,
Equipment polished sparkling bright,
And breakfasts swallowed (as the white
Of eastern heavens turned to gold) -
The dogs barked, swift farewells were told.
The sun springs up, the horses neigh,
Crackles the whip thrice-then away!
From sun-go-up to sun-go-down
All day across the sandy down
The gallant horses galloped, till
The wind across the downs more chill
Blew, the sun sank and all the road
Was darkened, that it only showed
Right at the end the town's red light
And twilight glimmering into night.
The horses never slackened till
They reached the doorway and stood still.
Then came the knock, the unlading; then
The honey-sweet converse of men,
The splendid bath, the change of dress,
Then - oh the grandeur of their Mess,
The henchmen, the prim stewardess!
And oh the breaking of old ground,
The tales, after the port went round!
(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus,
Old Agamemnon and his misuse
Of his command, and that young chit
Paris - who didn't care a bit
For Helen - only to annoy her
He did it really, K.T.A.)
But soon they led amidst the din
The honey-sweet -- in,
Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,
Who knew the fame of men in fight -
Bard of white hair and trembling foot,
Who sang whatever God might put
Into his heart.
And there he sung,
Those war-worn veterans among,
Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,
Of clash of arms, of council's brawl,
Of beauty that must early fall,
Of battle hate and battle joy
By the old windy walls of Troy.
They felt that they were unreal then,
Visions and shadow-forms, not men.
But those the Bard did sing and say
(Some were their comrades, some were they)
Took shape and loomed and strengthened more
Greatly than they had guessed of yore.
And now the fight begins again,
The old war-joy, the old war-pain.
Sons of one school across the sea
We have no fear to fight -
And soon, oh soon, I do not doubt it,
With the body or without it,
We shall all come tumbling down
To our old wrinkled red-capped town.
Perhaps the road up llsley way,
The old ridge-track, will be my way.
High up among the sheep and sky,
Look down on Wantage, passing by,
And see the smoke from Swindon town;
And then full left at Liddington,
Where the four winds of heaven meet
The earth-blest traveller to greet.
And then my face is toward the south,
There is a singing on my mouth
Away to rightward I descry
My Barbury ensconced in sky,
Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,
And at my feet the thyme and whins,
The grasses with their little crowns
Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,
And that old signpost (well I knew
That crazy signpost, arms askew,
Old mother of the four grass ways).
And then my mouth is dumb with praise,
For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,
A glimpse of Marlborough --!
So I descend beneath the rail
To warmth and welcome and wassail.
This from the battered trenches - rough,
Jingling and tedious enough.
And so I sign myself to you:
One, who some crooked pathways knew
Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave
The Downs on a December eve:
Was at his happiest in shorts,
And got - not many good reports!
Small skill of rhyming in his hand -
But you'll forgive - you'll understand.
The Maid of Neidpath by Sir Walter Scott
O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers’ ears in hearing;
And love, in life’s extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary’s bower
And slow ...The Maid of Neidpath by Sir Walter Scott
O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers’ ears in hearing;
And love, in life’s extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary’s bower
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower
To watch her Love’s returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay’d by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.
By fits a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
By fits so ashy pale she grew
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seem’d in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick’d his ear
She heard her lover’s riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn’d
She knew and waved to greet him,
And o’er the battlement did bend
As on the wing to meet him.
He came—he pass’d—an heedless gaze
As o’er some stranger glancing:
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser’s prancing—
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
DAISY by Francis Thompson
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
O breath of the distant surf!--
The hills look over on the South,
And s...DAISY by Francis Thompson
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
O breath of the distant surf!--
The hills look over on the South,
And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
Came innocence and she.
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs;
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.
She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.
She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way;
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
Thronged in whose throat all day.
Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
She gave me tokens three:--
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.
A berry red, a guileless look,
A still word,--strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.
For standing artless as the air,
And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
And the love with her sweet eyes.
The fairest things have fleetest end,
Their scent survives their close:
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose.
She looked a little wistfully,
Then went her sunshine way--
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
And the leaves fell from the day.
She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me
The pang of all he partings gone,
And partings yet to be.
She left me marvelling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.
Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
And the love with her lovely eyes.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain,
And perish in our own.
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