The
sweetest
flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed:
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
Now trodden like the vilest weed:
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
Robert Forst
III.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!
* * * * *
CCXLVII.
O TELL NA ME O' WIND AND RAIN.
[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, are, at all
events, not borrowed from the sentiments expressed by Mrs. Riddel,
alluded to in song CCXXXVII. ; there she is tender and forgiving: here
she in stern and cold. ]
I.
O tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo!
II.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
III.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed:
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
IV.
The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in jo!
* * * * *
CCXLVIII.
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.
Tune--"_Push about the jorum. _"
[This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had been at
a public meeting, where he was less joyous than usual: as something
had been expected from him, he made these verses, when he went home,
and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor of the
Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kindness of my friend,
James Milligan, Esq. , is now before me. ]
I.
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
II.
