Then came the Laird o' Lochington,
Out frae the English border,
All for to court this pretty maid,
All mounted in good order.
Tune-"If he be a butcher neat and trim."
ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass,"
Could I describe her shape and mien;
The graces of her weel-fared face,
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een!
She's fresher than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Sho's stately, like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between, And shoots its head above each bush; An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. She's spotless as the flowering thorn, With flowers so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Her looks are like the sportive lamb,
When flowery May adorns the scene,
That wantons round its bleating dam;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Her hair is like the curling mist
That shades the mountain-side at e'en,
When flower-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Her forehead's like the showery bow,
When shining sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Her voice is like the evening thrush
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Supposed to be the Poet's first love, Ellison Begbie.
Her lips are like the cherries ripe
That sunny walls from Boreas screen;
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' cen.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossomed bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she's twa glancin', sparklin' een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Though matching Beauty's fabled queen,
But the mind that shines in every grace—
An' chiefly in her sparklin' een.
ON CESSNOCK BANKS.
[IMPROVED VERSION.]
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's twa sparkling, roguish een.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
She's stately, like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
She's spotless, like the flowering thorn,
With flowers so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When evening Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flower-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her forehead's like the showery bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossomed bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
Her voice is like the evening thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she's twa sparkling, roguish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face, Though matching Beauty's fabled queen "Tis the mind that shines in every grace, An' chiefly in her roguish een.
POWERS celestial! whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care;
1 Highland Mary. Her name was Mary Campbell.
Let her form, sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own,
Let my Mary's kindred spirit
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Soothe her bosom into rest:
Guardian angels! O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home!
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's roar?
O sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I ha'e sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I ha'e 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 ha'e 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!
Mary Campbell, or Highland Mary.
YE banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
As, underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie:
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursel's asunder;
But O! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed so fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Mary Campbell she died of malignant fever at Greenock, 1786.
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