Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 6

band o' bairns that gae'd
Wi' lichts in till their hand.
O white they cam', yon babie thrang,
A' silent o'er the sod;
Ye
couldna hear their feet amang
The graves, sae saft they trod.
And aye the can'les flickered pale
Below the darkened sky,
But the
licht was like a broken trail
When the third wee bairn gae'd by.
For whaur the can'le-flame should be
Was naither blink nor shine--

The bairnie turned its face to me
An' I kent that it was mine.
An' O! my broken he'rt was sair,
I cried, "My ain! my doo'!
For a'

thae weans the licht burns fair,
But it winna' burn for you!"
She smiled to me, my little Jean,
Said she, "The dule and pain,
O
mither! frae your waefu' een
They strike on me again:
"For ither babes the flame leaps bricht
And fair and braw appears,

But I canna keep my bonnie licht,
For it's droukit wi' your tears!"
There blew across my outstreeked hand
The white mist o' her sark,

But I couldna reach yon babie band
For it faded i' the dark.
My ain, my dear, your licht shall burn
Although my een grow blind,

Although they twa to saut should turn
Wi' the tears that lie behind.
O Jeanie, on my bended knee
I'll pray I may forget,
My grief is a'
that's left to me,
But there's something dearer yet!
THE LAD I' THE MUNE
I
O gin I lived i' the gowden mune
Like the mannie that smiles at me,

I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune
An the wee-bit stars they wad ken
me sune,
For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune
And they wad
come out to see!
II
For weel I ken that the mune's his ain
And he is the maister there;

A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blind on his
windy-pane
And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane
And pleasure
himsel' nae mair.
III
Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen
Abune by the rodden tree,


There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa' wi' ye,
bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi' men
An' it's less that
they fash wi' me!"
IV
When I'm as big as the tinkler-man
That sings i' the loan a' day,
I'll
bide wi' him i' the tinkler-van
Wi' a wee-bit pot an' a wee-bit pan;

But I'll no tell Grannie my bonnie plan,
For I dinna ken what she'll
say.
V
And, nicht by nicht, we will a' convene
And we'll be a cantie three;

We'll lauch an' crack i' the loanin' green,
The kindest billies that ever
was seen,
The tinkler-man wi' his twinklin' een
And the lad i' the
mune an' me!
THE GOWK
I see the Gowk an' the Gowk sees me
Beside a berry-bush by the
aipple-tree.
Old Scots Rhyme.
'Tib, my auntie's a deil to wark,
Has me risin' 'afore the sun;
Aince
her heid is abune her sark
Then the clash o' her tongue's begun!

Warslin', steerin' wi' hens an' swine,
Naucht kens she o' a freend o'
mine--
But the Gowk that bides i' the woods o' Dun
He kens him fine!
Past the yaird an' ahint the stye,
O the aipples grow bonnilie!
Tib,
my auntie, she canna' spy
Wha comes creepin' to kep wi' me.
Aye!
she'd sort him, for, dod, she's fell!
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an' hide
yersel'
An' the wice-like bird i' the aipple-tree

He winna' tell!
Aprile-month, or the aipples flower,
Tib, my auntie, will rage an' ca';

Jimmie lad, she may rin an' glower--
What care I? We'll be far awa'!

Let her seek me the leelang day,
Wha's to tell her the road we'll gae?

For the cannie Gowk, tho' he kens it a',
He winna' say!
THE JACOBITE LASS
My love stood at the loanin' side
An' held me by the hand,
The
bonniest lad that e'er did bide
In a' this waefu' land--
There's but ae
bonnier to be seen
Frae Pentland to the sea,
And for his sake but
yestre'en
I sent my love frae me.
I gi'ed my love the white white rose
That's at my feyther's wa',
It is
the bonniest flower that grows
Whaur ilka flower is braw;
There's
but ae bonnier that I ken
Frae Perth unto the main,
An' that's the
flower o' Scotland's men
That's fechtin' for his ain.
Gin I had kept whate'er was mine
As I hae gie'd my best,
My he'rt
were licht by day, and syne
The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is
nae heavier he'rt to find
Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I sit me
doon to mind
On him I see nae mair.
Lad, gin ye fa' by Chairlie's side
To rid this land o' shame,
There
winna be a prooder bride
Than her ye left at hame,
But I will seek
ye whaur ye sleep
Frae lawlands to the peat,
An ilka nicht at mirk
I'll creep
To lay me at yer feet.
MAGGIE
Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
And nane can gar ye greet;

The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
Nor sorrow fash yer mind,

In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
For him