Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (151 page)

BOOK: Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)
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Tullochgorum

 

John Skinner (1721–1807)

 

COME, gi’es sang, Montgom’rie cried,
And lay your disputes a’ aside;
What signifies for folks to chide
 
For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory a’ agree,
  
5
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Whig and Tory a’ agree
 
To drop their whigmigmorum;
Let Whig and Tory a’ agree
To spend this night in mirth and glee,
  
10
And cheerfu’ sing, alang wi’ me,
 
The reel o’ Tullochgorum.

 

O Tullochgorum’s my delight;
It gars us a’ in ane unite;
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
  
15
 
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we’ll be a’,
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we’ll be a’
 
And mak’ a cheerfu’ quorum.
  
20
For blithe and merry we’ll be a’
As lang as we ha’e breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa’,
 
The reel o’ Tullochgorum.

 

What needs there be sae great a fraise
  
25
Wi’ dringin’, dull Italian lays?
I wadna gi’e our ain strathspeys
 
For half a hunder score o’ them.
They’re dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
  
30
Dowf and dowie at the best,
 
Wi’ a’ their variorum.
They’re dowf and dowie at the best,
Their
allegros
and a’ the rest;
They canna please a Scottish taste
  
35
 
Compared wi’ Tullochgorum.

 

Let worldly worms their minds oppress
Wi’ fears o’ want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsel’s distress
 
Wi’ keeping up decorum.
  
40
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit?
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
 
Like auld philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
  
45
Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
 
To the reel o’ Tullochgorum?

 

May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
  
50
And calm and quiet be his end,
 
And a’ that’s gude watch o’er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
  
55
 
And dainties a great store o’ them!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by ony vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
 
That’s fond o’ Tullochgorum!
  
60

 

But for the discontented fool,
Wha wants to be oppression’s tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
 
And discontent devour him!
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
  
65
Dule and sorrow, dule and sorrow,
Dule and sorrow be his chance,
 
And nane say ‘Wae’s me for him!’
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
And a’ the ills that come frae France,
  
70
Whae’er he be that winna dance
 
The reel o’ Tullochgorum!

 

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

 

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

 

To the Cuckoo

 

Michael Bruce (1746–1767)

 

HAIL! beauteous Stranger of the wood!
 
Attendant on the Spring!
Now heav’n repairs thy rural seat,
 
And woods thy welcome sing.

 

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
  
5
 
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
 
Or mark the rolling year?

 

Delightful visitant! with thee
 
I hail the time of flow’rs,
  
10
When heav’n is fill’d with music sweet
 
Of birds among the bow’rs.

 

The schoolboy wand’ring in the wood
 
To pull the flow’rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
  
15
 
And imitates thy lay.

 

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
 
Thou fly’st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
 
Another Spring to hail.
  
20

 

Sweet bird! thy bow’r is ever green,
 
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
 
No winter in thy year!

 

Alas! sweet bird! not so my fate,
  
25
 
Dark scowling skies I see
Fast gathering round, and fraught with woe
 
And wintry years to me.

 

O could I fly, I’d fly with thee:
 
We’d make, with social wing,
  
30
Our annual visit o’er the globe,
 
Companions of the Spring.

 

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

 

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

 

Logie o’ Buchan

 

George Halket (d. 1756)

 

O LOGIE o’ Buchan, O Logie the laird!
They ha’e ta’en awa’ Jamie, that delved in the yaird,
Wha played on the pipe and the viol sae sma’,
They ha’e ta’en awa’ Jamie, the flower o’ them a’!

 

He said, ‘Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa’!’
  
5
He said, ‘Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa’!’
For simmer is coming, cauld winter’s awa’,
And I’ll come and see thee in spite o’ them a’!’

 

Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;
  
10
Yet I’d tak’ mine ain lad, wi’ his staff in his hand,
Before I’d ha’e him, wi’ the houses and land.

 

My daddy looks sulky, my minnie looks sour;
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;
Though I lo’e them as weel as a dochter should do,
  
15
They’re nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.

 

I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo’ed me sae weel:
He had but a sixpence, he brak’ it in twa,
And gi’ed me the hauf o’t when he gaed awa’.
  
20

 

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa’!
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa’!
The simmer is coming, cauld winter’s awa’,
And ye’ll come and see me in spite o’ them a’.

 

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

 

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

 

The Braes of Yarrow

 

William Hamilton of Bangour (1704–1754)

 

‘BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
 
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!’

 

‘Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?
  
5
 
Where got ye that winsome marrow?’
‘I got her where I durst not well be seen —
 
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’

 

‘Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
  
10
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
 
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’

 

‘Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
 
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen
  
15
 
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?’

 

‘Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
 
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae weel be seen
 
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
  
20

 

‘For she has tint her lover, lover dear —
 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I have slain the comeliest swain
 
That ever pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.

 

‘Why runs thy stream O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?
  
25
 
Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds
 
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow.

 

‘What’s yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
 
What’s yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
  
30
’Tis he, the comely swain I slew
 
Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.

 

‘Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
 
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
  
35
 
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.

 

‘Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow:
And weep around, in woeful wise,
 
His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow.
  
40

 

‘Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
 
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast —
 
His comely breast on the braes of Yarrow!

 

‘Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,
  
45
 
And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm
 
Thou met’st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.’

 

‘Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
 
Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan;
  
50
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
 
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!’

 

‘Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed;
 
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow;
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
  
55
 
The apple from its rocks as mellow.

 

‘Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love;
 
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter:
Though he was fair, and well beloved again
 
Than me, he never loved thee better.
  
60

 

‘Busk ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
 
Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, and lo’e me on the banks of Tweed,
 
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!’

 

‘How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride?
  
65
 
How can I busk, a winsome marrow?
How lo’e him on the banks of Tweed
 
That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow!

 

‘O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain
 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover!
  
70
For there was basely slain my love —
 
My love as he had not been a lover.

 

‘The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
 
His purple vest— ’twas my ain sewing:
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew
  
75
 
He was in these to meet his ruin!

 

‘The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
 
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the to-fall of the night
 
He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.
  
80

 

‘Much I rejoiced, that woeful, woeful day;
 
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
 
That slew my love and left me mourning.

 

‘What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
  
85
 
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover’s blood is on thy spear;
 
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

 

‘My happy sisters may be, may be proud —
 
With cruel and ungentle scoffin’
  
90
May bid me seek, on Yarrow’s braes,
 
My lover nailed in his coffin.

 

‘My brother Douglas may upbraid,
 
And strive with threat’ning words to move me:
My lover’s blood is on thy spear,
  
95
 
How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

 

‘Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love!
 
With bridal sheets my body cover!
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door;
 
Let in the expected husband lover!
  
100

 

‘But who the expected husband, husband is?
 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre’s yon,
 
Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after?

 

‘Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down;
  
105
 
O lay his cold head on my pillow:
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,
 
And crown my careful head with willow.

 

‘Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved!
 
Oh! could my warmth to life restore thee,
  
110
Ye’d lie all night between my breasts!
 
No youth lay ever there before thee.

 

‘Pale, pale indeed! O lovely, lovely youth!
 
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter;
And lie all night between my breasts!
  
115
 
No youth shall ever lie there after.’

 

Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!
 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow!
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs —
 
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.”
  
120

 

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

 

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

 

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