A delectable new Ballad, Entituled Leader Haughs and Yarow. To its own proper Tune.
|
WHen Phaebus bright, the Azure-skies
|
with golden rayes enlightneth,
|
These things sublunar he espies;
|
Herbs, Trees, and Plants he quick'neth
|
Among all those he makes his choise
|
and gladly goes he thorow,
|
With radiant beams and silver streams,
|
through Leader-Haughs and Yarow,
|
When Aries the day and night,
|
in equal length divideth;
|
Old frosty Saturn [t]akes the flight
|
no longer he abideth:
|
Then Flora Queen, with Mantle green
|
casts off her former sorrow,
|
And vows to dwell with Caeres sell
|
in Leader-Haughs and Yarow.
|
Pan Playing on his Oaten Reed,
|
with Shepherds him attending,
|
Doth here resort their flocks to feed,
|
the Hills and Haughs commending:
|
With bottle, bag, and staff with knag,
|
and all singing Good morrow,
|
They swear no Fields more pleasure yeelds
|
than Leader-Haughs and Yarow.
|
One house there stands on Leader side
|
surmounting my descryving:
|
With Ease-rooms rair, and windows fair
|
like Daedalus contriving:
|
Men passing by do often say
|
in South it has no marrow:
|
It stands as fair on Leader side
|
as New-wark does on Yarow.
|
A mile below, who list to ride,
|
they'l hear the Mavis singing.
|
Into St. Leonards bank she'l bide,
|
sweet Birks her head o'r-hinging:
|
The Lintwhite loud, and Progne proud,
|
with tender throats and narrow,
|
Into St. Leonards bank do sing,
|
as sweetly as in Yarow.
|
The Lapwing lilteth o're the Lee,
|
with nible wings she sporteth,
|
But vows she'l not come near the Tree,
|
where Philomel resorteth:
|
By break of day, the Lark can say,
|
I'le bid you all good morrow,
|
I'le yout and yell, for I may dwel
|
In Leader-Haughs and Yarow.
|
Park Wanton walls and Wooden.cleugh,
|
the East and Wester Mainses,
|
The Forrest of Lawder's fair enough,
|
the Corns are good in Blanslies:
|
Where Oats are fine, and sold by kind,
|
that if ye search all thorow
|
Mearns, Buchan, Mar, none better are,
|
then Leader-Haughs and Yarow.
|
In Burn milne-bog, and Whiteslead Shaws
|
the fearful Hare she hunteth,
|
Bridge-haugh and Broad-wood-shiel she knaws
|
to the Chapel-wood frequenteth
|
Yet when she irks, to Kainslie birks,
|
she runs and sighs for sorrow,
|
That she should leave sweet Leader-haughs
|
and cannot win to Yarow.
|
What sweeter Musick would you hear,
|
then hounds and beigls crying;
|
The hare waits not, but flees for fear,
|
their hard pursuit defying:
|
But yet her strength it fails at length,
|
no bielding can she borrow,
|
At Hoggs, Clackmay, nor Sorlesfield,
|
but longs to be at Yarow.
|
For Rockwood, Ringwood, Reva, Almer,
|
still thinking for to view her,
|
But O to fail [her strength begins,]
|
no cunning can re[scue her:]
|
O'r dub and dike, o'r seugh and syke,
|
she'l run the fields all thorow,
|
Yet ends her dayes in Leader-haughs
|
and bids farewell to Yarow.
|
Thou Erslington and Coldon-Knowes,
|
where Hume had once commanding;
|
And Dry-grange with thy milk white ewes
|
Tweed and Leader standing:
|
The birds that flees through Red-path trees
|
and Gladswood banks all thorow,
|
May chant and sing sweet Leader-haughs
|
and the bony banks of Yarow.
|
But Burn cannot his grief asswage,
|
while as his days endureth,
|
To see the changes of this age,
|
which day and time procureth:
|
For many a place stands in hard case,
|
where Burns were blyth besorrow,
|
With Humes that dwelt on Leader side,
|
and Scots that dwelt in Yarow.
|
The Words of Bur[n]
|
The Violer.
|
WHat? shall my Viol silent be,
|
or leave her wonted scriding?
|
But choise some sadder Elegie,
|
not sports and mirds deriding:
|
It must be fain with lower strain,
|
then it was wont besorrow,
|
To sound the praise of Leader-haughs,
|
and the bony banks of Yarow.
|
But flouds hath overflown the banks,
|
the greenish Haughs disgracing,
|
And trees in woods grows thin in ranks,
|
about the fields defacing:
|
For waters waxes, woods doth wind
|
more, if could for sorrow,
|
In rurul verse, I could rehearse,
|
of Leader-haughs and Yarow.
|
But sighs and sobs o'rsets my breath,
|
sory saltish tears forth sending,
|
All things sublunar here on earth,
|
are subject to an ending:
|
So must my song, though somewhat long,
|
yet late at even and morrow,
|
I'le sing, and sing, sweet Leader-Haughs,
|
and the bony banks of Yarow.
|
|
|
|
|
|