O! it's no my ain ruin
That saddens aye my e'e,
But the love I left in Galloway,
Wi' bonnie bairns three;
My hamely hearth burnt bonnie,
And smiled my fair Marie:
I've left my heart behind me,
In my ain countrie.
The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the tree,
But I win back-oh, never!
To my ain countrie.
I'm leal to the high heaven,
Which will be leal to me;
And there I'll meet ye a' sune,
Frae my ain countrie.
Go seek in the wild glen-
Where streamlets are falling,
Go seek on the lone hill-
Where curlews are calling,
Go seek where the clear stars
Shine down without number,
For there ye will find him
My true love in slumber.
They sought in the wild glen-
The glen was forsaken ;
They sought on the mountain,
'Mang lang lady bracken;
And sore, sore they hunted
My true love to find him,
With the strong bands of iron
To fetter and bind him.
Yon green hill I'll give thee
Where falcons are flying,
To show me the den, where
This bold traitor's lying-
O make me of Nithsdale's
Fair princedom the heiress,
Is that worth one smile of
My gentle Hugh Herries ?
The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him,
And safe in my fond arms,
I clasp'd, and I wound him:
I warn you-go not where
My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.
They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping, Behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,
'Mang banks of blae-berries,
I dwell with my loved one,
My gentle Hugh Herries.
By Logan streams that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
Herded sheep and gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart, thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me;
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing, thae days are gane :
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dauner out and sit alane,
Sit alane, beneath the tree,
Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes!
While for her love she thus did sigh,
She saw a sodger passin' by,
Passin' by, wi' scarlet claes,
While sair she grat on Logan braes:
Says he, what gars thee greet sae sair?
What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care?
Thae sportin' lambs hae blythsome days,
And playful skip on Logan braes!
What can I do but weep and mourn ?
I fear my lad will ne'er return,
Ne'er return to ease my waes,
Will ne'er come hame to Logan braes.
Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms,
And said, I'm free of war's alarms;
I now hae conquer'd a' my faes,
We'll happy live on Logan braes.
Then straight to Logan kirk they went,
And join'd their hands with one consent,
With one consent to spend their days,
And live in bliss, on Logan braes.
And now she sings, thae days are gane
When I wi' grief did herd alane,
While my dear lad did fight his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
[This song, the author of which is still alive, was printed in the Star Newspaper, May 23, 1789, and soon became a favourite. Burns in one of his letters speaks of it as an old song, the two last lines of one of the verses he thought pretty :
Now my dear lad maun face his faes
Far, frae me and Logan braes.]
The mavis sings in Mary's bower,
The laverock in the sky,
An' a' is fair round Mary's bower,
An' a' abune is joy !-
But sad's the gloom in Mary's bower,
Tho' a' without be gay;
Nae music comes to greet the morn,
Nae smile to glad the day.
Her lover left young Mary's bower,
His ship has crossed the main;
There's waefu' news in Mary's bower,
He ne'er returns again.
A breaking heart's in Mary's bower,
A wasting form is there;
The glance has left that e'e sae blue,
The rose that cheek sae fair.
The mavis flees frae Mary's bower,
The laverock quits the sky;
An' simmer sighs o'er Mary's bower,
For coming winter's nigh.
The snaw fa's white on Mary's bower,
The tempests loudly rave;
The flowers that bloomed round Mary's bower,
Now wither on her grave!
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