St. Andrew’s Day.
[John Imlah. Tune, "The Miller o' Dron."—"Saints," observes the author in a note to this song, "seem to have the fate of prophets—but little or no honour in their own country. St. Andrew's Day is much observed by Scotsmen out of their own land—and particularly so in London and in America. The principal festival of that ancient and excellent Corporation, the Scottish Hospital, in the metropolis, is held on this day, and is generally well attended by Scotsmen, and the benevolent natives of other countries. A worthy Alderman, well known for his strict attention to his magisterial duties, a few years ago, when he was Lord Mayor, presided in the absence of the late Duke of Gordon, and paid a compliment to his countrymen, whose names were in the book of subscribers to this charity, by terming the printed list a good Scotch Directory—at least, he added, all Scotsmen worth inquiring for were recorded in it. The last verse of this song alludes to the festival of that body, and the objects contemplated by their national and convivial meetings."]
Here's health and hail to Goth and Gael,
Wha bear the Norlan' name,
Blythe be they a'—the far awa',
And happier folk at hame!
And spend we gowd or but a grot,
Our drink be what it may,
Let Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot,
Upon St. Andrew's day.
Where'er we live, whate'er our lot,
Still will I plead and pray
That Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot,
Upon St. Andrew's Day.
Some seek the Edens o' the east,
Some Carib isles explore—
The forests of the "far-off" west,
And Afric's savage shore;
Still charms of native speech and spot,
And native springs for aye,
Will band like brithers Scot with Scot,
Upon St. Andrew's day.
Where'er we live, &c.
Some that have won an honour'd name.
Some that have gather'd gear,
And others a' unknown to fame
Or fortune may be here;
But be we clad in braid-claith coat,
Or hame-spun hodden grey,
Let Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot,
Upon St. Andrew's day!
Where'er we live, &c.
Have we not cause to crack fu' crouse,
When this dear day returns,
Dear to the Land of Robert Bruce,
The land of Robert Burns!
Wha better raised the patriot brand,
And pour'd the patriot lay,
Than prince and peasant of the land
That loves St. Andrew's Day!
Where'er we live, &c.
"The better day the better deed,"
The saying's auld, I trow,
Those of our nation here in need,
Be they remember'd now;
Each mite on high is treasure stored
We here to poortith pay,
'Twill crown our cup—'twill bless our board,
Upon St. Andrew's day!
Where'er we live, whate'er our lot,
Still will I plead and pray
That Scot rejoice wi' brither Scot,
Upon St. Andrew's Day.
The sun had slipped.
[David Vedder.—From "The Edinburgh Literary Gazette," vol. II. 1830.]
The sun had slipped ayont the hill,
The darg was done in barn an' byre;
The carle himsel', come hame frae the mill,
Was luntin' his cutty before the fire:
The lads and lasses had just sitten down,
The hearth was sweepit fu' canty an' clean,
When the cadgie laird o' Windlestraetown
Cam' in for till haud his Hallowe'en.
The gudewife beck'd, the carle boo'd;
In owre to the deas the laird gaed he;
The swankies a', they glowr'd like wud,
The lasses leugh i' their sleeves sae slee;
An' sweet wee Lilias was unco fear'd,
Tho' she blumed like a rose in a garden green;
An' sair she blush'd when she saw the laird
Come there for till haud his Hallowe'en!
