O the Ewe-bughting’s bonnie.
[The first four lines of this fine pastoral lyric form part of an unfinished song by Lady Grizzle Baillie, the authoress of the old touching ditty, "Were na my heart light I wad die," (see page 135). The rest is by Thomas Pringle, author of African Sketches, who died in 1834.]
O the ewe-bughting's bonnie, baith e'ening and morn,
When our blythe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear;
But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear!
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn:
On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free—
But alas! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
O the sheep-herding's lightsome amang the green braes
Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes,
Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale,
And the cushat croods luesomely down in the dale.
There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn,
And blythe lilts the laverock aboon the green corn,
And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime—
But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime!
O the hay-making's pleasant, in bright sunny June—
The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune;
But while others are joking and laughing sae free,
There 's a pang at my heart and a tear i' my e'e.
At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn,
Fu' dowie, and wae, aft I daunder and mourn;
Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane,
And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane.
O the days o' our youtheid were heartsome and gay,
When we herded thegither by sweet Gaitshaw brae,
When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells
By the Cayle's ferny howms and on Hounam's green fells.
But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird,
To win honour and gowd—(gif his life it be spared!)
Ah! little care I for wealth, favour, or fame,
Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame!
Then round out wee cot though gruff winter sould roar,
And poortith glowr in like a wolf at the door;
Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink,
And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink,
Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel,
Through the howe o' the year we wad fen unco weel:
Till the lintwhite, and laverock, and lambs bleating fain,
Brought back the blythe time o' ewe-bughting again.
