Barrochan Jean!

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en;
They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!

The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin;
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean;
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie,
The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,
He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.

[85] Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill
remarks:--"You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some
old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days.
'Barrochan Jean' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch
parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song;
perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little."

O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!

Lowland lassie, wilt thou go
Where the hills are clad with snow;
Where, beneath the icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
Ill nor wae shall thee betide,
When row'd within my Highland plaid.

Soon the voice of cheery spring
Will gar a' our plantin's ring,
Soon our bonny heather braes
Will put on their summer claes;
On the mountain's sunny side,
We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.

When the summer spreads the flowers,
Busks the glens in leafy bowers,
Then we 'll seek the caller shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed;
While the burning hours preside,
I 'l