The Blaeberry Courtship

“Will ye go the Highlands, my jewel, with me?
Will ye go to the Highlands, my flocks for to see?
It is health to my jewel to breathe the sweet air,
And to pull the blaeberries in the forest so fair.”

“To the Highlands, my love, I will not go with thee,
For the road it is long, and the hills they are high;
I love this green valley and sweet corn field
More than all the blaeberries your wild mountains yield.”

“Our hills they are bonnie when the heather's in bloom,
It would cheer a fine fancy in the sweet month of June
To pull the blaeberries and carry them home,
And set them on your table when December comes on.”

Out spake her father, that saucy old man,
“Why choose not a mistress among your own clan?
It's but poor entertainment to our Lowland dames
To promise them berries and blue heather blooms.

“Kilt up your green plaidie, walk over yon hill,
For the sight of your Highland face does me much ill;
I'll wed my own daughter, and spare pennies too,
To whom my heart pleases, and what's that to you?”

“My plaid it is broad, it has colours anew,
Goodman, for your kindness, I'll leave it with you;
I have got a warm cordial keeps the cold from me—
The blythe blinks of love from your fair daughter's e'e.

“My flocks they are thin, and my lodgings but bare,
And you that has meikle the more you can spare;
Some of your spare pennies with me you will share,
And you winna send your lassie o'er the hills bare.”

He went to his daughter to give her advice,
Said, “If you go with him I'm sure you're not wise;
He's a rude Highland fellow, as poor as a crow,
He's of the clan Caithness for aught that I know.

“But if you go with him, I'm sure you'll go bare,
You'll have nothing your father or mother can spare;
Of all I possess I'll deprive you for aye,
If o'er the hills, lassie, you do go away.”

“It's father keep what you're not willing to give,
For I will go with him as sure as I live;
What signifies gold or treasure or fee,
If the hills are between my true love and me?”

Now she is gone with him in spite of them a',
Away to a place where her eyes never saw;
He had no gallant steed for to carry her on,
But still he said, “Lassie, think not the road long.”

In a warm summer's evening they came to a glen,
Being wearied with travel, the lassie sat down;
“Get up, my brave lassie, and let us step on,
For the sun will go down before we get home.”

“My feet are all torn, my shoes are all rent,
I'm wearied with travel and just like to faint;
Were it not for the sake of your kind companie,
I would lay myself down in the desert and die.”

“The day is far spent and the night's coming on,
So step you aside to yon lonely mill-town,
And there ask lodgings for thee and for me,
For glad would I be in a barn for to lie.”

“The place it looks pleasant and bonnie indeed,
But the folks are hard-hearted to them that's in need;
Perhaps they'll not grant us their barn nor byre,
But I will go and ask, as it is your desire.”

The lassie went foremost. “Sure I was to blame,
To ask for a lodging myself I thought shame;”
The lassie replied, with tears not a few—
“It's ill ale,” said she, “that's sour when it's new.”

In a short time thereafter they came to a grove,
Where the flocks they were feeding, a numberless drove,
Allan stood musing the flocks for to see,
“Step on,” says the lady, “that's no pleasure to me.”

A beautiful laddie, with green tartan trews,
And twa bonnie lassies were buchting in ewes,
They said—“Honoured master, you're welcome again,
Lang, lang have we look'd for your coming hame.”

“Bucht in your ewes, lassies, and gang your way hame,
I've brought a swan frae the south, I have her to tame,
Her feathers are fallen, say where can she lie?”
“The best bed in the house her bed it shall be.”

The lady's heart was far down, it couldna well rise
Till many a lad and lass came in with a phrase
To welcome the lady, to welcome her home—
Such a hall in the Highlands she never thought on.

The laddies did whistle, and the lassies did sing,
They made her a supper might served a king,
Long life and happiness they wished her all round,
And they made to the lady a braw bed of down.

Early next morning he led her outbye,
He bade her look round her as far's she could spy,
“These lands and possessions are yours, love, for aye,
Ye winna gae round them in a lang simmer day.”

“O Allan! O Allan! I'm indebted to thee,
It's a debt, my dear Allan, I never can pay;
O Allan! O Allan! how came you for me?
Sure I'm not worthy your bride for to be.”

“How call you me Allan, when Sandy's my name?
Why call you me Allan? Sure you are to blame;
For don't you remember when at the school with thee,
I was hated by all, but loved aye by thee?

“How oft have I fed on your bread and your cheese,
Likewise when you had but a handful of peas;
Your cruel-hearted father hound at me his dogs,
They tore my bare heels, and rave all my rags.”

“Is this my dear Sandy whom I loved so dear?
I have not heard of you this many a year;
When all the rest went to bed, sleep was frae me,
For thinking what fate had been doled out to thee.”

“My parents were born lang, lang before me,
Perhaps by this time they are drowned in the sea,
These lands and possessions they left them to me,
And I came for thee, love, to share them with thee.

“In love we began and in love we will end,
And in joy and delight our days we will spend;
On a voyage to your father once more we will go,
And relieve the old man from his trouble and woe.”

With men and maid servants to wait them upon,
Away to her father in a chaise they are gone;
The laddie went foremost—the brave Highland loon—
Till they came to the road that leads into the town.

When he came to the gate he gave a loud roar—
“Come down, gentle farmer—see who's at your door,”
When he looked from the window and saw his child's face,
With his hat in his hand he made a great phrase.

“Keep on your hat, farmer, and don't let it fa',
For it sets not the peacock to bow to the craw,”
“It's hold your tongue, Sandy, and do not taunt me,
For my daughter's not worthy your bride for to be.”

Now he held his bridle reins till he came down,
And then he conveyed him to a fine room;
With rejoicing and feasting the time flew away,
And the father and son lived in friendship for aye.
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