Poem by Carolina Oliphant, Lady Nairne

Jamie the Laird

Air — "The Rock and the wee pickle Tow."

Send a horse to the water, ye'll no mak' him drink;
Send a fule to the College, ye'll no mak' him think;
Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw;
An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava.
Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e,
In body or mind nae faut can she see;
"He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
Is aye the beginn'n an' end o' her sang.
      An' oh! she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow,
      An' oh! she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow;
      "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
      Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his e'en they do glee,
his wig, whiles it's aff, an' when on, it's ajee;
He's braid as he's lang,— an' ill-faur'd is he,
A dafter like body I never did see.
An' yet for this cratur, she says I am deein',
When that I deny, she' fear'd at my leein';—
Obliged to pit up wi' this sair defamation,
I'm liken to dee wi' grief and vexation.
      An' oh! she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow,
      An' oh! she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow;
      "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
      Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

An' her clish-ma-clavers gang a' thro' the toun,
An' the wee lairdie trows I'll hang or I'll droun;
Wi' his gawkie-like face, yestreen he did say,
"I'll maybe tak' you, for Bess I'll no hae,
Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury—
I'm thinkin' to bring them afore Judge an' Jury.
      For oh! what a randy auld Lucky is she,
      For oh! what a randy auld Lucky is she,
      "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
      Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

Frien's! gie yere advice! — I'll follow yere counsel—
Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council?
Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say;
For the law o' the Lucky I shall an' will hae.
The hale toun at me are jibin' an' jeerin';
For a leddy like me, it's really past bearin';
The Lucky maun now hae done wi' her claverin',
For I'll no pit up wi' her, nor her haverin'!
      For oh! she's a randy, I trow, I trow;
      For oh! she's a randy, I trow, I trow;
      "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
      Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

1. Songs of My Native Land
2. There Grows a Bonnie Brier Bush
3. Fell He on the Field of Fame
4. Caller Herrin'
5. Would You Be Young Again?

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