Robert Burns 1775
Dick Gaughan wrote the following in his iconic interpretation: "I learned this, from Geordie Hamilton, an ex-miner from Kirkintilloch who worked with the Post Office in Edinburgh. He used to frequent the Forrest Hill Bar (always known as Sandy Bell's) and was responsible for encouraging and assisting many a young singer. But it was very difficult learning a complete song from him as he had a habit of starting one, singing a verse or two, then saying, "You don't really want to hear that" and launching into something else. The wonderful Ulster singer, Len Graham, sings this to a similar tune. Due to its closeness to the south-west of Scotland, Burns' songs and poetry are very popular in Ulster." "Peggy dear" was Peggy Thomson of Kirkoswald, a coastal town where Burns spent his seventeenth summer
Dick Gaughan: https://dickgaughan.bandcamp.com/track/now-westlin-winds-trad-arr-gaughan
Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn’s pleasant weather
The moorcock springs on whirring wings Among the blooming heather
Now waving grain, wild o’er the plain Delights the weary farmer
And the moon shines bright as I rove at night To muse upon my charmer
The partridge loves the fruitful fells The plover loves the mountain
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells The soaring hern the fountain
Through lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush The spreading thorn the linnet
Thus every kind their pleasure find The savage and the tender
Some social join and leagues combine Some solitary wander
Avaunt! Away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man’s dominion
The sportsman’s joy, the murdering cry The fluttering, gory pinion
But Peggy dear the evening’s clear Thick flies the skimming swallow
The sky is blue, the fields in view All fading green and yellow
Come let us stray our gladsome way And view the charms of nature
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn And every happy creature
We’ll gently walk and sweetly talk Till the silent moon shines clearly
I’ll grasp thy waist and, fondly pressed Swear how I love thee dearly
Not vernal showers to budding flowers Not autumn to the farmer
So dear can be as thou to me My fair, my lovely charmer