human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  I have the honour to be,
Your very obedient, humble servant,
Judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of
"And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute."
"Alas! that I came o'er the moor,
And left my love behind me."
Wakin' aye an' eerie;
Sleep I canna get
For thinkin' on my dearie;
"Within my garden gay
The rose and lily grew;
But the pride of my garden is wither'd away,
And it 's a' grown o'er wi' rue.
"Farewell, ye fading flowers!
And farewell, bonnie Jean!
But the flower that is now trodden under foot,
In time it may bloom again."
"I wish my love were in a mire,
That I might pull her out again;"
"Oh! what a parish!--eh! what a parish!
Oh! what a parish is that o' Dunkel':
They 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor;
They 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell."
"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant,
"But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
His grief while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age,
That fleeting time procureth.
For many a place stands in hard case,
Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow,
With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,
And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."
straw-rope"--and go and do likewise.
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
"The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_,
Fast by the river Tweed."
pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--
"At Beltane, when ilk body bouns
To Peebles to the play,
To hear the singin' and the soun's,
The solace, sooth to say.
By firth and forest forth they wound,
They graithit them full gay:
God wot what they would do that stound,
For it was their feast-day,
They said,
Of Peebles to the play!
Gatherit out thick-fald,
The young folk were full bald.
The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
Out of the towns untald:
Lord! sic ane shout was them amang,
When they were owre the wald,
There west
Of Peebles to the play!"
He was not by birth a _Ker_--the family name of the house of
"Ken ye the news I hae to tell,
Cumberland's awa' to hell,
competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and
shrouds. He put it on--ay, and for many years wore it stout and
stark--nobly, loftily, sweetly--with a dignity, simplicity,
"Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster!"
magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun.
"In Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?)
When harmless Troy yet felt not Grecian spite,
An hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale,
While their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite,
The shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light,
Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste."
In our old, picturesque Saxon form of speech, the husband was the
astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not
"It was a merry place in days of yore."
" ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit,
Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."
lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no
"God bless the master of the house,
The mistress also,
And all the pretty babies
That round the table go;"
"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,
Dinna think that we are beggars;
We are bairns come out to play,
"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"
Truth and honour,
Our ship,
The flower of Keir,
My bonnie wee wifie,
The bonnie bird,
Come when the dawn,
Good-morrow,
Oh, wae's my life,
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Laddie, oh! leave me,
How blythely the pipe,
The maid of Islay,
The wee bird's song,
What makes this hour?
The lily of the vale,
How sweet are the blushes of morn,
Mild as the morning,
The beacons blazed,
The rendezvous,
Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew,
The month of June,
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs,
O! lassie I lo'e dearest,
The bard strikes his harp,
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest,
Oh, my love 's bonnie,
The dreary reign of winter's past,
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie,
The hameward sang,
Dowie in the hint o' hairst,
On wi' the tartan,
The rover o' Lochryan,
The last look o' hame,
The lads an' the land far awa',
My bonnie wee Bell,
The maiden to her reaping-hook,
When the bee has left the blossom,
Oh, leave me not,
Never despair,
The year that 's awa',
Oh, dinna ask me,
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
The Highland maid,
The Neapolitan war-song,
Our auld Scots sangs,
My laddie lies low,
Victorious be again, boys,
The falcon's flight,
The salmon run,
The blessing on the wark,
Twilight joys,
Oh, blessing on her starlike een,
Oh! blessing on thee, land,
The faithless,
My soul is ever with thee,
The missionary,
The mariner's song,
Her lip is o' the rose's hue,
The bower o' Clyde,
In distant years,
The ladye that I love,
Thou gentle and kind one,
Lament for the old Highland warriors,
The swallow,
My native land,
A shepherd's life,
Her I love best,
The knight's return,
The bonnie Redesdale lassie,
The mountaineer's death,
Sweet Jessie o' the dell,
Meet me on the gowan lea,
Morag's fairy glen,
Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
E'ening's dewy hour,
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
Wooing song,
I'm wandering wide,
How early I woo'd thee,
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go,
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze,
The mother and child,
The tomb of the Bruce,
The ploughman,
Woodland song,
The wells o' Weary,
I'm naebody noo,
I canna sleep,
'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray,
Oh, sweet is the blossom,
The squire o' low degree,
The pride o' the glen,
Naebody's bairn,
Castles in the air,
Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew,
Wifie, come hame,
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest,
Creep afore ye gang,
Ae guid turn deserves anither,
The nameless lassie,
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win,
The widow,
The noble Scottish game,
The merry bowling-green,
Angling song,
Let ither anglers,
The British oak,
Peace in war,
Curling song,
The auld meal mill,
The thistle,
The Scotch blue bell,
The rockin',
The widow,
The Highland plaid,
The flower o' Glencoe,
He loved her for her merry eye,
Life and death,
Good-night,
Old Scotland, I love thee!
Flowers of summer,
Home of my fathers,
What ails my heart?
I'm away,
There is a bonnie, blushing flower,
The maid of Glencoe,
The fa' o' the leaf,
The auld kirkyard,
Far, far away,
The royal Breadalbane oak,
Is not the earth,
Oh! love the soldier's daughter dear!
The battle of Stirling,
Ye cowe a',
My ain dear Nell,
The pairtin',
The missionary of St Kilda,
The return of peace,
The song of the carline,
The song of the kilt,
The storm blast,
"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of their sires"--
"Had paidlet i' the burn,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
"The flowers may fade upon your banks,
The breckan on the brae,
But, oh! the love I ha'e for thee
Shall never pass away.
Though age may wrinkle this smooth brow,
And youth be like a dream,
Still, still my voice to heaven shall rise
For blessings on your stream!"
"The dearest theme
That ever waked the poet's dream,"
and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the
"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And man below, and saints above:
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!"
"The moon is shining, Margaret,
Serenely bright above,
And, like my dearest Margaret,
Her every look is love!
The trees are waving, Margaret,
And balmy is the air,
Where flowers are breathing, Margaret,
Come, let us wander there.
Yes! there 's a hand, dear Margaret,
A heart it gives to thee;
When heaven is false, my Margaret,
Then I may faithless be."
"The sea, by day so smooth and bright,
Is far more lovely seen by night,
When o'er old Ocean's wrinkled brow,
The night has hung her silver bow,
And stars in myriads ope their eyes
To guide the footsteps of the wise,
And in the deep reflected lie,
Till Ocean seems a second sky;
And ships, like wing'd aerial cars,
Are voyaging among the stars."
This is--
"Ere winter comes with icy chain,
And clanks his fetters o'er the ground."
The impersonation of Winter himself is very striking--
"Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven."
affectionate regard.
If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame,
There is that in the doing brings honour or shame;
There is something in running life's perilous race,
Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base.
Oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn,
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
Rely not on weapons or armies of might,
But on that which endureth,--laws loving and right.
Though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood,
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
Be noble as man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If lover or husband--be faithful and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy;
The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy.
Love dignifies man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove
How the child honours him who rebuketh with love.
If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be,
Remember the truthful alone are the free.
Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
Then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall,
There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all;
Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale,
They are beacons of light in adversity's gale.
Oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide
While truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide.
A song, a song, brave hearts, a song,
To the ship in which we ride,
Which bears us along right gallantly,
Defying the mutinous tide.
Away, away, by night and day,
Propelled by steam and wind,
The watery waste before her lies,
And a flaming wake behind.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home
The home of the brave and free.
With a fearless bound to the depths profound,
She rushes with proud disdain,
While pale lips tell the fears that swell,
Lest she never should rise again.
With a courser's pride she paws the tide,
Unbridled by bit I trow,
While the churlish sea she dashes with glee
In a cataract from her prow.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.
She bears not on board a lawless horde,
Piratic in thought or deed,
Yet the sword they would draw in defence of law,
In the nation's hour of need.
Professors and poets, and merchant men
Whose voyagings never cease;
From shore to shore, the wide world o'er,
Their bonds are the bonds of peace.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.
She boasts the brave, the dutiful,
The aged and the young,
And woman bright and beautiful,
And childhood's prattling tongue.
With a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies,
And we fear not the storm or squall;
For faithful officers rule the helm,
And heaven protects us all.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home,
The home of the brave and free.
AIR--_'The Brisk Young Lad.'_
Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
When he wanted me to lo'e;
He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
Came rattlin' out, I trew.
O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
And thought he would conquer lo'e.
He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
When I was made his bonny wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang,
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
Gin that's the best ye can do."
O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
An' through the town like lightning ran,
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.
An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
"Far better be single," the folk a' said,
"Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.
O what care I where love was born;
I know where oft he lingers,
Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside,
By morning's rosy fingers.
If you would know, come, follow me,
O'er mountain, moss, and river,
To where the Nith and Scar agree
To flow as one for ever.
Pass Kirk-o'-Keir and Clover lea,
Through loanings red with roses;
But pause beside the spreading tree,
That Fanny's bower encloses.
There, knitting in her shady grove,
Sits Fanny singing gaily;
Unwitting of the chains of love,
She 's forging for us daily.
Like light that brings the blossom forth,
And sets the corn a-growing,
Melts icy mountains in the north,
And sets the streams a-flowing;
So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise,
Shed loving rays to cheer us,
Her absence gives us wintry skies,
'Tis summer when she 's near us!
O, saw ye ever such a face,
To waken love and wonder;
A brow with such an arch of grace,
And blue eyes shining under!
Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles,
Are equall'd not by many;
Her look it charms, her love it warms,
The flower of Keir is Fanny.
Oh! I have traversed lands afar,
O'er mountains high, and prairies green;
Still above me like a star,
Serene and bright thy love has been;
Still above me like a star,
To gladden, guide, and keep me free
From every ill. Oh, life were chill,
Apart, my love, apart from thee.
Other eyes might beam as bright,
And other cheeks as rosy be;
Other arms as pure and white,
And other lips as sweet to pree;
But ruddy lips, or beaming eyes,
However fond and fair to see,
I could not, would not love or prize
Apart, my love, apart from thee.
Other friendships I have known,
Friendships dear, and pure, and kind;
Liking soon to friendship grown,
Love is friendship's ore refined.
Oh, what is life, with love denied?
A scentless flower, a leafless tree;
My song with love,--my love with pride,
Are full,--my love, are full of thee.
My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee,
To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll soon be returning;
Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be!
Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary,
The snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea;
All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery,
Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee?
Oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy,
An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane;
The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking,
Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain.
The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer,
The sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e,
The bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom;
Oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee.
There 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing,
Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay;
Love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing,
Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away.
Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing
The bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll then be returning;
Nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be.
Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird?
Oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy?
I fear me it was where nae truth was heard,
And far frae the shrine o' guid St Mary.
I didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,
Nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy,
But won her young heart where the angels heard,
In the bowery glen of Inverary.
And what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird?
I fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly;
Or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard,
Where blossoms o' grace are planted early.
As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly;
To the day o' doom I will keep my word,
An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.
Oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal?
The laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely;
It is--it is the bonny, bonny bird,
Wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early.
For he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird,
Nor did he beguile the winsome fairy,
He had made her his ain, where the angels heard,
At the holy shrine o' the blest St Mary.
Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking,
Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain,
Come when the clamorous birds are awaking
Man unto duty and pleasure again;
Bright let your spirits be,
Breathing sweet liberty,
Drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain.
High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
Flying, pursuing,
Toying, and wooing--
Nature is now as she ever has been.
Then when the toils of the day are all over,
Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring--
Youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness,
Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
"Bright may our spirits be--
Happy and ever free.
Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."
Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
Hark! hark!
Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
Or the early milkmaid carolling?
Hark! hark!
Or is it the lark,
As he bids the sun good-morrow?--
Good-morrow;
Though every day brings sorrow.
The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
Hark! hark!
Is it the musical chime on the hill,
That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
Hark! hark!
Oh, sweeter than lark,
Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
Of sorrow;
But pleasure will come to-morrow.
Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
The last fond hope I leant upon,
Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.
For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
That darkens on your brow, Willie?
Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
A fading flower despised, Willie?
Sin' love has fled, and hope is dead,
Soon my poor heart maun break, Willie;
As your ain life, oh, guard your wife--
I 'll love her for your sake, Willie.
Through my despair, oh, mony a prayer,
Will rise for her and ye, Willie;
That ye may prove to her, in love,
Mair faithfu' than to me, Willie.
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye,
I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye,
An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye,
That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie!
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
Ye shall dress in damask fine,
My goud and gear shall a' be thine,
And I to ye be ever kin'.
Say,--will ye marry me, lassie?
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, smiling wee lassie?
Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose,
Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose,
An' at the ingle warm your nose;
But come na courtin' me, carle.
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trew,
Before I pair wi' ye, carle!
Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes,
Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes,
An' siller canna buy the brains
That pleasure gie to me, carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hound an' hare may seek ae lair,
But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.
I winna share your gowd wi' ye,
Your withering heart, an' watery e'e;
In death I'd sooner shrouded be
Than wedded to ye, auld carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw,
I'll bloom upon your breast, carle.
But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain,
May heaven blessings on him rain!
Though plackless, he is unco fain,
And he's the man for me, carle!
Oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree;
Though rich, you're no the man for me.
Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee;
Pray heaven to be your bride, carle.
Oh, mony a year has come and gane,
An' mony a weary day,
Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame,
I first was lured away,
To wander over unco lands,
Far, far ayont the sea;
But no to find a land like this,
The hame o' Bess an' me!
I've traversed mony a dreary land,
Across the braid, braid sea;
But, oh, my native mountain hame,
My thochts were aye wi' thee.
As certain as the sun wad rise,
And set ahint the sea,
Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers,
At morn an' nicht for thee;
When I return'd unto my hame,
The hills were clad wi' snow;
Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
My heart was in a glow.
Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
Like summer 'twas to me;
For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love,
Of country, kindred, thee!
Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
Returning sunny beams,
Than I then hailed my native hame,
Its mountains, woods, and streams.
Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
We never mair will part;
Although to a' we seem as twa,
We only hae ae heart!
We 'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
Sae happy a' the day,
That though our bodies time may change,
Our love shall ne'er decay:
As gently as yon lovely stream
Declining years shall run,
An' life shall pass frae our auld clay,
As snow melts 'neath the sun.
Yestreen on Cample's bonnie flood
The summer moon was shining;
While on a bank in Chrichope wood
Two lovers were reclining:
They spak' o' youth, an' hoary age,
O' time how swiftly fleeting,
Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,--
The reason of their meeting!
When Willie thoucht his heart was firm,
An' might declare its feeling,
A glance frae Bessy's starry een
Sent a' his senses reeling;
For aye when he essay'd to speak,
An' she prepared to hear him,
The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
But words would no come near him!
'Tis ever thus that love is taught
By his divinest teacher;
He silent adoration seeks,
But shuns the prosy preacher.
Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
Nor deem my lesson hollow;
The deepest river silent rins,
The babbling brook is shallow.
Together, dearest, we have play'd,
As girl and boy together;
Through storm and calm, in sun and shade,
In spring and wintry weather.
Oh! every pang that stinging came
But made our love the dearer;
If danger lower'd--'twas all the same,
We only clung the nearer.
In riper years, when all the world
Lay bathed in light before us,
And life in rainbow hues unfurl'd
Its glowing banner o'er us,
Amid the beauty storms would rise
And flowers collapsing wither,
While open friends turned hidden foes--
Yet were we blest together.
But now the battle's fought and won,
And care with life is flying,
While, setting slowly like the sun,
Ambition's fires are dying.
We gather hope with fading strength,
And go, we know not whither,
Contented if in death at last
We sleep in peace together.
With lofty song we love to cheer
The hearts of daring men;
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds
Devoted to the brave,
Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
A hero's life may save:
And heroes saved exulting tell
How well her voice they knew;
How sorrow near it could not dwell,
But spread its wings and flew.
Neglected, dying in despair,
They lay till woman came
To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore, on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,
She called their fluttering spirits back
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.
When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
And holy made the place.
They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years--
Of early years, when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale.
They woke: the angel bending there
 She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many
Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery,
When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie;
Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me,
But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me;
Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."
"I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee;
Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.
"There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure,
There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure,
There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me,
Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.
The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses;
What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses!
I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me
She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;"
Leave me, leave me, &c.
How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding,
When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming--
The battle-cry echoed, around and above
Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.
All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear!
And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden
With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!
contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.
Rising o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing,
Oft I chant my love-lorn strain,
To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.
'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,
Lightning's flash or thunder's roll;
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
While her image fill'd my soul.
Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
Bliss that never can return!
Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.
I heard a wee bird singing,
In my chamber as I lay;
The casement open swinging,
As morning woke the day.
And the boughs around were twining,
The bright sun through them shining,
And I had long been pining,
For my Willie far away--
When I heard the wee bird singing.
He heard the wee bird singing,
For its notes were wondrous clear;
As if wedding bells were ringing,
Melodious to the ear.
And still it rang that wee bird's song;
Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong;
While my heart beat so quick and strong--
It felt that he was near!
And he heard the wee bird singing.
We heard the wee bird singing,
After brief time had flown;
The true bells had been ringing,
And Willie was my own.
And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
I knew what the wee bird was saying,
That morn, when he, no longer straying,
Flew back to me alone.
And we love the wee bird singing.
 Here first published.
What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here.
Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met--
But my own love is not here.
TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_
The lily of the vale is sweet,
And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flower that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.
There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief--my only care.
 This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for
How sweet are the blushes of morn,
And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
But sweeter's the smile of my love.
Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
Since fate has decreed we should part;
Thine image shall still with me dwell,
Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.
But by winding Devon's green bowers,
At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
And the pride of her maidens, my love.
The music shall cease in the grove,
Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
But the lark, in strains bearing love,
Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.
George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of
Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He
Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty,
Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar,
With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom,
To view with sad horror the carnage of war.
She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow;
Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain;
The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded,
And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.
"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?
Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?
Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining,
To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"
A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces,
Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore--
"Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald,
Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."
She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded;
The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart;
She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded,
He wanted that succour, she could not impart--
"Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven,
"Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er;
And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother,
Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."
AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_
The beacons blazed, the banners flew,
The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew,
The trusty clans their claymores drew,
To shield their Royal Charlie.
Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans,
Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens,
Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
They, like their fathers, bold and brave,
Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive;
Of danger fearless, sworn to save
Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still,
Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill,
And boldly dared, wi' right guid will,
To shield their Royal Charlie.
The forests and the rocks replied
To shouts which rung both far and wide:
Our prince is come, his people's pride--
Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!
Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own;
We'll die, or seat thee on the throne,
Where many a Scottish king has shone;
The sires o' Royal Charlie.
No faithful Scot now makes a pause;
Plain truth and justice plead thy cause;
Each fearlessly his weapon draws,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
Now, lead us on against thy foes;
Thy rightful claim all Europe knows;
We'll scatter death with all our blows,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display,
By deathless deeds in battle day,
To stretch them pale on beds of clay,
The foes of Royal Charlie.
Warlike chieftains now assembled,
Fame your daring deeds shall tell,
Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled,
When you raised your warlike yell.
Bards shall sing when battle rages,
Scotia's sons shall victors be;
Bards shall sing in after ages,
Caledonians aye were free.
Blest be every bold avenger,
Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound;
Dreadful in the day of danger
Be each chieftain ever found.
Let the hills our swords have shielded,
Ring to every hero's praise;
And the tribes who never yielded,
Their immortal trophies raise.
Heroes brave, be ever ready,
At your king and country's call;
When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you,
Let the foe that dares you fall.
Let the harp to strains resounding,
Ring to cheer the dauntless brave;
Let the brave like roes come bounding
On to glory or a grave.
Let your laurels never-fading,
Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
Where your thistle springs triumphant,
There let freedom's banner wave.
Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
My ain sweet bairnies dear,
Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.
The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.
The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;
The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
Till sunshine spreads anew,
And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
Its lucent drap o' dew.
The great may loll in world's wealth
And a' the pomp o' state,
While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
Maun toil baith ear and late.
The poor may gae to bed distrest,
With nae relief in view,
And rising, like ilk blade o' grass,
Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.
Oh, what a gentle hand is His
That cleeds the lilies fair,
And o' the meanest thing in life
Takes mair than mother's care!
Can ye no put your trust in Him,
With heart resign'd and true,
Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass,
Ilk blade its drap o' dew.
O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers
That a' our seasons yield;
Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers,
The garden, and the field;
The pathway verge by hedge and tree,
So fresh, so green, and gay,
Where every lovely blue flower's e'e
Is opening to the day.
The river banks and craggy peaks
In wilding blossoms drest;
With ivy o'er their jutting nooks
Ye screen the ouzel's nest;
From precipice, abrupt and bold,
Your tendrils flaunt in air,
With craw-flowers dangling living gold
Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.
Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest
From every prying e'e,
With fairy fingers ye invest
In woven flowers the lea;
Around the lover's blissful hour
Ye draw your leafy screen,
And shade those in your rosy bower,
Who love to muse unseen.
subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.
 This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.
O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest,
How sweet to think o' thee.
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.
An' while the honey'd dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
An' when by stream or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.
When the sun's red rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.
When soughs the distant billow,
An' night blasts shake the willow,
Stretch'd on my lanely pillow,
My dreams are a' o' thee.
Then think when frien's caress thee,
Oh, think when cares distress thee,
Oh, think when pleasures bless thee,
O' him that thinks o' thee.
The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.
The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.
Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.
Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.
Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies--
Aft has adversity fled frae your ray;
Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile,
That ever could beguile sorrow away;
Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green,
Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew;
Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart--
Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!
Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie;
Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me;
The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace,
Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.
Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin',
When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear,
And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming,
That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.
But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom,
That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee;
Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom,
When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.
Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover,
And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee;
For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover,
Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.
The dreary reign of Winter 's past,
The frost, the snow, the surly blast,
To polar hills are scouring fast;
For balmy Spring 's returning.
Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,
The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;
But soft low notes, borne on the gale,
Dispel dull gloom and mourning.
With toil and long fatigue depress'd,
Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,
Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,
By balmy Spring returning.
Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,
Lovelier each succeeding day;
Soon from her face shall pass away,
Each trace of Winter's mourning.
Lo, at her mild benign command,
Life rouses up on every hand;
While bursts of joy o'er all the land,
Hail balmy Spring returning.
E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,
And solemn wood in softened din,
All join great Nature's praise to hymn,
That fled is Winter's mourning.
While all on earth, and in the skies,
In transports fervently rejoice,
Shall man refuse to raise his voice,
And welcome Spring returning?
If such ingrates exist below,
They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,
That Nature and the Muse bestow,
To cheer the gloom of mourning.
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie
Cam' to see you a' yestreen;
A winning gate 's about that lassie,
Something mair than meets the een.
Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,
Think ye it had been sae fine?
Or yet the biscuit sae delicious
That we crumpit to the wine?
Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,
Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;
The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,
Form, and colour, nature drew.
She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',
Lang unwedded canna be;
Wi' kindness court the comely creature,
Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.
Have ye an ear can be delighted?
Like a seraph she can sing,
Wi' charming grace and witching manner,
Thrilling o'er the music string.
Her tell the tale that moves to pity,
But wi' heart and feeling speak;
Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,
Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.
She sooms na aye in silk or satin,
Flaunting like a modern belle;
Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,
Sweet and modest like hersel'.
The shapely robe adorns her person
That her eident hand wad sew;
The plaid sae graceful flung around her,
'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.
She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman
To a kind weel-doing man,
Forby a tender-hearted mother--
Win the lassie if ye can.
For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;
May your bridal day be near--
Then half a score o' bairns hereafter--
May ye live a hunder year.
Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.
E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.
Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
But oh, its dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
That darkens the weary warld on thee.
There was mickle love atween us twa--
Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could hae gart us sunder.
But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
It's comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
And the dying grip she gae to me,
They're settled like eternitie--
Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.
Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free;
Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?
Or the steep rocky glens,
Where the wild falcons bide?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er war in rigs?
Or the bonnie loune lee,
Where the sweet robin bigs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,
Whan wooin' his bride?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns?
Or the bonnie green howmes,
Where it cannilie rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie,
Sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,
Wi' his merry men sae brave;
Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough
When naething disturbs it ava;
But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,
Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.
Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
Owre the breast o' the siller sea;
That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
An' the rover that's dear to me,
But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,
An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,
As they rise frae the whitening roar.
Its then that I look to the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;
I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
An' the sea that he glories to ride.
Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,
Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:
"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,
Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
In the tempest's angry moan,
We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave that heaves us on."
Bare was our burn brae,
December's blast had blawn,
The last flower was dead,
An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
It was dark in the deep glen,
Hoary was our hill;
An' the win' frae the cauld north,
Cam' heavy and chill:
When I said fare-ye-weel,
To my kith and my kin;
My barque it lay ahead,
An' my cot-house ahin';
I had nought left to tine,
I'd a wide warl' to try;
But my heart it wadna lift,
An' my e'e it wadna dry.
I look'd lang at the ha',
Through the mist o' my tears,
Where the kind lassie lived,
I had run wi' for years;
E'en the glens where we sat,
Wi' their broom-covered knowes,
Took a haud on this heart
That I ne'er can unloose.
I hae wander'd sin' syne,
By gay temples and towers,
Where the ungather'd spice
Scents the breeze in their bowers;
Oh! sic scenes I could leave
Without pain or regret;
But the last look o' hame
I ne'er can forget.
When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,
An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;
How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',
Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.
When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,
When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;
Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',
Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?
When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,
Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,
This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',
And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!
My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,
Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;
While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;
But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.
When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',
To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';
An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell
Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.
Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,
In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;
But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,
Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,
An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;
I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',
I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.
The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,
The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.
When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,
And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,
And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,
Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;
How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,
Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.
My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,
When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,
And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;
While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,
The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.
commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand,
At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now
dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.
When the bee has left the blossom,
And the lark has closed his lay,
And the daisy folds its bosom
In the dews of gloaming gray;
When the virgin rose is bending,
Wet with evening's pensive tear,
And the purple light is blending
With the soft moon rising clear;
Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
And the air with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander,
Captive led by beauty's power,
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.
Give ambition dreams of glory,
Give the poet laurell'd fame,
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name;
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and power;
Give to me my bosom's treasure,
And the lonely gloaming hour.
Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,
So soft, so still, is all our own;
The dew descends on tree and flower,
They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
Oh, go not yet! the evening star,
The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
And dying echoes, faint and far,
Invite our lingering steps to stray.
Far from the city's noisy din,
Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
That lip to press, those smiles to win,
Will lend a rapture to the night.
Let fortune fling her favours free
To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:
Oh, what is all the world to me,
While thus I clasp and call thee mine!
Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,
The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!
Never despair! when with troubles contending,
Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.
As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,
When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,
The bright star of promise their future adorning,
Will light them along, and they'll never despair!
The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,
The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,
And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,
Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;
For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,
And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,
While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,--
Look upward and onward, and never despair!
Here's to the year that's awa'!
We will drink it in strong and in sma';
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.
And here's to ilk, &c.
Here's to the sodger who bled,
And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
On the wings of the year that's awa'.
Their fame is alive, &c.
Here's to the friends we can trust
When the storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
May they live, &c.
TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_
Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
Troth, I daurna tell:
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
Ask it o' yoursel'.
Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
For weel ye ken me true;
Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,
I daurna look at you.
When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnie lassies see,
Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
Lest you should mind na me.
For I could never bide the lass
That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,
Gin ye'd prove false to me.
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
To find the calm retreat;
Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
To seek the moss-grown seat.
Splendid attire and gilded crowns
Can ne'er with love accord;
But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
His purest joys afford.
From pride, from business, and from care,
His greatest sorrows flow;
When these usurp the heart of man,
That heart he ne'er can know.
 This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.
TUNE--_'Where they go, where they go.'_
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war,
Bloody war;
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war.
For twenty years and more
We heard the cannons roar
To swell the tide of gore,
Bloody war!
A tyrant on a throne
We have seen,
We have seen;
A tyrant on a throne
Who thought the earth his own,
But now is hardly known
To have been.
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free,
To be free?
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free?
'Twas Britain broke the charm,
And with her red right arm
She rung the loud alarm
To be free.
The battle van she led
Of the brave,
Of the brave;
The battle van she led
Of the brave;
The battle van she led,
Till tyranny lay dead,
And glory crown'd the head
Of the brave.
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie,
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave,
And sacred be the grave,
On land or in the wave,
Where they lie.
Again the laverock seeks the sky,
And warbles, dimly seen;
And summer views, wi' sunny joy,
Her gowany robe o' green.
But ah! the summer's blithe return,
In flowery pride array'd,
Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,
Or charm the Highland Maid.
My true love fell by Charlie's side,
Wi' mony a clansman dear;
That fatal day--oh, wae betide
The cruel Southron's spear!
His bonnet blue is fallen now,
And bluidy is the plaid,
That aften on the mountain's brow,
Has wrapt his Highland Maid.
My father's shieling on the hill
Is dowie now and sad;
The breezes whisper round me still,
I 've lost my Highland lad.
Upon Culloden's fatal heath,
He spake o' me, they said,
And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,
The weary nicht for rest I seek,
The langsome day I mourn;
The smile upon my wither'd cheek
Can never mair return.
But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,
In yonder lonely glade;
And, haply, ilka passer by
Will mourn the Highland Maid.
Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,
Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;
But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,
And the song of the victory your strain.
Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,
And fated by slavery's decree,
Are not like the fetters of union and love,
That bind and encircle the free.
Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,
With the glow of the patriot's fires;
And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,
And grow dark when your freedom expires.
Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,
And your country, with laurels in store,
Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet
When the tumult of battle is o'er.
 Here printed for the first time.
Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,
The mournfu' and the gay;
They charm'd me by a mither's knee,
In bairnhood's happy day:
And even yet, though owre my pow
The snaws of age are flung,
The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins
Whene'er I hear them sung.
They bring the fond smile to the cheek,
Or tear-drap to the e'e;
They bring to mind auld cronies kind,
Wha sung them aft wi' glee.
We seem again to hear the voice
Of mony a lang-lost frien';
We seem again to grip the hand
That lang in dust has been.
And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs
When nature they portray!
We think we hear the wee bit burn
Gaun bickering doun the brae;
We see the spot, though far awa',
Where first life's breath we drew,
And a' the gowden scenes of youth
Seem rising to the view.
And dear I lo'e the wild war strains
Our langsyne minstrels sung--
They rouse wi' patriotic fires
The hearts of auld and young;
And even the dowie dirge that wails
Some brave but ruin'd band,
Inspires us wi' a warmer love
For hame and fatherland.
Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs--
The sangs of love and glee,
The sangs that tell of glorious deeds
That made auld Scotland free.
What though they sprung frae simple bards,
Wha kent nae rules of art?
They ever, ever yield a charm
That lingers round the heart.
Alas! how true the boding voice
That whisper'd aft to me,
"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return
To Scotland or to thee!"
Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while
Shed forth its brightest beam;
For low in death my laddie lies
By Alma's bloody stream.
I heard the village bells proclaim
That glorious deeds were done;
I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,
"The field, the field is won!"
And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,
Might come to me again;
But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies
On Alma's gory plain.
Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power
Has roll'd the bolts of war,
And made my laddie bleed and die
Frae hame and friends afar.
Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,
Except in fancy's dream;
For low he lies, where brave he fought,
By Alma's bloody stream.
Oh! say not life is ever drear,
For midst its scenes of toil and care
There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer--
There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.
To gain that spot the aim be ours,
For nocht we 'll get unless we try;
And when misfortune round us lours,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
The wee bit flow'ret in the glen
Maun bend beneath the surly blast;
The birdie seeks some leafy den,
And shelters till the storm is past:
The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,
To some lowne spot for refuge hie;
And sae, frae ills we canna quell,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Yet there are ills we a' should brave--
The ills that man on man would throw;
For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,
That patient bears Oppression's woe.
But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,
Of envy's tongue that would annoy,
'Tis nobler far to turn aside,
And jouk and let the jaw gae by.
In worldly gear we may be bare,
We may hae mony a dreary hour;
But never, never nurse despair,
For ilka ane maun taste the sour:
Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,
Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,
'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,
And jouk to let the jaw gae by.
But mark this truth--the ills that blight
Are aft the fruits that folly brings;
Then shun the wrong, pursue the right--
Frae this the truest pleasure springs;
And fret not though dark clouds should spread
At times across life's troubled sky;
Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed--
Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,
And brighter blazes freedom's sun;
But daring deeds must yet be done
To curb Oppression's reign, boys.
Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,
Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;
Then up! then up! be firm--be bold--
Victorious be again, boys.
The hearts--the blessings of the brave--
Of those who scorn the name of slave,
Are with you on the ocean's wave,
And on the battle-plain, boys:
Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,
And gird your brightest armour on;
Complete the work so well begun--
Victorious be again, boys!
Though red with gore your path may be,
It leads to glorious liberty;
Remember, God is with the free,
The brave He will sustain, boys:
The tyrant fears the coming fight,
He fears the power of Truth and Right;
Then up! then up! in all your might--
Victorious be again, boys.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,
To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang--
For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;
Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!
In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.
AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_
I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,
With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,
Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.
Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.
Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,
Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.
Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,
When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;
While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,
To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.
'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,
With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;
But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.
My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.
The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.
Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,
While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.
No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.
Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,
And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;
Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells
Oh! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream;
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold,
Starts up like a quivering gleam.
From his iron-bound keep,
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway;
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down in his hold.
With a soft western breeze,
That just thrills through the trees,
And ripples the beautiful bay;
Throw the fly for a lure--
That 's a rise! strike him sure--
A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.
Hark! the ravel line sweel,
From the fast-whirring reel,
With a music that gladdens the ear;
And the thrill of delight,
In that glorious fight,
To the heart of the angler is dear.
Hold him tight--for the leap;
Where the waters are deep,
Give out line in the far steady run;
Reel up quick, if he tire,
Though the wheel be on fire,
For in earnest to work he 's begun.
Aroused up at length,
How he rolls in his strength,
And springs with a quivering bound;
Then away with a dash,
Like the lightning's flash,
Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.
Though he strain on the thread,
Down the stream with his head,
That burst from the run makes him cool;
Then spring out for the land,
On the rod change the hand,
And draw down for the deepening pool.
Mark the gleam of his side,
As he shoots through the tide!
Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?
Fatigue now begins,
For his quivering fins
On the shallows are spread in despair.
peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall
I like to spring in the morning bricht,
Before the mill bell rings;
When waukening blithe in gowden licht,
My joyfu' spirit sings.
I like to hear, when the pearly tear
Gems morning's floweret cup,
The trumpet summons of chanticleer
Pipe "drowsy mortals up."
I tread as lightly as silent puss,
While a' the household sleep;
And gird me to clean and redd the house
Before the bairnies cheep.
I like to dress and mak me clean
As ony winsome bride;
And think na shame, though my face be seen,
At morn or eventide.
I like to handle, before I rin,
The word o' truth and love;
And seek, or the daily wark begin,
Gude counsel from above.
Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie
To earn my bit o' bread;
The wark spins on, and the time rins by,
Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.
AIR--_"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_
As sunshine to the flowers in May,
As wild flowers to the hinny bee,
As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,
So my true love is sweet to me.
As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e--
To sailors, as fair wind and tide,
So my true love is dear to me.
As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,
As waters to the willow-tree,
As mother's joy at baby's birth,
So my true love is dear to me.
Though owning neither wealth nor lan',
He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;
His love to God, his love to man,
His goodness makes him dear to me.
The lass that weds a warly fool
May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;
But earthly love soon waxes cool,
And foolish fancies turn ajee.
My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,
His loving e'e blinks bonnily,
A heavenly licht illumes his face;
Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.
Musing, we sat in our garden bower,
In the balmy month of June,
Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour
When our daily task was done.
We spake of the friends of our early days,
Some living, some dead and gane,
And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes
Of our morning life again.
A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,
And joyful were we to see
The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,
So full of frolicsome glee.
They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,
Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring--
Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,
And we bless'd each happy thing.
In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,
Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,
Flings light on earth, on heaven above,
Sheds glory everywhere.
This golden lamp shines clear and bright,
When the world looks dark and doure,
It brightens our morning, noon, and night,
And gladdens our gloamin' hour.
O blessing on her starlike e'en,
Wi' their glance o' love divine;
And blessing on the red, red lip,
Was press'd yestreen to mine!
Her braided locks that waved sae light,
As she danced through the lofty ha',
Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,
Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.
O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,
But she was first among them a',
In peerless beauty rare!
Her bosom is a holy shrine,
Unstain'd by mortal sin,
An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,
On the breast o' the siller linn.
Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note,
By bowery glen or brake?
Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,
By sea or mountain lake?
Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,
The angel's melodie?
Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres
As they swung on their path on hie?
Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,
At the gloamin' hour yestreen;
An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,
I would mak' that maiden my queen.
Oh! blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place
Thy mountain cliffs among!
And still she loves to roam
Among thy heath-clad hills;
And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain
With the voice of mountain rills.
Her song is on the gale,
Her step upon the wold;
And morning diamonds brightly gem
Her braided locks of gold.
Far up the pine-wood glen,
Her sylph-like form is seen,
By hunter in the hazy dawn,
Or wandering bard at e'en.
My own dear native home,
The birthplace of the brave,
O never may thy soil be trod
By tyrant or by slave!
Then, blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place,
Thy mountain cliffs among!
We part,--yet wherefore should I weep,
From faithless thing like thee to sever?
Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,
While thus I cast thee off for ever?
I loved thee--need I say how well?
Few, few have ever loved so dearly;
As many a sleepless hour can tell,
And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.
But late, beneath its jetty lash,
I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,
Which wont, all witchingly, to flash
On me its light so soft and tender;
Now, from that glance I turn away,
As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;
Though not, as once, in love's young day,
When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.
The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,
The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;
Who, that had seen them, could have thought
That things so fair could be deceiving?
The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,
In all their fitful moods of changing,
Are nought to wavering woman's mind,
For ever shifting, ever ranging!
Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark
Upon the angry ocean billow,
'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,
Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.
Thy broken vow now cannot bind,
Thy streaming tears no more can move me,
And thus I turn from thee, to find
A heart that may more truly love me.
My soul is ever with thee,
My thoughts are ever with thee,
As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,
So turns my fond spirit to thee.
'Mid the cares of the lingering day,
When troubles around me be,
Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away--
Away, my beloved, to thee.
When the night-pall darkly spread
O'er shadows, tower, and tree,
Then the visions of my restless bed
Are all, my beloved, of thee.
When I greet the morning beams,
When the midnight star I see,
Alone--in crowded halls--my dreams--
My dreams are for ever of thee.
As spring to the leafless spray,
As calm to the surging sea,
To the weary, rest--to the watcher, day--
So art thou, loved Mary, to me.
Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?
The carle sae pawkie an' slee!
He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,
An' the body has ettled at me.
Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,
An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,
He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,
An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.
I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang
Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie,
An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,
Ere he tauld out his errand to me.
"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,
Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,
An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,
Gin' ye will look kindly on me.
"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,
Sax naigies that nibble the lea;
The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,
I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.
"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',
An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;
A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',
When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.
"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,
And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;
I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,
As couthy as couthy can be.
"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,
Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;
An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,
Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.
"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,
An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be--
Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care
For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"
Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,
What answer the bodie to gie--
But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,
And let puir young Tibby abee.
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!
The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,
Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!
Sae look na' sae lightly on me!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!
Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May--
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn--
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,
Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!
An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.
I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,
I twined ye a bower by the burn,
But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!
Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;
I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,
And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,
An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,
For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',
Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,
Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;
An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',
Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,
But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;
And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,
When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;
Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,
And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.
He left his native land, and, far away
Across the waters sought a world unknown,
Though well he knew that he in vain might stray
In search of one so lovely as his own.
He left his home, around whose humble hearth
His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd--
Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,
And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.
He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,
The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;
The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,
And every charm to love and fancy dear.
All these he left, with sad but willing heart,
Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;
In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,
And the world knew not of his very name.
Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?
'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,
That often smiles its sweetest to betray,
And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!
'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!
His Master bade the obedient servant go,
And try if he in distant realms could find
Some who His name and saving grace would know.
'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears
His aged mother at their parting shed;
'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,
And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.
'Twas this that made his father calmly bear
A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,
And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,
His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.
And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
And bent a head with age and sorrow gray--
E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.
"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.
"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"
And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
They saw the white sails bearing him away.
And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?
'Tis not for me to answer questions here--
Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!
The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at
Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,
By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,
I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,
That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,
Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,
When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;
These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo
Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know--
Away! like a craven why should I complain?
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Oh merrily and gallantly
We sweep across the seas,
Like the wild ocean birds which ply
Their pinions on the breeze;
We quail not at the tempest's voice
When the billow dashes o'er us,
Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,
And join its dreadful chorus.
Across the foaming surge we glide
With bosoms true and brave,
It is our home--our throne of pride--
It soon may be our grave;
Yet fearlessly we rush to meet
The foe that comes before us;
The fight begun, we man the gun,
And join its thundering chorus.
Our lives may be as fierce and free
As the waves o'er which we roam,
But let not landsmen think that we
Forget our native home;
And when the winds shall waft us back
To the shores from which they bore us,
Amid the throng of mirth and song,
We'll join the jovial chorus.
Her lip is o' the rose's hue,
Like links o' goud her hair,
Her e'e is o' the azure blue,
An' love beams ever there;
Her step is like the mountain goat's
That climbs the stately Ben,
Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes
That haunt her native glen.
There is a sweet wee hazel bower
Where woodbine blossoms twine,
There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,
Consented to be mine;
An' there we meet whene'er we hae
An idle hour to spen',
An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day
She met me in the glen.
Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,
An' sweet the pearly dew,
An' lovely is the star that gleams
In gloamin's dusky brow;
But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,
Aboon a' human ken,
Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star--
My Jeanie o' the glen.
On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,
Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,
An' bonny was the kindly flame
That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.
Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,
That meltit to its tender licht,
Was bonnier far than the purest starre
That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.
If ony culd luke and safely see
Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,
Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,
A lifeless lump was he, I trow.
But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,
If ae moment that wicht might see
Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw,
That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.
An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,
Dear, dear was she to me,
An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,
At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.
An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,
Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,
An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame
That I breathit so warmly in her ear.
Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,
Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,
An' aye as she drew back her lily han',
I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.
But the time sune cam, the waesome time,
When I maun awa frae my dear,
An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht
The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!
Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,
Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,
An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,
An' the hours stal awa unawares.
'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,
At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,
An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,
An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.
The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,
The mune an' her single wee starre,
The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,
Thair was stillness near an' farre.
Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,
I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,
An' she did na blame the words o' flame
That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.
She listenit to the luve-sang warm,
Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;
She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm
She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.
Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,
Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,
An' aften I prest her form to my breast,
An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.
An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,
My fond heart will never forget;
Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,
That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.
The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,
An' it past nae without the saut tear,
An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land
I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.
I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids
Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,
I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,
An' that thocht was enough for me.
Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek
Is on my breast reclining,
And while these arms around thy form
Are fondly thus entwining;
It seems as if no earthly power
Our beating hearts could sever,
And that in ecstasy of bliss
We thus could hang for ever!
Yet ah! too well, too well we know,
The fiat fate hath spoken--
The spell that bound our souls in one,
The world's cold breath hath broken.
The hours--the days--whose heavenly light
Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us,
When Love his sunshine shed around,
And strew'd his flowers before us,
Must now be but as golden dreams,
Whose loveliness hath perish'd;
Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts
Too heavenly to be cherish'd.
Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,
The love that once hath bound us--
The thought that looks to days long past,
Will breathe a halo round us.
In distant years! when other arms
Around thy form are prest,
Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh
For him thy love once blest!
Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,
That was his guiding light,
And cast the same deep tender glance,
That thrills his soul to-night.
And oh! believe, though dark his fate,
And devious his career,
The music of that gentle voice
Will tremble in his ear;
And breathing o'er his troubled soul,
Storm-tost and tempest riven,
Will still fierce passion's wild control,
And win him back to Heaven.
TUNE--_'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'_
Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa,
That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.
It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie,
To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie,
That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee,
And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.
He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha',
His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa',
And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa',
And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.
"Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir,
"Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?"
"Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear,
To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."
Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'--
Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa',
And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high,
Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.
Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame--
A sair altert man was he when he came hame;
Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name--
And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.
He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring,
And down came a ladye to see him come in,
And after the ladye came bairns feifteen:
"Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"
"Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame,
"Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?"
"Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?"
"In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."
He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e,
And a heart as sair as sair could be;
He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee,
And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.
Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie,
And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie,
And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be,
For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.
Were I a doughty cavalier
On fire for high-born dame,
With sword and lance I would not fear
To win a warrior's fame.
But since no more stern deeds of blood
The gentle fair may move,
I 'll woo in softer better mood
The ladye that I love.
For helmet bright with steel and gold,
And plumes that flout the sky,
I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould,
And thoughts that sweep as high.
For scarf athwart my corslet cast,
With her fair name y-wove;
I 'll have her pictured in my breast,
The ladye that I love.
No crested steed through battle throng
Shall bear me bravely on,
But pride shall make my spirit strong,
Where honours may be won.
Amidst the great of mind and heart,
My prowess I will prove,
And thus I 'll win, by gentler art,
The ladye that I love.
Thou gentle and kind one,
Who com'st o'er my dreams,
Like the gales of the west,
Or the music of streams;
Oh, softest and dearest,
Can that time e'er be,
When I could be forgetful
Or scornful of thee?
No! my soul might be dark,
Like a landscape in shade,
And for thee not the half
Of its love be display'd,
But one ray of thy kindness
Would banish my pain,
And soon kiss every feature
To brightness again.
And if, in contending
With men and the world,
My eye might be fierce,
Or my brow might be curl'd;
That brow on thy bosom
All smooth'd would recline,
And that eye melt in kindness
When turn'd upon thine.
If faithful in sorrow,
More faithful in joy--
Thou shouldst find that no change
Could affection destroy;
All profit, all pleasure,
As nothing would be,
And each triumph despised
Unpartaken by thee.
Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?
Oh, where are the brave men gone?
Oh, where are the heroes of the north?
Each under his own gray stone.
Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?
Oh, where are the trews and plaid?
Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?
In silence for ever laid.
Och on a rie, och on a rie,
Och on a rie, all are gone;
Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
Each under his own gray stone.
The chiefs that were foremost of old,
Macdonald and brave Lochiel,
With their clansmen true as steel;
Who follow'd and fought with Montrose,
Glencairn, and bold Dundee;
Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,
And would aye rather fa' than flee.
Och on a rie, &c.
The hills that our brave fathers trod
Are now to the stranger a store;
The voice of the pipe and the bard
Shall awaken never more.
Such things it is sad to think on--
They come like the mist by day--
And I wish I had less in this world to leave,
And be with them that are away.
Och on a rie, &c.
University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise,
The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,
The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;
Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,
And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;
The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,
And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;
The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,
When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
Eye of the brain and heart,
O Genius, inner sight,
Wonders from thee familiar start,
In thy decisive light.
Wide and deep the eye must go,
The process of our world to know.
Old mountains grated to the sea,
Sow the young seed of isles to be.
States dissolve, that Nature's plan
May bear the broadening type of man.
Passes ne'er the Past away;
Child of the ages springs to-day.
Life, death, and life! but circling change,
Still working to a higher range!
Make thee all science, Genius, clear
Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer.
And may the ideal thou hast shewn,
With joy peculiar be thine own;
For thee the starry belts of time,
The inner laws, the heavenly chime;
Thine storm and rack--the forests crack,
The sea gives up her secrets hoary;
And Beauty thine, on loom divine,
Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.
Power of the civic heart,
More than a power to know,
Genius, incarnated in Art,
By thee the nations grow.
Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,
Lit up the Oriental age.
Persuasive groves, and musical,
Of love the illumined mountains all.
Eagles and rods, and axes clear,
Forum and amphitheatre;
These in thy plastic forming hand,
Forth leapt to life the classic Land.
Old and new, the worlds of light,
Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?
See the purple passage rise,
Many arch'd of centuries;
Genius built it long and vast,
And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.
Far in the glad transmitted flame,
Shinar, knit to Britain, came;
Their state by thee our fathers free,
O Genius, founded deep and wide,
Majestic towers the fabric ours,
And awes the world from side to side.
Mart of the ties of blood,
Mart of the souls of men!
Bought to be sold again,
Front of hell, to trade therein.
Genius face the giant sin;
Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,
Temper'd all in Pity's tear,
Every point and every tip,
In the blood of Jesus dip;
Pierce till the monster reel and cry,
Pierce him till he fall and die.
Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,
Power divine and terrible!
See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,
On half the sunken central lands;
Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame
Sing as they pierce the blot of shame,
Till all the dark economies
Become the light of blessed skies.
For this, above in wondering love,
To Genius shall it first be given,
To trace the lines of past designs,
All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.
Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell--
Thou art my native land.
Loved country, when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone--
Thy Wallace brave and bold;
And Bruce who, for our liberty,
Did England's sway withstand;
I glory I was born in thee,
Mine own ennobled land!
Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear devoted land.
And thou hast ties around my heart,
Attraction deeper still--
The gifted poet's sacred art,
The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd with magic hand
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
Mine own distinguish'd land!
Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams;
I mark'd thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth--
My high exalted land!
Now if the lonely home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt,
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand;
Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
In thee, my native land!
Eliza fair, the mirth of May
Resounds from glen and tree;
Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
Is dearer far to me.
And while I thus a garland cull,
To grace that brow of thine,
My cup of pure delight is full--
A shepherd's life be mine!
Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
Howe'er profuse they be,
Produce not pleasure that in health
Is shared by you and me!
'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
We find a heart like thine,
That objects grateful glad the eye--
A shepherd's life be mine!
O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
Around us sweetly spring;
And list how in these woodland bowers
The birds with rapture sing;
Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
Flows on in waving line;
Can Paradise more bright appear?
A shepherd's life be mine!
Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
That dawns o'er hill and lea,
Nor eve, with all its golden light,
Can charm me without thee.
To feel the magic of thy smile--
To catch that glance of thine--
To talk to thee of love the while,
A shepherd's life be mine!
Thou morn full of beauty
That chases the night,
And wakens all Nature
With gladness and light,
When warbles the linnet
Aloof from its nest,
O scatter thy fragrance
Round her I love best!
Ye hills, dark and lofty,
That near her ascend,
If she in her pastime
Across thee shall wend,
Let every lone pathway
In wild flowers be drest,
To welcome the footsteps
Of her I love best!
Thou sun, proudly sailing
O'er depths of the sky,
Dispensing beneath thee
Profusion and joy,
Until in thy splendour
Thou sink'st to the west,
Oh, gaze not too boldly
On her I love best!
Ye wild roving breezes,
I charge you, forbear
To wantonly tangle
The braids of her hair;
Breathe not o'er her rudely,
Nor sigh on her breast,
Nor kiss you the sweet lip
Of her I love best!
Thou evening, that gently
Steals after the day,
To robe with thy shadow
The landscape in gray,
O fan with soft pinion
My dearest to rest!
And calm be the slumber
Of her I love best!
Ye angels of goodness,
That shield us from ill,
The purest of pleasures
Awarding us still,
As near her you hover,
Oh, hear my request!
Pour blessings unnumber'd
On her I love best!
Fair Ellen, here again I stand--
All dangers now are o'er;
No sigh to reach my native land
Shall rend my bosom more.
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
I wish'd but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.
O Ellen, how I prized thy love
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war:
And as a pledge, in battle-field,
Recall'd thy charms to me;
I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.
I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appear'd at last.
My very breast, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.
Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
In other climes to roam;
Yet have I seen no form like thine,
No sweeter spot than home;
Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
To feel alone for me:
O Ellen, never more I'll part
From Scotland and from thee!
The breath o' spring is gratefu',
As mild it sweeps alang,
Awakening bud an' blossom
The broomy braes amang,
And wafting notes o' gladness
Frae ilka bower and tree;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is sweeter still to me.
How bright is summer's beauty!
When, smilin' far an' near,
The wildest spots o' nature
Their gayest livery wear;
And yellow cups an' daisies
Are spread on ilka lea;
But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Mair charming is to me.
Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
When, wide oure a' the plain,
Slow waves in rustlin' motion
The heavy-headed grain;
Or in the sunshine glancin',
And rowin' like the sea;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is dearer far to me!
As heaven itsel', her bosom
Is free o' fraud or guile;
What hope o' future pleasure
Is centred in her smile!
I wadna lose for kingdoms
The love-glance o' her e'e;
Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is life and a' to me!
I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move,
Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love.
I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam,
The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home:
There saw I first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee,
All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before,
And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.
Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword,
With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord.
And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone,
Amidst a world I never loved--ay! yonder is the stone
At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore--
Stone, seat and tree are dear to me--I'll see them never more!
Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget;
Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met:
What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal!
How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel!
And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung,
While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung,
We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore;
Our hopes were vain--I came again, but found her never more.
Oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still;
There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill;
I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep--
There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep.
And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie?
Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die!
published in Glasgow.
O bright the beaming queen o' night
Shines in yon flow'ry vale,
And softly sheds her silver light
O'er mountain, path, and dale.
Short is the way, when light 's the heart
That 's bound in love's soft spell;
Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale,
The bonnie lass o' Armadale,
We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes
Beside my Jessie's cot,
We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes,
In that sweet rural spot.
The wee short hours danced merrily,
Like lambkins on the fell;
As if they join'd in joy wi' me
There's nane to me wi' her can vie,
I 'll love her till I dee;
For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye,
And kind as kind can be.
This night in mutual kind embrace,
Oh, wha our joys may tell;
Then I 'll awa' to Armadale,
Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.
Before the sun sink in the west,
And nature a' hae gane to rest,
There to my fond, my faithful breast,
Oh, let me clasp my Mary.
Meet me on the gowan lea,
Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
Meet me on the gowan lea,
My ain, my artless Mary.
The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell,
The lintie in the bosky dell,
Nae blyther than your bonnie sel',
My ain, my artless Mary.
We 'll join our love notes to the breeze
That sighs in whispers through the trees,
And a' that twa fond hearts can please
Will be our sang, dear Mary.
There ye shall sing the sun to rest,
While to my faithfu' bosom prest;
Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest,
As me and my dear Mary.
Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love,
Rins roarin' to the sea,
And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed,
Like spirit wild and free.
The mellow mavis tunes his lay,
The blackbird swells his note,
And little robin sweetly sings
Above the woody grot.
There meet me, love, by a' unseen,
Beside yon mossy den,
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen;
Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
In Morag's fairy glen.
Come when the sun, in robes of gold,
Sinks o'er yon hills to rest,
An' fragrance floating in the breeze
Comes frae the dewy west.
And I will pu' a garland gay,
To deck thy brow sae fair;
For many a woodbine cover'd glade
An' sweet wild flower is there.
There 's music in the wild cascade,
There 's love amang the trees,
There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae,
An' balm upon the breeze;
There 's a' of nature and of art,
That maistly weel could be;
An' oh, my love, when thou art there,
There 's bliss in store for me.
Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
Dinna cross the burn,
For big 's the spate, and loud it roars;
Oh, dinna cross the burn.
Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht,
And sair they wad you blame;
Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht--
Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.
The thunder-storm howls in the glen,
The burn is rising fast;
Bide only twa-three hours, and then
The storm 'll a' be past.
Oh, dinna cross, &c.
Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht,
Oh, bide till mornin' here;
My faither, he 'll see a' things richt,
And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.
See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there,
The rains in torrents pour;
And see the lightning's dreadful glare,
Hear how the thunders roar!
Oh, dinna cross, &c.
Away he rode, no kind words could
His mad resolve o'erturn;
He plunged into the foaming flood,
But never cross'd the burn!
And now though ten long years have pass'd
Since that wild storm blew by--
Oh! still the maniac hears the blast,
Oh, dinna cross, &c.
When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene,
How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!
When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade,
The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade;
When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower,
Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower,
To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!
The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky,
The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye;
But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power,
Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!
When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades,
Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades,
In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel
To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.
The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door;
His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor:
Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal--
Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.
His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun--
A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han';
His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel,
The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.
He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes,
How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose;
And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel'
Waved glorious--'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.
Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools,
He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools;
Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel
Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.
I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
In spring time o' the year;
When saft'ning winds begin to woo
The primrose to appear;
When daffodils begin to dance,
And streams again flow free;
And little birds are heard to pipe,
On the sprouting forest tree.
I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When summer days are lang,
When nature's heart is big wi' joy,
Her voice laden wi' sang;
When shepherds pipe on sunny braes,
And flocks roam at their will,
And auld and young, in cot an' ha',
O' pleasure drink their fill.
I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When autumn's yellow fields,
That wave like seas o' gowd, before
The glancin' sickle yields;
When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit--
A glorious sight to see!--
And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep
Out owre the withering lea.
I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
When, through the naked trees,
Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side,
Sweeps wild the frosty breeze;
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  When tempests roar, and billows rise,
Till nature quakes wi' fear,
And on the land, and on the sea,
Wild winter rules the year.
The spring comes back to woo the earth,
Wi' a' a lover's speed;
The wee birds woo their lovin' mates,
Around our very head!
But I 've nae skill in lover-craft--
For till I met wi' you,
I never sought a maiden's love,
I never tried to woo.
I 've gazed on many a comely face,
And thought it sweet an' fair;
But wi' the face the charm would flee,
And never move me mair.
But miles away, your bonnie face
Is ever in my view,
Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me,
Half daurin' me to woo.
At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme;
I doat my time away;
I dream o'er a' your charms by night,
And worship them by day.
But when they glad my langin' e'en,
As they are gladden'd now,
My courage flees like frighted bird;
I daurna mint to woo.
My head thus lying on your lap,
Your hand aneath my cheek;
Love stounds my bosom through and through,
But yet I canna speak.
My coward heart wi' happiness,
Wi' bliss is brimin' fu';
But, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue,
I haena power to woo.
I prize your smile, as husbandman
The summer's opening bloom,
And could you frown, I dread it mair,
Than he the autumn's gloom.
My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip,
On that calm, sunny brow;
And, oh! my dead hangs on them baith,
Unless you let me woo.
Oh! lift me to your bosom, then,
Lay your warm cheek to mine;
And let me round that lovesome waist
My arms enraptured twine;
That I may breathe my very soul,
In ae lang lovin' vow;
And a' the while in whispers low,
You 'll learn me, love, to woo!
I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
But yet my heart 's at hame,
Fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek,
Beside my winsome dame.
The weary winds howl lang an' loud;
But 'mid their howling drear,
Words sweeter far than honey blabs
Fa' saftly on my ear.
I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide an' far;
But love, to guide me back again,
Lights up a kindly star.
The lift glooms black aboon my head,
Nae friendly blink I see;
But let it gloom--twa bonnie e'en
Glance bright to gladden me.
I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide and late,
And ridgy wreaths afore me rise,
As if to bar my gate;
Around me swirls the sleety drift,
The frost bites dour an' keen;
But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips,
Come ilka gust atween.
I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild,
Alang a steep and eerie track,
Where hills on hills are piled;
The torrent roars in wrath below,
The tempest roars aboon;
But fancy broods on brighter scenes,
And soughs a cheerin' tune.
I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
I 'm wand'ring wide my lane,
And mony a langsome, lanesome mile,
I 'll measure e'er it 's gane;
But lanesome roads or langsome miles,
Can never daunton me,
When I think on the welcome warm
That waits me, love, frae thee.
AIR--_'Neil Gow's Lament for his Brother.'_
How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee;
How sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile;
The joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee,
I mind, but to feel now their power to beguile.
I gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee,
Seem'd too fair for earth, as I bent at thy shrine;
But fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion,
Could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine!
Anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee;
And win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa';
But, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest,
His vows--will my truth be forgot by thee a'?
'Midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander,
But moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree;
Then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee,
O' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee.
relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a
capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt.
For some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he
character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
To where the white-starr'd gowans grow,
Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue,
The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue.
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
To where the blossom'd lilacs grow,
To where the pine-tree, dark an' high,
Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.
Jeanie, mony a merry lay
Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day;
Flits on light wing the dragon-flee,
And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.
Down the burnie wirks its way
Aneath the bending birken spray,
An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane,
An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.
Jeanie, come! thy days o' play
Wi' autumn tide shall pass away;
Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast,
Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.
Though to thee a spring shall rise,
An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes;
An' though, through many a cloudless day,
My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;
He wha grasps thy little hand
Nae langer at thy side shall stand,
Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae
Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.
Dost thou see yon yard sae green,
Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane?
A few short weeks o' pain shall fly,
An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.
Then thy mither's tears awhile
May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile;
But soon ilk grief shall wear awa',
And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.
Dinna think the thought is sad;
Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad;
When cauld my heart and closed my e'e,
Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.
 These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze
Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew;
An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,
That skirts the mountain blue.
An' sweet the birken trees amang,
Swells many a blithesome lay;
An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice
Comes soundin' up the brae.
But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring
Can glad my wearied e'e;
Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom
Gies ought o' joy to me.
Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,
An' sad the mavis sang,
An' little heart hae I to roam
These leafy groves amang.
She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!
An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;
The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!
Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.
What ither choice does fate afford,
Than just to mourn and dee,
Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,
The beam that bless'd my e'e?
At gloamin' hour alang the burn,
Alane she lo'ed to stray,
To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,
An' haw-flower purple gray.
Their siller leaves the willows waved
As pass'd that maiden by;
An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang
Frae poplar straight an' high.
Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en
These birken trees amang,
To bless the bonnie face that turn'd
To where the mavis sang;
An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,
To catch my Myra's e'e;
Oh, soon this winding dell became
A blissful haunt to me.
Nae mair a wasting form within,
A wretched heart I bore;
Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,
The warl' I wander'd o'er.
Not then like now my life was wae,
Not then this heart repined,
Nor aught of coming ill I thought,
Nor sigh'd to look behind.
Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,
An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,
Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,
I strung my rustic lyre.
That lyre a pitying Muse had given
To me, for, wrought wi' toil,
She bade, wi' its simple tones,
The weary hours beguile.
Lang had it been my secret pride,
Though nane its strains might hear;
For ne'er till then trembled its chords
To woo a list'ning ear.
The forest echoes to its voice
Fu' sad, had aft complain'd,
Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,
Murmur'd the midnight wind.
Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised
The wild and artless strain;
In pride I strung my lyre anew,
An' waked its chords again.
The sound was sad, the sparkling tear
Arose in Myra's e'e,
An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,
Than a' the warl' could gie.
To wean the heart frae warldly grief,
Frae warldly moil an' care,
Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,
Or drap a tend'rer tear?
But now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear,
Her lang, lang sleep maun be;
But, ah! mair drear the years o' life
That still remain to me!
Whan o'er the raging ocean wave
The gloom o' night is spread,
If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,
The sailor's heart is glad;
In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,
If sinks the waning ray,
Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,
O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.
familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more
The mother, with her blooming child,
Sat by the river pool,
Deep in whose waters lay the sky,
So stilly beautiful.
She held her babe aloft, to see
Its infant image look
Up joyous, laughing, leaping from
The bosom of the brook.
And as it gazed upon the stream,
The wondering infant smiled,
And stretched its little hands, and tried
To clasp the shadow'd child,
Which, in that silent underwold,
With eager gesture strove
To meet it with a brother-kiss,
A brother-clasp of love.
Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
('Twas thus the mother sung;)
The shrew, Experience, has not yet
With envious gesture flung
Aside the enchanted veil which hides
Life's pale and dreary look;
An angel lurks in every stream,
A heaven in every brook.
Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
Ere drop the tears of woe
Upon that mirror, scattering all
Those glorious shapes, and show
A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st
An angel, breathing, living--
A shallow pebbly brook which thou
Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.
Change! change! the mournful story
Of all that 's been before;
The wrecks of perish'd glory
Bestrewing every shore:
The shatter'd tower and palace,
In every vale and glen,
In broken language tell us
Of the fleeting power of men.
Change! change! the plough is sweeping
O'er some scene of household mirth,
The sickle hand is reaping
O'er some ancient rural hearth--
Where the mother and the daughter
In the evenings used to spin,
And where little feet went patter,
Full often out and in.
Change! change! for all things human,
Thrones, powers of amplest wing,
Have their flight, and fall in common
With the meanest mortal thing--
With beauty, love, and passion,
With all of earthly trust,
With life's tiniest wavelet dashing,
Curling, breaking into dust.
Where arose in marble grandeur
The wall'd cities of the past,
The sullen winds now wander
O'er a ruin-mounded waste.
Low lies each lofty column;
The owl in silence wings
O'er floors, where, slow and solemn,
Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.
Still change! Go thou and view it,
All desolately sunk,
The circle of the Druid,
The cloister of the monk;
The abbey boled and squalid,
With its bush-maned, staggering wall;
Ask by whom these were unhallow'd--
Change, change hath done it all.
Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes
O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base,
O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes,
Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race.
How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying,
Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews,
The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion,
Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!
Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,
Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,
And sterner the music that storm'd around him,
Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,
When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,
And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,
His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,
Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.
I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming--
Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;
I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming
The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.
Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,
In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:
Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation
From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.
But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder
Of battle to him is now silent and o'er,
And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,
Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.
Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,
Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,
Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world--
Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?
Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,
Unruffled by passion or guile;
And fair be the face of the woman
Who blesses his love with a smile.
His clothing, though russet and homely,
With royalty's robe may compare;
His cottage, though simple, is comely,
For peace and contentment are there.
Let monarchs exult in their splendour,
When courtiers obsequiously bow;
But are not their greatness and grandeur
Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?
The soldier may glory discover
In havock which warfare hath made;
For the shout of his fame rises over
The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.
Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,
May sneer with contemptuous air;
Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,
Still follow the track of the share.
And long may the heart of the ploughman
In virtue and vigour beat high;
His calling, though simple and common,
Our wants and our comforts supply.
Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John
Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was
Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me,
Will you go to the woodlands with me--
When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still,
Save the sound of the far dashing sea?
For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill,
I love to lie lone on the hill,
When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie,
And all nature around me is still.
Then my fancy is ever awake, awake,
My fancy is never asleep;
Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake,
Like a ship far away on the deep.
And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie;
I love 'neath the green boughs to lie;
And see far above, like the smiling of love,
A glimpse now and then of the sky.
When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear,
When the hum of the forest I hear,--
'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there,
And its breathings I ever revere.
I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod,
I kneel myself down on the sod,
'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe
In lowliness up to my God.
Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind,
Then peace doth descend on my mind;
And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope,
For both then become more refined.
Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be,
My spirit shall never repine,
If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea,
If the hum of the forest be mine.
Down in the valley lone,
Far in the wild wood,
Bubble forth springs, each one
Weeping like childhood;
Bright on their rushy banks,
Like joys among sadness,
Little flowers bloom in ranks--
Glimpses of gladness.
Sweet 'tis to wander forth,
Like pilgrims at even;
Lifting our souls from earth
To fix them on Heaven;
Then in our transport deep,
This world forsaking:
Sleeping as angels sleep,
Mortals awaking!
I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane,
When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,
Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise--
And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!
Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,
Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang,
Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;
But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!
Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,
Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';
But whanever the water grew scant at the well,
I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!
Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer;
And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;
I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,
In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.
The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie,
I thoucht a' the time was intended for me;
But whanever the end o' my money they saw,
Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.
My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,
Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear;
I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true,
But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.
I canna sleep a wink, lassie,
When I gang to bed at night,
But still o' thee I think, lassie,
Till morning sheds its light.
I lie an' think o' thee, lassie,
And I toss frae side to side,
Like a vessel on the sea, lassie,
When stormy is the tide.
My heart is no my ain, lassie,
It winna bide wi' me;
Like a birdie it has gane, lassie,
To nestle saft wi' thee.
I canna lure it back, lassie,
Sae keep it to yoursel';
But oh! it sune will break, lassie,
If you dinna use it well.
Where the treasure is, they say, lassie,
The spirit lingers there;
An' mine has fled away, lassie--
You needna ask me where.
I marvel oft if rest, lassie,
On my eyes and heart would bide,
If I thy troth possess'd, lassie,
And thou wert at my side.
periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the _British and
'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray,
In the blushing dawn o' infant day;
But sweeter than dewy morn can be,
Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie
For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.
The garish sun has sunk to rest;
The star o' gloaming gilds the west;
The gentle moon comes smiling on,
And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown:
Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!
The whispering night-breeze calls on thee;
Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.
For wealth let warldlings cark and moil,
Let pride for empty honours toil,
I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie
For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.
An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gie
For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.
O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea,
Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.
Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,
An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;
But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me,
As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.
Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been,
An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;
Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,
While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.
Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,
And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;
Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,
Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:
An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,
Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.
My luve 's a flower in garden fair,
Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;
And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,
For nane reck how I fare or fen'.
She blooms in beild o' castle wa',
I bide the blast o' povertie;
My covert looks are treasures stown--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve is like the dawn o' day,
She wears a veil o' woven mist;
And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,
Lies paling on her maiden breast;
Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,
Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'
She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare--
And how culd my luve think o' me?
My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,
My doublet o' the gay Walloon,
I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,
And yet I am a landless loon;
I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,
I beare a sword upon my theigh,
And that is a' my graith and gear--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,
Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,
The happie dimples dent her cheeks,
And diamonds low in her dark e'en;
Her haire is o' the gowden licht,
But dark the fringes o' her bree;
Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart--
But how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve is tended like a queen,
She sits among her maidens fair;
There 's ane to send, and ane to sew,
And ane to kame her gowden hair;
The lutestrings luve her fingers sma',
Her lips are steept in melodie;
My heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower--
Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?
My luve she sits her palfrey white,
Mair fair to see than makar's dream
O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht,
Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.
A belted knicht is by her side,
I 'm but a squire o' low degree;
A baron halds her bridle-rein--
And how culd my luve think o' me?
But I will don the pilgrim's weeds,
And boune me till the Holy Land,
A' for the sake o' my dear luve,
To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.
And when this world is gane to wreck,
Wi' a' its pride and vanitie,
Within the blessed bouris o' heaven,
We then may meet--my luve and me.
A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in
education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he
Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang,
Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang;
It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose,
It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows,
It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing,
Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.
But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free
O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be;
Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream,
I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue,
For weel I ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung.
Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour;
The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower,
The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh,
E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by;
I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow,
An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou';
I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose,
An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose.
The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me,
I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay,
I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May,
I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee,
An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea;
But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride,
As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.
Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley,
And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree;
The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer,
And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e;
Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle,
Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den,"
I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty,
By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin,
An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea;
Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection,
And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.
The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures,
The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree;
They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom,
When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.
I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud,
The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea;
The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,
And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie.
I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's,
And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen
Wi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air,
And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.
I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers,
A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes,
And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm,
Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies;
Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning,
Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again,
Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie,
That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.
The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers,
The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free;
The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin',
The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty.
But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer,
Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain;
Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy,
On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
The winter's cauld and cheerless blast
May rob the feckless tree, Mary,
And lay the young flowers in the dust,
Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary.
It canna chill my bosom's hopes--
It canna alter thee, Mary;
The summer o' thy winsome face
Is aye the same to me, Mary.
The gloom o' life, its cruel strife,
May wear me fast awa', Mary;
An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse,
Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.
Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,
I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;
And deem the wild and raging storm,
A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.
My heart can lie in ruin's dust,
And fortune's winter dree, Mary;
While o'er it shines the diamond ray,
That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.
The rending pangs and waes o' life,
The dreary din o' care, Mary,
I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee,
My lanely lot to share, Mary.
As o'er yon hill the evening star
Is wilin' day awa', Mary;
Sae sweet and fair art thou to me,
At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.
It gars me greet wi' vera joy,
Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,
That sic a heart sae true as thine,
Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.
recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh"
She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn,
She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn,
Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn,
For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.
Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava,
Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma',
She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern,
For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.
Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair,
She never compleened, though her young heart was sair,
And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn
Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.
Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth,
Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth;
And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern,
Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.
She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw,
Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa,
And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn
Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!
The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase,
Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face;
Laughin' at the fuffin low--what sees he there?
Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!
His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow,
Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe,
He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.
He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,
He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun;
Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare,
Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,--
There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.
Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld;
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;
His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care
Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.
He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light;
But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;
Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare,
Hearts are broken--heads are turn'd--wi' castles in the air.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,
In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,
The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, but ye 're far awa,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,
Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,
Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',
A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.
Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,
Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,
Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,
Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!
Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, my heart wearies sair,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,
Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;
Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.
Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;
Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,
Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.
Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,
For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;
And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,
The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;
The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,
Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;
The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,
And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;
The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;
Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang,
Duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang.
Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither,
Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither;
Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,
An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang.
The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;
Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;
They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang--
Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.
Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great,
The puirest bodie is still your brither;
The king may come in the cadger's gate--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.
The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay,
Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither;
Let ilk help ither to climb the brae--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.
The highest among us are unco wee,
Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;
Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.
Life is a weary journey alane,
Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither;
Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain--
Ae gude turn deserves anither.
There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,
There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;
Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,
She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,
While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea--
For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!
But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,
Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,
An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain;
The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,
Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.
Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream,
Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream;
Falling where silver light gleams on its breast,
Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest,
Flooding with music its own tiny valley,
Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.
Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers,
Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers;
Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;
Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom;
Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,
Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.
Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest,
Peerless Edina expands her white breast,
Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,
Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between;
Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily;
Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.
Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;
An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb,
As kindly it glints upon me.
The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,
Are gowden, as gowden may be;
Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun,
When he 's just going to drap in the sea.
Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,
As sweet as a body may pree;
And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou',
E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.
Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie,
As fair as a body may see;
An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,
At e'en when thou partest wi' me.
Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,
Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;
My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy,
Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.
Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on,
Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;
To stand idle by is a profitless sin:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower,
The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower,
The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought,
Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought;
In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
Let every man aim in his heart to excel,
Let every man ettle to fend for himsel';
Aye nourish ye stern independence within:
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,
Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;
For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',
Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.
She looks a' around her, and what sees she there
But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?
She looks in within, and she feels in her breast
A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.
The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,
She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;
And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',
But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.
The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,
When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;
He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,
An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.
Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,
She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;
Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,
You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.
Blue are the hills above the Spey,
The rocks are red that line his way;
Green is the strath his waters lave,
And fresh the turf upon the grave
Where sleep my sire and sisters three,
Where none are left to mourn for me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
The roofs that shelter'd me and mine
Hold strangers of a Sassenach line;
Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew
The friendly forms of long ago;
The rooks upon the old yew-tree
Would e'en have stranger notes to me:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
The cattle feeding on the hills,
We tended once o'er moors and rills,
Like us have gone; the silly sheep
Now fleck the brown sides of the steep,
And southern eyes their watchers be,
And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Where are the elders of our glen,
Wise arbiters for meaner men?
Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,
Who track'd the roe against the sky;
The quick of hand, of spirit free?
Pass'd, like a harper's melody:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Where are the maidens of our vale,
Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?
Changed are they all, and changed the wife,
Who dared, for love, the Indian's life;
The little child she bore to me
Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey,
Shaggy the western forests gray;
Wild is the corri's autumn roar,
Wilder the floods of this far shore;
Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,
Darker the shades of Tennessee:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,
Since first amid the mountains born;
Great rock, whose sterile granite heart
Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart,
The river sporting at thy knee,
On thy stern brow no change can see:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,
By Scottish mountains flank'd around,
Though we uprooted, cast away
From the warm bosom of Strathspey,
Flung pining by this western sea,
The exile's hopeless lot must dree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,
Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;
In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,
New scenes shall wear old names so dear;
And while our axes fell the tree,
Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Here can no treacherous chief betray
For sordid gain our new Strathspey;
No fearful king, no statesmen pale,
Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.
With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,
No prairie Indian half so free:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!
The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!
It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!
The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame--
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!
The gloomy days are gone
With the blasts o' winter keen;
The flowers are blooming fair,
And the trees are budding green;
The lark is in the sky,
With his music ringing loud,
Raining notes of joy
From the sunny Summer cloud--
Springing at the dawn
With the blushing light of day,
And quivering with delight
In the morning's golden ray;
But there 's rapture dearer far
In the warm and social power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the happy evening hour!
The lights and shades of life,
Like an April day, are seen,
'Mid the melting sunny showers,
On the lively bowling-green.
The Spring and Autumn meet
When the old and young are there,
And mirth and wisdom chase
From the heart the thoughts of care.
When the creaking wheels of life
Are revolving weak and slow,
And the dashing tide of hope
May be ebbing dark and low,
The sons of wealth and toil
Feel the sweet and soothing power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the charming leisure hour!
The streams of life run on
Till they fall into the sea;
And the flowers are left behind,
With their fragrance on the lea.
The circling flight of time
Will soon make the young folk old;
And pleasure dances on
Till the springs of life grow cold.
We 'll taste the joys of life
As the hours are gliding fast,
And learn to live and love
From the follies of the past;
And remember with delight,
When misfortunes intervene,
The happy days we 've spent
On the merry bowling-green.
Massinger; or the Aëronaut, a Romance." The second of these
Bring the rod, the line, the reel!
Bring, oh, bring the osier creel!
Bring me flies of fifty kinds,
Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,
All things right and tight,
All things well and proper,
Trailer red and bright,
Dark and wily dropper;
Casts of midges bring,
Made of plover hackle,
With a gaudy wing,
And a cobweb tackle.
Lead me where the river flows,
Shew me where the alder grows,
Reel and rushes, moss and mead,
To them lead me--quickly lead,
Where the roving trout
Watches round an eddy,
With his eager snout
Pointed up and ready,
Till a careless fly,
On the surface wheeling,
Tempts him, rising sly
From his safe concealing.
There, as with a pleasant friend,
I the happy hours will spend,
Urging on the subtle hook,
O'er the dark and chancy nook,
With a hand expert
Every motion swaying,
And on the alert
When the trout are playing;
Bring me rod and reel,
Flies of every feather,
Bring the osier creel,
Send me glorious weather!
Let ither anglers choose their ain,
An' ither waters tak' the lead;
O' Hieland streams we covet nane,
But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!
An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn
That steals into its valley fair--
The streamlets that at ilka turn,
Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.
The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,
An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,
An' Etterick, whose waters twine
Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,
An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;
Their kindred valleys a' unite
Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.
There 's no a hole abune the Crook,
Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,
That daunders through the flowrie heath,
But ye may fin' a subtle troot,
A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,
An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,
Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.
A chancier bit ye canna hae,
So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,
Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,
An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand
Yer birzy hackles black and reid;
The saft sough o' a slender wand
Is meetest music for the Tweed!
The oak is Britain's pride!
The lordliest of trees,
The glory of her forest side,
The guardian of her seas!
Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,
To brave the wintry breeze.
Our hearts shall never quail
Below the servile yoke,
Long as our seamen trim the sail,
And wake the battle smoke--
Long as they stem the stormy gale,
On planks of British oak!
Then in its native mead,
The golden acorn lay;
And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed,
In some far future day!
Oh! plant the acorn tree
Upon each Briton's grave;
So shall our island ever be,
The island of the brave--
The mother-nurse of liberty,
And empress o'er the wave!
Peace be upon their banners!
When our war-ships leave the bay--
When the anchor is weigh'd,
And the gales
Fill the sails,
As they stray--
When the signals are made,
And the anchor is weigh'd,
And the shores of England fade
Fast away!
Peace be upon their banners,
As they cross the stormy main!
May they no aggressors prove,
But unite,
Britain's right
To maintain;
And, unconquer'd, as they move,
May they no aggressors prove;
But to guard the land we love,
Come again!
Long flourish England's commerce!
May her navies ever glide,
With concord in their lead,
Ranging free
Every sea,
Far and wide;
And at their country's need,
With thunders in their lead,
May the ocean eagles speed
To her side!
contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick
Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,
The pastime o' the free, boys.
While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
And sing its praises loud and lang--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
Let wily fisher prove his powers
At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,
Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,
Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
In ancient days--fame tells the fact--
That Scotland's heroes werena slack
The heads o' stubborn foes to crack,
And mak' the feckless flee, boys.
Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,
They aften tried the curlin' charm
To cheer the heart and nerve the arm--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May love and friendship crown our cheer
Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear;
We hae this nicht some heroes here,
We aye are blythe to see, boys.
A' brithers brave are they, I ween,
May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,
Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May health an' strength their toils reward,
And should misfortune's gales blow hard,
Our task will be to plant a guard
Or guide them to the tee, boys.
Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,
Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,
Here 's three times three for beef an' greens--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,
A glorious sicht to see, boys--
Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';
Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;
Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;
Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,
Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;
Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill
That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.
When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,
The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;
The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,
Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.
The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,
The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;
The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,
Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.
Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weel
When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;
But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will
The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.
There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill--
They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill--
But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.
When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,
Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;
The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,
A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.
Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,
The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;
Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill--
There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.
At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';
Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until
The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.
I hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone,
Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.
Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
Bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.
The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;
Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land--
On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand--
On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,
May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;
Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;
How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?
Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell
For a' the flowers I see.
I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,
I hail thee, floweret fair;
Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,
Or wavest mid mountain air--
Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,
Or fountain's flowery brink:
Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,
The deer descend to drink.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook
Beside love's trystin' tree;
I see thee bend to kiss the brook,
That kindly kisseth thee.
'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,
Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,
Meet marrows to her lovely een
O' deep endearin' blue!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
When e'enin's gowden curtains hing
O'er moor and mountain gray,
Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring
A dirge to deein' day;
But when the licht o' mornin' wakes
The young dew-drooket flowers,
I hear amid their merry peals,
The mirth o' bridal hours!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,
The mountain's heather crest,
There aft wi' thee hae I array'd
My Mary's maiden breast;
Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,
Her bosom fa' and rise,
Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,
'Neath summer's deep blue skies.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,
I seek the blue-bell grot;
An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's
Sae sweet, I leave it not;
An' when upon my tremblin' breast,
Reclines my maiden fair,
Thou know'st full well that I am blest,
And free frae ilka care.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,
For a' the flowers I see.
The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,
The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,
An' happy hearts are here the nicht,
To haud a rantin' rockin'!
There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;
There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;
An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;
There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;
An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;
The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;
The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,
Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;
The wonder-workin' dominie,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The miller, wi' his mealy mou',
Wha kens sae weel the way to woo--
His faither's pipes frae Waterloo
He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.
The souter, wi' his bristly chin,
Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;
The curly-headed whupper-in,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,
There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,
There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;
Sae prove our merry rockin'.
The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,
Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,
And some will dance the Highland fling,
Right blithely at the rockin'.
Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,
Fond friendship will each soul inspire,
An' mirth will get her heart's desire
O' rantin', at the rockin'.
When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,
When days come dark whilk promised fair,
To cheer the gloom, just come an' share
The pleasures o' our rockin'.
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;
Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,
The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;
Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,
Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'--
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,
Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,
On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;
When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,
The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.
The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,
I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;
Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,
To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,
What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,
But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,
When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;
When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,
To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.
What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',
An' few to tak' your part, love;
A happy hame ye'll ever fin'
Within my glowing heart, love.
So! while I breathe the breath o' life,
Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!
The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,
May speak o' ghaists an' witches,
An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts
Through bogs an' droonin' ditches;
There's no ae imp in a' the host
This nicht will daur come near ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!
Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,
Why do ye sab sae sair, love?
Altho' beneath my rustic plaid
An earl's star I wear love,
I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,
And as a queen revere thee;
My Highland plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee deerie!
Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,
An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,
The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains--
The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;
But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes
That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,
For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,
I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin',
'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;
Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',
My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.
An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,
Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger
O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,
Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
But success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story,
How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low--
I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,
An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.
Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;
Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;
Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure--
The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.
_Edinburgh Literary Journal_ she afterwards contributed numerous
avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson
ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.
Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!
What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!
Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood--
Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!
And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.
An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand--
Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!
The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!
It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;
He loved her for her merry eye,
That, like the vesper star,
In evening's blue and deepening sky,
Shed light and joy afar!
He loved her for her golden hair,
That o'er her shoulders hung;
He loved her for her happy voice,
The music of her tongue.
He loved her for her airy form
Of animated grace;
He loved her for the light of soul,
That brighten'd in her face.
He loved her for her simple heart,
A shrine of gentle things;
He loved her for her sunny hopes,
Her gay imaginings.
But not for him that bosom beat,
Or glanced that merry eye,
Beneath whose diamond light he felt
It would be heaven to die.
He never told her of his love,
He breathed no prayer--no vow;
But sat in silence by her side,
And gazed upon her brow.
And when, at length, she pass'd away,
Another's smiling bride,
He made his home 'mid ocean's waves--
He died upon its tide.
To live in cities--and to join
The loud and busy throng,
Who press with mad and giddy haste,
In pleasure's chase along;
To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
Ambition's varied strife;
Borne like a leaf upon the stream--
Oh! no--this is not life!
To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
By wild wood, hill, and grove,
And find a heaven in solitude,
With one we deeply love;
To know the wealth of happiness,
That each to each can give,
And feel no power can sever us--
Ah! this it is to live!
It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain--
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last _too_ tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart--
Ah! this it is to die!
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
On evening's placid brow;
We have been long together, love--
We must part now.
Good night! I never can forget
This long bright summer day,
We pass'd among the woods and streams,
Far, far away!
Good night! we have had happy smiles,
Fond dreams, and wishes true,
And holier thoughts and communings,
And weeping too.
Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
Again so sweet a time,
Alone with Nature and with thee,
In my life's prime!
Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
Take thou this faded flower,
And lay it next thy heart, against
Our meeting hour.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
Thy homeward way to light;
Remember this long summer day--
Good night! good night!
Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,
The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;
Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast
Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.
'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,
As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;
And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,
In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.
'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.
I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms--
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!
Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are fondly singing
In their gay and jocund mirth:
Streams are pouring from their fountains,
Echoing through each rugged dell;
Heather bells adorn the mountains,
Bid the city, love! farewell.
See the boughs are rich in blossom,
Through each sunlit, silent grove;
Cast all sorrow from thy bosom--
Freedom is the soul of love!
Let us o'er the valleys wander,
Nor a frown within us dwell,
And in joy see Nature's grandeur--
Bid the city, love! farewell.
Morning's sun shall then invite us
By the ever sparkling streams;
Evening's fall again delight us
With its crimson-coloured beams.
Flowers of summer sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are loudly singing,
In their gay and jocund mirth.
Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur,
In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee;
In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander,
And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me!
I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping,
Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below;
The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping,
Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow.
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly;
Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay!
Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly,
Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray!
Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men!
Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee,
And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea--
Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee,
Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
What ails my heart--what dims my e'e?
What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie?
Ye werena aye sae cauld to me;
Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie.
I 'm wae to see you, like a flower
Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie,
Droop farer down frae hour to hour,
An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.
I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true,
She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie;
She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue;
If sae--ye still are free, Jamie.
I winna tak your hand and heart,
If there is ane mair dear, Jamie;
I 'd sooner far for ever part
With thee--though wi' a tear, Jamie.
Then tell me your doubts and your fears,
Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie;
Are ye afraid o' coming years,
O' darker days to me, Jamie?
I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy,
They 'll come alike to me, Jamie;
Misfortune's hand may all destroy,
Except my love for thee, Jamie.
Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning,
Though England's proud structures enrapture the view;
Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning,
Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue.
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory,
His foot in the sea and his head in the sky;
His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary,
And round him, and round him the elements fly.
The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing,
The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream,
To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam.
I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind
All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind;
The music of birds and the murmur of rills,
Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth!
No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth!
Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high,
Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky!
Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod,
Which minstrels of yore often made their abode--
Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales,
That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
There is a bonnie, blushing flower--
But ah! I darena breathe the name;
I fain would steal it frae its bower,
Though a' should think me sair to blame.
It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
Like brightest star where ither's shine;
Fain would I place it in my breast,
And make this bonnie blossom mine.
At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
I see this fair, this fav'rite flower,
My heart beats high with wish sincere,
To wile it frae its bonnie bower!
But oh! I fear to own its charms,
Or tear it frae its parent stem;
For should it wither in mine arms,
What would revive my bonnie gem?
Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'--
That flower can never fade with me,
That frae the wintry winds that blaw
Round each neglected bud is free!
No, it shall only bloom more fair,
When cherished and adored by me;
And a' my joy, and a' my care,
This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!
TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_
Once more in the Highlands I wander alone,
Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown;
By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen,
Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.
Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur,
Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander--
Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!
Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
I felt she had stole my affections away;
The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
The hours glided by without languor or woe,
As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains--
My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!
The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime,
Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!
And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart,
Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.
And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood,
Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow,
A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood--
'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.
'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin',
The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae;
The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in',
Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.
Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters,
No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea;
Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters
The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.
The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie,
When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray;
But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie
Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."
How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather,
Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';"
An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither,
Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:
But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely,
Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast;
The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by,"
An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."
The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted,
An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn;
An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted,
An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:
But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin',
An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night!
When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin',
Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.
The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie,
Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa',
An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie,
May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.
Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer,"
Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath;
But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer
Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?
How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en,
When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa';
When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'--
But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!
Calm sleep the village dead
In the auld kirk-yard;
But softly, slowly tread
In the auld kirk-yard;
For the weary, weary rest,
Wi' the green turf on their breast,
And the ashes o' the blest
Flower the auld kirk-yard.
Oh! many a tale it hath,
The auld kirk-yard,
Of life's crooked thorny path
To the auld kirk-yard.
But mortality's thick gloom
Clouds the sunny world's bloom,
Veils the mystery of doom,
In the auld kirk-yard.
A thousand memories spring
In the auld kirk-yard,
Though time's death-brooding wing
Shade the auld kirk-yard.
The light of many a hearth,
Its music and its mirth,
Sleep in the deep dark earth
Of the auld kirk-yard.
Nae dreams disturb their sleep
In the auld kirk-yard;
They hear nae kindred weep
In the auld kirk-yard.
The sire, with silver hair,
The mother's heart of care,
The young, the gay, the fair,
Crowd the auld kirk-yard.
So live that ye may lie
In the auld kirk-yard,
Wi' a passport to the sky
Frae the auld kirk-yard;
That when thy sand is run,
And life's weary warfare done,
Ye may sing o' victory won
Where there 's nae kirk-yard.
Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly
Far, far away; far, far away;
Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow,
Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow,
Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow,
Far, far away; far away.
There never trembles a sigh of regret,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set,
Far, far away; far, far away;
There I from sorrow for ever would rest,
Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast;
Tears never fall in the homes of the blest,
Far, far away; far away.
Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part,
Far, far away; far, far away;
One is their temple, their home, and their heart,
Far, far away; far, far away;
The river of crystal, the city of gold,
The portals of pearl, such glory unfold,
Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told,
Far, far away; far away.
List! what yon harpers on golden harps play;
Come, come away; come, come away;
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
Come, come away; come, come away:
Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
Come, come away; come away.
periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in
Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
By the mountain and the rock,
Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
Oh, thou guardian of the free!
Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
Trebly dear shall be the ties
That shall bind us to thy name,
Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
To thy fame, to thy fame!
The oak hath scatter'd terror
O'er our foemen from our ships,
They have given the voice of England's fame
In thunders from their lips;
'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
It shall wave among the hills!
And the rallying cry shall wake
Nigh the planted of thy hand,
That the loud acclaim may break
O'er the land, o'er the land!
While it waves unto the tempest,
It shall call thy name to mind,
And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be
Like the rushing of the wind!
Arise! ye Gaels, arise!
Let the echoes ring your cries,
By our mountain's rocky throne,
By Victoria's name adored--
We shall reap her enemies down
With the sword, with the sword!
Oh, dear among the mountains
Shall thy kindly blessing be;
Though rough may be our mien we bear
A loyal heart to thee!
'Neath its widely spreading shade
Shall the gentle Highland maid
Teach the youths, who stand around,
Like brave slips from Freedom's tree,
That thrice sacred is the ground
Unto thee, unto thee!
In the bosom of the Highlands
Thou hast left a glorious pledge,
To the honour of our native land,
In every coming age:
By thy royal voice that spoke
On the soil where springs the oak--
By the freedom of the land
That can never bear a slave--
The Breadalbane Oak shall stand
With the brave, with the brave!
Oh, how I love the evening hour,
Its calm and tranquil sky,
When the parting sun from a sea of gold
Is passing silently;
And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven--
Rest gently on the breast of even!
How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure,
How peaceful and serene!
There is a promise and a hope
Enthroned o'er all the scene;
While, blushing, with resplendent pride,
The bright sun lingers on the tide.
The zephyrs on the waveless sea
Are wrapt in silent sleep,
And there is not a breath to wake
The slumbers of the deep--
Peace sits on her imperial throne,
And sounds of sadness there are none!
Methinks I hear in distance harps
By heavenly seraphs strung,
And in the concave of the sky
The holy vespers sung!
Oh, thou great Source of light and power,
We bless thee for the evening hour!
If there 's a word that whispers love
In gentlest tones to hearts of woe,
If there 's a name more prized above,
And loved with deeper love below,
If there 's a healing sound beneath
To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour,
If there 's a name that angels breathe
In silence with a deeper power,
It softly hangs on many a tongue
In ladies' bower and sacred fane,
The sweetest name by poets sung--
The high and consecrated strain--
And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream
Was his, the silent heavens above,
When on the Bible o'er the stream
He vowed his early vows of love
Oh, with the sweet repose of even,
By forest lone, by fragrant lea,
And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven,
How dear shall the remembrance be
Scotland and Mary are entwined
With blooming wreath of fadeless green,
And printed on the undying mind;
For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen,
By the lone forest and the lea,
When smiles the thoughtful evening star,
Though other names may dearer be,
The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far,
The fields, the streams, the skies are fair,
There 's freshness in the balmy air,
A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods,
And pleasure fills thy solitudes,
And sweets are strewn where'er we rove--
But thou art not the land we love.
How glorious, from the eastern heaven,
The fulness of the dawn is given!
How fair on ocean's glowing breast
Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!
All radiant are thy stars above--
But thou art not the land we love.
Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam,
Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream;
From morn to noon, from noon to even,
Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven,
From field and forest, vale and grove--
But thou art not the land we love.
To high and free imaginings
Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
The brave thy sons to triumph led,
Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
And Liberty thy chaplet wove--
But thou art not the land we love.
From the far bosom of the sea
A flood of brightness rests on thee,
And stately to the bending skies
Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!
But thou art not the land we love.
Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
The mountains of our native land!
Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
The heath below, the blue above,
The altars of the land we love!
Is not the earth a burial place
Where countless millions sleep,
The entrance to the abode of death,
Where waiting mourners weep,
And myriads at his silent gates
A constant vigil keep?
The sculptor lifts his chisel, and
The final stroke is come,
But, dull as the marble lip he hews,
Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work,
He hath called to a holier home!
The soldier bends his gleaming steel,
He counts his laurels o'er,
And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win
On many a foreign shore;
But his Master declares with a sterner voice,
He shall break a lance no more!
The mariner braved the deluge long,
He bow'd to the sweeping blast,
And smiled when the frowning heavens above
Were the deepest overcast;
He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky--
He hath laid him down at last.
Far in the sea's mysterious depths
The lowly dead are laid,
Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice
Their burial service said?
Have not the quiring tempests rung
The dirges of the dead?
The vales of our native land are strewn
With a thousand pleasant things;
The uplands rejoicing in the light
Of the morning's flashing wings;
Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns--
The resting-place of kings!
And man outpours his heart to heaven,
And "chants his holiest hymn,"
But anon his frame is still and cold,
And his sparkling eyes are dim--
And who can tell but the home of death
Is a happier home to him?
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
He fell on Balaklava's plain,
Yet ere he found a soldier's bier
He blest his beauteous child again;
Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain,
War's deadly lightning swiftly fell,
On--on the squadron charged amain
Amidst that storm of shot and shell!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
Even like a knight of old romance,
Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear,
Heard but the bugle sound--advance!
And paler droops the flower of France,
And brighter glows proud England's rose,
As charge they on with sabre-glance,
And thunders thickening as they close!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
And be thy grateful kindness shewn;
And still her father's name revere,
For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own;
And tell his deeds in battle done,
And how he fearless faced the foe,
And urged the snorting war-horse on
With death above, around, below!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine;
Her father's glorious deeds appear,
And laurels round her brow entwine;
In that full eye, that seems divine,
Her sire's commanding ardour glows;
His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine,
Within his daughter's bosom flows!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!
To Scotland's ancient realm
Proud Edward's armies came,
To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm
Our martial force in shame:
"It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried;
"It shall not be!" his chiefs replied;
"By the name our fathers gave her,
Our steel shall drink the crimson stream,
We 'll all her dearest rights redeem--
Our own broadswords shall save her!"
With hopes of triumph flush'd,
The squadrons hurried o'er
Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd
Like wild waves to the shore:
"They come--they come!" was the gallant cry;
"They come--they come!" was the loud reply;
"O strength, thou gracious Giver!
By Love and Freedom's stainless faith,
We 'll dare the darkest night of death--
We 'll drive them back for ever!"
All o'er the waving broom,
In chivalry and grace,
Shone England's radiant spear and plume,
By Stirling's rocky base:
And, stretching far beneath the view,
Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew,
When, like a torrent rushing,
O God! from right and left the flame
Of Scottish swords like lightning came,
Great Edward's legions crushing!
High praise, ye gallant band,
Who, in the face of day,
With a daring heart and a fearless hand,
Have cast your chains away!
The foemen fell on every side--
In crimson hues the Forth was dyed--
Bedew'd with blood the heather,
While cries triumphal shook the air--
"Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare,
Wherever Scotsmen gather!"
Though years like shadows fleet
O'er the dial-stone of Time,
Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat
With the throb of manhood's prime!
Still shall the valour, love, and truth,
That shone on Scotland's early youth,
From Scotland ne'er dissever;
The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern
Shall wave around her Wallace cairn,
And bless the brave for ever!
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade
And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said;
But nae reply my lassie gied--I blamed the waterfa';
Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!
Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';
Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!
Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"
To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,
Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',
And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"
"The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
But wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!"
Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee;
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me;
Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days,
When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes;
How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,
And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,
We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;
We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,
For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!
They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair
For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!
Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,
As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell--
Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!
Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,
Hame, and frien's, and country dear;
Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,
Happier days may soon be here.
See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding
Calls me far frae love and thee.
Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;
Streams run backward frae the sea;
Cauld in death maun be this bosom,
Ere it cease to throb for thee.
Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',
Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';
Ae last time thy loved form pressin'--
Think o' me when far awa'.
The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic
I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,
And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;
But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,
Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;
The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,
Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.
It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main
Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!
Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering,
And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side
With a breezy burst of singing
Blow we out the flames of rage!
Europe's peace, through Europe ringing,
Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge.
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, aldar, aldar, e';
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.
Every musket to the guard-house,
And its lead to furlough send--
To the tilling of the meadows
Every gallant bayonet bend.
See, a lusty fleet is steering
Homewards, to the shore of peace;
And brave hearts, a host, are nearing
To the expectant dear's embrace.
See the kilted Highlander
Eager for the sight of home.
Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,
Shelterless and sad no more,
Quite a little army gathers,
Shouting welcomes from the shore.
All the echoes are in motion,
All the sheilings ring with glee,
Since, of peace, the paths of ocean
Give the news a passage free.
The birds the dash of oars was scaring--
Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,
To their wonted branch repairing,
Sweetest numbers on the sprays.
Seem the woods to dance a measure,
Nodding as the notes inspire--
And their branches, as with pleasure,
Add their music to the choir.
Of the streamlet, every murmur
Sweetly swells the song of peace,
Chanting, with each vocal charmer,
Joys that bloom and wars that cease.
Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of
subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see.
If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
And the talk of the clachan are we.
She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small,
If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;
Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,
Are ready to greet my return.
Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,
I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,
I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever--
Short while would suffice me to mourn.
It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
It was not a heart pierced through with stitches--
'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
That brought me a bargain like Janet.
O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
Or a kick, if her foot is within it.
No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
The core of my heart with her bother.
For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
For a hag can you shew such another?
No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
And leave the reception for me.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see!
My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.
Oh, well I love the _eididh_ free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.
Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.
And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame--
Unmatched its glories ever yet.
Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.
And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.
 Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.
 Highland garb.
Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?
The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.
Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,
Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,
Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;
But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.
Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,
Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;
Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,
To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.
Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,
As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;
Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,
No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.
O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,
Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,
That sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain
To welcome its return to love and innocence again.
 Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful