The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
| 2 |  |
 | I. |
| 2 | | II. |
|
|
|
|
| SONGS. |
|
|
| 2 | |
 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
97
SONGS.
99
SONG OF THE SOUTH.
I
Of all the garden flowers,The fairest is the rose;
Of winds that stir the bowers,
O, there is none that blows
Like the South, the gentle South;
For that balmy breeze is ours.
II
Cold is the frozen North,In its stern and savage mood;
'Mid gales come drifting forth
Bleak snows and drenching flood;
But the South, the gentle South,
Thaws to love the willing blood.
100
III
Bethink thee of the vales,With their birds and blossoms fair—
Of the darkling nightingales,
That charm the starry air,
In the South, the gentle South;
Ah! our own dear home is there!
IV
Where doth beauty brightest glowWith each rich and radiant charm,
Eyes of night and brow of snow,
Cherry lip, and bosom warm?
In the South, the gentle South—
There she waits and works her harm.
V
Say, shines the star of loveFrom the clear and cloudless sky,
The shadowy groves above,
Where the nestling ring-doves lie?
From the South, the gentle South,
Gleams its lone and lucid eye.
101
VI
Then turn ye to the homeOf your brethren and your bride;
Far astray your steps may roam,
And more joys for thee abide
In the South, our gentle South,
Than in all the world beside.
FAREWELL OUR FATHERS' LAND.
I
Farewell our Fathers' land,Valley and fountain;
Farewell old Scotland's strand,
Forest and mountain!
Then hush the drum, and hush the flute,
And be the stirring bagpipe mute—
Such sounds may not with sorrow suit,
And fare thee well, Lochaber!
102
II
The plume and plaid no more we'll see,Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broad-swords, which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie!
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.
III
Now where of yore, on bank and brae,Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay,
Far downward scowls Bennevis grey,
On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.
IV
For now we cross the stormy sea,Ah! never more to look on thee—
Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
From Etive glens to Morven!
Farewell our Fathers' land, &c.
V
Thy mountain air no more we'll breathe;The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath,
Where our grey sires are sleeping!
Then farewell our Fathers' land, &c.
103
MOURN FOR THE BRAVE.
I
Oh, mourn for the brave,Who have fought for us, have bled for us;
Oh, mourn for the brave,
Who lie low among the slain!
For us they left their native land,
To meet the foe on foreign strand;
For us they struggled sword in hand;
And fought for us, and bled for us;
But now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!
II
Dear were their homes to them,Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Dear were their homes to them,
We ne'er shall see again!
But, at their country's call, they took
And turned to sword the pruning-hook;
A foeman's bonds they could not brook,
104
And now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!
III
Deep is our debt to them,Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Deep is our debt to them,
For us who crossed the main!
They gave our hills their golden fleece,
They gave our plains their rich increase,
To them we owe the ark of peace—
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Though now they sleep
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!
IV
Then shout for the brave,Who have fought for us, have bled for us;
Then shout for the brave,
Who poured out their blood like rain!
Their deeds shall every tongue engage;
Their names are writ on History's page;
And age shall proudly tell to age,
Who fought for us, who bled for us;
Though now they sleep,
In silence deep,
Upon the battle-plain!
105
ERIC'S DIRGE.
I
Shon'st thou but to pass away,Chieftain, in thy bright noon-day?
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Who to Eric would not yield?
Red hand in the battle field,
Kinsman's idol, Beauty's shield,
Flowers we strew above thee!
II
Eagle-like, in Glory's sky,Soar'd thy dauntless spirit high;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Scion of a matchless race,
Strong in form, and fair of face,
First in field, and first in chase,
Flowers we strew above thee!
106
III
Three to one Argyle came on,Yet thy glance defiance shone;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Fear thine Islesmen never knew;
We were firm, tho' we were few;
And in front thy banner flew:—
Flowers we strew above thee!
IV
What mere men could do was done;Two at least we slew for one;
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
But, ah fatal was our gain!
For, amid the foremost slain,
Lay'st thou, whom we mourn in vain:—
Flowers we strew above thee!
V
Mourn!—nor own one tearless eye,Barra, Harris, Uist, and Skye!
(All who knew thee, love thee!)
Eric! low thou liest the while,
Shadowed by Iona's pile;
May no step thy stone defile:—
Flowers we strew above thee!
107
THE STORMY SEA.
I
Ere the twilight bat was flitting,In the sunset, at her knitting,
Sang a lonely maiden, sitting
Underneath her threshold tree;
And, as daylight died before us,
And the vesper star shone o'er us,
Fitful rose her tender chorus—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”
II
Warmly shone that sunset glowing;Sweetly breathed the young flowers blowing;
Earth, with beauty overflowing,
Seem'd the home of love to be,
As those angel tones ascending,
With the scene and season blending,
Ever had the same low ending—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”
108
III
Curfew bells remotely ringing,Mingled with that sweet voice singing;
And the last red rays seem'd clinging
Lingeringly to tower and tree:
Nearer as I came, and nearer,
Finer rose the notes, and clearer;
O! 'twas Heaven itself to hear her—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”
IV
Blow, ye west winds! blandly hoverO'er the bark that bears my lover;
Gently blow, and bear him over
To his own dear home and me;
For, when night winds bend the willow,
Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow,
Thinking of the foaming billow—
“Jamie's on the stormy sea!”
V
How could I but list, but linger,To the song, and near the singer,
Sweetly wooing Heaven to bring her
Jamie from the stormy sea:
And, while yet her lips did name me,
Forth I sprang—my heart o'ercame me—
“Grieve no more, sweet, I am Jamie,
Home returned to love and thee!”
109
THE MAID OF ULVA.
I
The hyacinth bathed in the beauty of spring,The raven, when autumn hath darken'd his wing,
Were bluest and blackest, if either could vie
With the night of thy hair, or the morn of thine eye,—
II
Fair maid of the mountain, whose home, far away,Looks down on the islands of Ulva's blue bay;
May nought from its Eden thy footsteps allure,
To grieve what is happy, or dim what is pure!
III
Between us a foam-sheet impassable flows—The wrath and the hatred of clans who are foes;
But love, like the oak, while the tempest it braves,
The firmer will root it, the fiercer it raves.
110
IV
Not seldom thine eye from the watch-tower shall hail,In the red of the sunrise, the gleam of my sail;
And lone is the valley, and thick is the grove,
And green is the bower, that is sacred to love!
V
The snows shall turn black on high Cruachan Ben,And the heath cease to purple fair Sonachan glen,
And the breakers to foam, as they dash on Tiree,
When the heart in this bosom beats faithless to thee!
LAMENT FOR MACRIMMON.
I
Mist wreathes stern Coolin like a cloud,The water-wraith is shrieking loud,
And blue eyes gush with tears that burn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return,
Oh never, never more return!
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!
Oh never, never more return!
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!
111
II
The wild winds wail themselves asleep,The rills drop tear-like down the steep,
In forest glooms the songsters mourn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.
III
Even hoar old Ocean joins our wail,Nor moves the boat, though bent with sail;
Fierce shrieking gales the breakers churn,
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.
IV
No more, at eve, thy harp in hallShall from the tower faint echoes call;
There songless circles vainly mourn
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return, &c.
V
Thou shalt return not from afarWith wreaths of peace, or spoils of war;
Each breast is but affection's urn
For thee—who shall no more return!
Macrimmon shall no more return,
Oh never, never more return,
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!
Oh never, never more return,
Earth, wrapt in doomsday flames, shall burn,
Before Macrimmon home return!
112
HEIGH-HO!
I
A pretty young maiden sat on the grass,Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
In the summer morning so early.
Said he, “My lass, will you go with me,
My cot to keep, and my bride to be;
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?”
II
“O! no, no, no!” the maiden said,Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
On that summer morning so early!
“My mother is old, my mother is frail,
Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
I dare not list to any such tale,
For I love my kind mother rarely.”
113
III
The shepherd took her lily-white hand,Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
And on her beauty did gazing stand,
On that summer morning so early.
“Thy mother I ask thee not to leave,
Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
But my home can hold us all, believe—
Will that not please thee fairly?”
IV
“O! no, no, no! I am all too young,Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!
I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early.”
But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
And at length she fondly blush'd consent—
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.
114
THE WANDERER OF CONNAUGHT.
I
Oh! Norah, when wandering afar from the shadeOf the woods, where in childhood so happy we stray'd,
From eyes that are strangers, and breasts that are cold,
My heart often turns to the pleasures of old.
II
Oh! Norah, my sister, how lovely and brightThe green vales of Connaught appear to my sight;
How starts the wild tear, when in thought I survey
The cabin so neat, with its children at play!
III
What though I am doom'd with my sorrows to roamFrom Erin, my land, and the glen of my home,
From the spot where the bones of my fathers repose,
And the stream, where the briar and the wild lily grows;
115
IV
Yet often, when midnight hangs dreary around,And the breeze flaps the tent with a desolate sound,
On the pallet I dream of our dear shieling fire,
And the faces that circle my mother and sire!
V
I see the sweet group, and I hear their lips praySuccess to the wanderer, who roams far away.
My dear sister, Norah, again shall it be
My fate the green pastures of Connaught to see?
VI
Again to stray forth with the flocks to the field,From grief the white hairs of my parents to shield;
And be laid, my dear Norah, when being shall cease,
With my sires who have gone to the mansions of peace?
116
MARY DHU.
I
Sweet, sweet is the rose-budBathed in dew;
But sweeter art thou,
My Mary dhu.
O! the skies of night,
With their eyes of light,
Are not so bright
As my Mary dhu.
Whenever thy radiant face I see,
The clouds of sorrow depart from me;
As the shadows fly
From day's bright eye,
Thou lightest life's sky,
My Mary dhu.
II
Sad, sad is my heartWhen I sigh, Adieu!
Or gaze on thy parting,
My Mary dhu:
117
Till thy steps' return
Bids my bosom burn—
My Mary dhu.
I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills;
I muse but of thee on the moorland rills:
In the morning light,
In the moonshine bright,
Thou art still in my sight,
My Mary dhu.
III
Thy voice trembles through me,Like the breeze,
That ruffles, in gladness,
The leafy trees;
'Tis a wafted tone
From Heaven's high throne,
Making hearts thine own,
My Mary dhu.
Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet,
With colours glowing, and incense sweet;
And, when thou must away,
May life's rose decay
In the west wind's sway—
My Mary dhu!
118
THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.
I
O wad that my time were owre but,Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,
I' the bonnie birken shaw!
For this is no my ain life,
And I peak and pine away
Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
In the glad green month o' May.
II
I used to wauk in the morningWi' the loud sang o' the lark,
And the whistling o' the ploughmen lads,
As they gaed to their wark;
I used to wear the bit young lambs
Frae the tod and the roaring stream;
But the warld is chang'd, and a' thing now
To me seems like a dream!
119
III
There are busy crowds around me,On ilka lang dull street;
Yet, tho' sae mony surround me,
I kenna ane I meet;
And I think o' kind, kent faces,
And o' blithe an' cheery days,
When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,
Out-owre the simmer braes.
IV
Waes me, for my heart is breaking!I think o' my brithers sma',
And on my sister greeting,
Whan I cam frae hame awa!
And oh! how my mither sobbit,
As she shook me by the hand,
When I left the door o' our auld house,
To come to this stranger land.
V
There's nae hame like our ain hame—O I wush that I were there!
There's nae hame like our ain hame,
To be met wi' ony where;
And O that I were back again,
To our farm and fields sae green;
And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,
And were what I hae been!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |