Poems by James Hyslop ... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns |
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| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. | XXIII.
The Prisoner's Song.
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| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
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| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
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| XLIII. |
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| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
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| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
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| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
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| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
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| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
 | Poems by James Hyslop |  |
148
XXIII.
The Prisoner's Song.
Among Nith's green hills I hae herdit sheep,
'Mong the heathery braes an' the moorland waters;
But though I was but a shepherd laddie,
My love was the fairest o' Nithsdale's daughters.
'Mong the heathery braes an' the moorland waters;
But though I was but a shepherd laddie,
My love was the fairest o' Nithsdale's daughters.
Saft was her dark e'e, an' yellow her hair,
'Mong her golden earrings in ringlets twinin';
Saft was the silk on her bosom o' milk,
But safter that bosom, on mine reclinin'.
'Mong her golden earrings in ringlets twinin';
Saft was the silk on her bosom o' milk,
But safter that bosom, on mine reclinin'.
O love's sunny mornin' rose, shinin' an' bright,
The e'enin' brought happiness, sae did the morrow,
Till misfortune's storms brought the darkness o' night,
An' love's sun gaed down among clouds o' sorrow.
The e'enin' brought happiness, sae did the morrow,
Till misfortune's storms brought the darkness o' night,
An' love's sun gaed down among clouds o' sorrow.
Now lonely 'mong Nith's yellow woods ye may stray,
While the winter rains fa' like your tears o' mournin',
For your early lover is far, far away,
An' no ae hope o' his ever returnin'.
While the winter rains fa' like your tears o' mournin',
For your early lover is far, far away,
An' no ae hope o' his ever returnin'.
Wi' you I have lain on Nith's gowany braes,
Where the green birks were hangin' aboon the waters;
Now, far frae the friends o' my early days,
I maun lie in a prison 'mong chains an' fetters.
Where the green birks were hangin' aboon the waters;
Now, far frae the friends o' my early days,
I maun lie in a prison 'mong chains an' fetters.
Wi' you I hae wander'd among the woods,
Where the mavis the sweet songs o' simmer was singin',
But now I maun lie in a dungeon dark,
My music the prison bells mournfully ringin'.
Where the mavis the sweet songs o' simmer was singin',
But now I maun lie in a dungeon dark,
My music the prison bells mournfully ringin'.
Wi' you I hae lain in my tartan plaid,
While your saft white hands did fondly caress me,
Now, far, far away frae my ain dear maid,
The hands o' the merciless stranger oppress me.
While your saft white hands did fondly caress me,
Now, far, far away frae my ain dear maid,
The hands o' the merciless stranger oppress me.
Farewell! farewell, sweet companion of youth!
O forget a' the days o' our early courtin'!
I hae fought till the last o' our hopes was o'ercast,
An' now I'm laid low by the blasts o' misfortune.
O forget a' the days o' our early courtin'!
I hae fought till the last o' our hopes was o'ercast,
An' now I'm laid low by the blasts o' misfortune.
149
Make choice o' some happier lover than I,
Wi' the sunshine o' pleasure and fortune to bless ye;
In the circles o' happiness spend thy days
Wi' affection and friends, and the world to caress ye.
Wi' the sunshine o' pleasure and fortune to bless ye;
In the circles o' happiness spend thy days
Wi' affection and friends, and the world to caress ye.
An' when ye walk in the e'enin's o' spring
By the green-wood side where sae often ye met me,
In affection's embrace to his bosom cling,
In his arms o' love, oh, try to forget me.
By the green-wood side where sae often ye met me,
In affection's embrace to his bosom cling,
In his arms o' love, oh, try to forget me.
His gentle hand, wi' jewels and gold,
Will braid the soft links o' your hair sae yellow,
When the heart o' your early lover is cold,
An' flowers o' spring weepin' over his pillow.
Will braid the soft links o' your hair sae yellow,
When the heart o' your early lover is cold,
An' flowers o' spring weepin' over his pillow.
| Poems by James Hyslop | |