 | The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie |  |
830
SONG,
FOR AN IRISH MELODY.
The harper who sat on his green mossy seat,
And harp'd to the youngsters so loud and so sweet,
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at close of the day,—
And harp'd to the youngsters so loud and so sweet,
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at close of the day,—
Ah! this was the music delighted my ear,
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! to listen again, by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! to listen again, by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!
I knew every dame in her holiday airs;
I knew every maiden that danced at our fairs;
I knew every farmer to market who came,
And the dog that ran after him call'd by its name.
I knew every maiden that danced at our fairs;
I knew every farmer to market who came,
And the dog that ran after him call'd by its name.
And whom know I now in this far distant land,
But the stiff collar'd sergeant, and red-coated band?
No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and blood;
No merry-eyed damsel to do my heart good!
But the stiff collar'd sergeant, and red-coated band?
No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and blood;
No merry-eyed damsel to do my heart good!
To mine eye or mine ear no gay cheering e'er comes,
But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our drums;
The fierce flashing steel of our long muster'd file,
And the sharp shrilly fifers a-playing the while.
But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our drums;
The fierce flashing steel of our long muster'd file,
And the sharp shrilly fifers a-playing the while.
At night, as I keep on the wearisome watch,
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
Then the shores of dear Ireland will rise to my sight,
And mine own native valley, that spot of delight!
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
Then the shores of dear Ireland will rise to my sight,
And mine own native valley, that spot of delight!
Divided so far by a wide stormy main,
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! to listen at ease by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! to listen at ease by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!
| The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie | |