Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
 |
THE SHANNOCHYLE,
|
 | Heath flowers |  |
85
THE SHANNOCHYLE,
A Farm, which commands a lovely prospect across the Vale of Monteith.
Whan youth was in its early flower,
An' I rejoiced in nature's spring;
How chearfu' sped the mornin' hour,
On careless rovin' wanton wing!
Fondly to those delights I cling,
Tho' now a cheerless lone exile;
And memory still with joy shall bring,
The past delights of Shannochyle.
An' I rejoiced in nature's spring;
How chearfu' sped the mornin' hour,
On careless rovin' wanton wing!
Fondly to those delights I cling,
Tho' now a cheerless lone exile;
And memory still with joy shall bring,
The past delights of Shannochyle.
I then pursued na' fortune's smile,
An' I was reckless o' her frown;
Careless was I o' villain's wile,
For in my Strath it was unknown:
I sighed na' for the pomp of town,
Thy vale, Monteith, was free o' guile;
An' what I wished to call mine own,
Was centered in sweet Shannochyle.
An' I was reckless o' her frown;
Careless was I o' villain's wile,
For in my Strath it was unknown:
I sighed na' for the pomp of town,
Thy vale, Monteith, was free o' guile;
An' what I wished to call mine own,
Was centered in sweet Shannochyle.
86
The roses bloom in Shannochyle,
But, pace the world, the thorns are there;
Delight dwalls aye in Shannochyle,
But, O! the world is fu' o' care,
The hours allotted to my share
Are numbered out wi' grief and toil,
An' aften, till my heart is sair,
I mourn the joys of Shannochyle.
But, pace the world, the thorns are there;
Delight dwalls aye in Shannochyle,
But, O! the world is fu' o' care,
The hours allotted to my share
Are numbered out wi' grief and toil,
An' aften, till my heart is sair,
I mourn the joys of Shannochyle.
Joy be wi' thee, sweet Strath Monteith,
Whare flowers their richest blossoms shed,
Whare Spring exhales her sweetest breath,
An' Summer busks her bonniest bed!
O! whan I'm numbered with the dead,
Bear me to my dear native soil;
For my fond wish is to be laid
Beneath the trees of Shannochyle.
Whare flowers their richest blossoms shed,
Whare Spring exhales her sweetest breath,
An' Summer busks her bonniest bed!
O! whan I'm numbered with the dead,
Bear me to my dear native soil;
For my fond wish is to be laid
Beneath the trees of Shannochyle.
| Heath flowers | |