The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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Row on, Row on.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
Row on, Row on.
Row on, row on, thou cauldrife wave!
Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumble—
Weel may you to the tempest rave
And down your briny mountains tumble;
For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,
Of firmest friend and fondest lover,
Who lie in thy dark bosom pall'd,
The garish green wave rolling over.
Weel may you fume, and growl, and grumble—
Weel may you to the tempest rave
And down your briny mountains tumble;
For mony a heart thou hast made cauld,
Of firmest friend and fondest lover,
Who lie in thy dark bosom pall'd,
The garish green wave rolling over.
Upon thy waste of waters wide,
Though ray'd in a' the dyes o' heaven,
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven;
For then on ane that loe'd me weel
My heart will evermair be turning;
An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel
That nought remains for me but mourning.
Though ray'd in a' the dyes o' heaven,
I never turn my looks aside,
But my poor heart wi' grief is riven;
For then on ane that loe'd me weel
My heart will evermair be turning;
An' oh! 'tis grievous aye to feel
That nought remains for me but mourning.
For whether he's alive or dead;
In distant land for maiden sighing;
A captive into slavery led,
Or in thy beds of amber lying,
I cannot tell:—I only know
I loved him dearly, and forewarn'd him;
I gave him thee in pain and woe,
And thou hast never more return'd him.
In distant land for maiden sighing;
A captive into slavery led,
Or in thy beds of amber lying,
I cannot tell:—I only know
I loved him dearly, and forewarn'd him;
I gave him thee in pain and woe,
And thou hast never more return'd him.
Still thou rowest on with sullen roar—
A broken heart to thee is nothing;
Thou only lovest to lash the shore,
And jabber out thy thunder, frothing.
Thy still small voice send to this creek,
The wavy field of waters over;
Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak,
And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!
A broken heart to thee is nothing;
Thou only lovest to lash the shore,
And jabber out thy thunder, frothing.
Thy still small voice send to this creek,
The wavy field of waters over;
Oh! Spirit of the Ocean, speak,
And tell me where thou hold'st my lover!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |