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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The Broken Heart
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Broken Heart
[_]
Was written in detestation of the behaviour of a gentleman (can I call him so?) to a dearly-beloved young relative of my own, and whom, at the time I wrote this, I never expected to recover from the shock her kind and affectionate heart had received. It has, however, turned out a lucky disappointment for her.
Now lock my chamber door, father,
And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even a while reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!
And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even a while reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!
Oh, let me lie, and weep my fill
O'er wounds that heal can never;
And O kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;
For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?
Or how can heart of maiden bear
To know that heart forsaken?
O'er wounds that heal can never;
And O kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;
For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?
Or how can heart of maiden bear
To know that heart forsaken?
Oh, why should vows so fondly made,
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid
Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary.
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid
Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary.
Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them.
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them.
As a note to the above song, I may quote a stanza from another poem written at the same time:—
Woe to the guileful tongue that bred
This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain! on his head
A minstrel's malison remain!
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,
Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart
That ever bow'd to nature's sway!
This disappointment and this pain!
Cold-hearted villain! on his head
A minstrel's malison remain!
Guilt from his brow let ne'er depart,
Nor shame until his dying day;
For he has broke the kindest heart
That ever bow'd to nature's sway!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |