Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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SONG TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
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SONG TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
On Ettrick banks, ae simmer night,
The muse of Scotia lighted down,
She held a pipe o' ivory bright,
And on her head a laurel crown.
But aye she sighed, an' aye she sang,—
“Sin' Robin Burns has fled awa',
Oh! wha, 'mang a' the minstrel thrang,
This pipe o' mine will ever blaw?”
The muse of Scotia lighted down,
She held a pipe o' ivory bright,
And on her head a laurel crown.
But aye she sighed, an' aye she sang,—
“Sin' Robin Burns has fled awa',
Oh! wha, 'mang a' the minstrel thrang,
This pipe o' mine will ever blaw?”
Like angel song to shepherds sung,
A youthfu' shepherd heard the strain,
Wha aft amang the hills had strung
A harp, though rude, yet 'twas his ain!
Wi' trembling hand the pipe he took,
An' deftly he began to play,
While ilka glen an' fairy nook
Wi' echoes murmured back the lay.
A youthfu' shepherd heard the strain,
Wha aft amang the hills had strung
A harp, though rude, yet 'twas his ain!
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An' deftly he began to play,
While ilka glen an' fairy nook
Wi' echoes murmured back the lay.
He sang of Mary, Scotia's Queen,
Ere woe had dimmed her face sae fair;
What Mary's palace would hae been,
Had tyrants never lingered there!
He sang of Scotland bauld an' free—
Her stalwart sons and lasses braw—
Of social joy an' canty glee,
For, O! the pipe he weel could blaw!
Ere woe had dimmed her face sae fair;
What Mary's palace would hae been,
Had tyrants never lingered there!
He sang of Scotland bauld an' free—
Her stalwart sons and lasses braw—
Of social joy an' canty glee,
For, O! the pipe he weel could blaw!
The moorland wild, an' sunny glen,
The gloamin' hour, when lovers meet,
The stowan kiss that nane maun ken,
Were pictured in his sang sae sweet.
The Muse her laurel crown untied,
And bound the same his brows upon,
An' hailed him as her son, and cried,—
“This is the bard of Caledon!”
The gloamin' hour, when lovers meet,
The stowan kiss that nane maun ken,
Were pictured in his sang sae sweet.
The Muse her laurel crown untied,
And bound the same his brows upon,
An' hailed him as her son, and cried,—
“This is the bard of Caledon!”
Lang may his moorland whistle blaw,
An' lang may Scotia hear the sang;
Be it aye heard by greenwood shaw,
An' echoed hill an' dale amang!
And when the silent snaws o' eild
Thick o'er his head come stealing on,
Be his the snug and cozy bield,
To cheer the bard of Caledon!
An' lang may Scotia hear the sang;
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An' echoed hill an' dale amang!
And when the silent snaws o' eild
Thick o'er his head come stealing on,
Be his the snug and cozy bield,
To cheer the bard of Caledon!
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