Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
POEMS AND SONGS. |
Poems and Songs | ||
POEMS AND SONGS.
SONGS.
IN THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE.
An' nae Foreign fashions amang us had sprung;
When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain yill,
An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill;
O! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill!
Proud lords on the land, an' kings on the sea!
To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind,
An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find
The banner of Scotland float high in the wind!
By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang;
Our lads busked braw, an' our lasses looked fine,
An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine;
O! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne?
Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;
An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,
As it trotted alang through the valley or plain;
Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again?
Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk e'e;
An' the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to tine,
It was your stoup the nicht, an' the morn 'twas mine:
O! the days o' langsyne—O! the days o' langsyne.
THE SUMMER COMES.
As I hae seen wi' somebody;
The sunny hours gang cheerless by,
They dinna bring me somebody!
Oh! hey, for somebody.
He's ower the sea that's dear to me—
Oh! send me hame my somebody.
Are silent now for somebody!
And ilka wee bit birdie's sang
Seems mourning for my somebody.
I meet nae mair my somebody,
Nor at the gloaming hour of e'en,
I wander wi' my somebody.
They mind me o' my somebody;
For soon they'll take a sad farewell,
And leave me like my somebody.
Oh! hey, for somebody.
He's ower the sea that's dear to me—
Oh! send me hame my somebody.
LAMENT FOR THE BARDS.
That oft in joy was strung;
Alas! 'tis silent now,
And on the willows hung.
The balmy breath of morn
Awakes no more the strain,
And to the gloamin' gale
It kindles not again!
Who gave to song its fame—
Ah! whither have they fled,
The high of note and name?
Alas! not to the bowers
Of song, and summer fair,
But in the tuneless grave,
We mark the mighty there!
Across the evening sky,
Obscures in heavy gloom
The fair stars clust'ring high;
So came the cloud of death,
While yet we thought it day,
And in the gloom of night
Took all our stars away!
The valleys still be gay,
And down the sunny glen
The blackbird pour his lay;
But Scotia's harp no more
Swells in the vocal throng,
Nor heard the minstrel's voice
In rapture and in song!
O! THE FLOWERY MONTH OF JUNE.
The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods are green;
The streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune,
And nature smiles in summer pride, in the flowery month of June!
The earth is stamped with loveliness, and all around is fair.
There's glory on the mountain top, and gladness on the plain;
The flowers wake from their wintry bed, and blush in bloom again!
As, with a fond and longing look, I gaze once more on thee!
With all thy thousand spangling gems—a bright and blessed boon—
That come to cheer and welcome in the flowery month of June!
While lowly by the rose's cheek, the blackbird's singing there;
Or, in its leafy bowers unseen, the thrush bursts forth in song,
A low and pleasing melody the woody dells among!
No spring comes for the parted friends, nor summer to the dead!
I miss them at the calm of eve, or sunny hour of noon;
Nor morning songs awake the dead, in the flowery month of June!
BATTLE SONG.
Deep rolling on the wind,
While battle spears, in bright array,
Like lightning gleam behind!
And hearts of valour brave,
Hark! freedom's voice is on the gale,
'Tis—Vict'ry or a grave!
For doubly sinew'd strung
Is every arm, by vengeance stern,
Or song of freedom sung!
When winds are tempest high,
So slaves shall fall before the free—
Awake the battle-cry!
When 'gainst the free and fair,
With vaunting shout, dark foemen come
Our liberties to dare!
A laurell'd hero see:
A tyrant's sword, with vassal band,
Shall never match the free!
THE SIMMER SUN NOW BLINKS AGAIN.
The laverock seeks the morning sky,
The gowan glitters on the plain,
The daisy on the mountain high;
And blithe my laddie on the hill
Sings wi' a heart, save true love free;
His sang it seems to please me still,
Although I ken 'tis a' 'bout me!
He says without me he wad dee;
I bid him woo some ither ane,
But aye he fondly turns to me.
His voice is saftest on the lea,
I canna loe the laddie ill
That's aye sae unco fond o' me.
The mavis sings the braes amang,
And nature, in her happy round,
Is rife wi' music, mirth, an' sang.
Alake! my heart, whaur wilt thou gang?
'Tis no as it has been wi' thee!
To be sae coy is surely wrang,
The laddie's aye sae kind to me.
AE BONNIE DAY, AE SIMMER DAY.
As I gaed down the glen,
I heard an aged minstrel sing,
An' waesome was the strain.
Likewise the valley green,
I've come to tak' a parting look
Before I close my een.
Sae gladsome a', I trow;
Ye rin ower fast for aged feet,
I canna chase ye now.
Ye linties o' the lea,
For I maun hear your sangs nae mair
That aft hae charmed me!
An' it will sound nae mair;
The echoes o' the bosky dell
Are silent every where.
An' ilka canty tune,
When ance we find life's fleeting day
Far yont the afternoon.
Nor sing as we hae sung,
Yet wha wad care for turning auld
When nae friends now are young?
In joy gaed glintin' by,
The sun was aye upon the flowers,
Or glancin' in the sky.
Save Heaven, my only stay;
We grew thegither, now we fade,—
Twin brothers in decay!
HURRAH! FOR THE FOAMING SEA.
Hurrah! for the foaming sea;
The wave beneath, and the sky above,
And a parting smile from thee, my love!
And a parting smile from thee!
The lark in summer gay,
But the ocean-bird its music wild
Is piping night and day, my love!
Is piping night and day!
My lady-love, so true;
By sunny shores of fairest green,
'Neath skies of brightest blue, my love!
'Neath skies of brightest blue!
Or joy, when bosoms mourn?
But my soul is free, for a smile from thee
Tells of a gay return, my love!
Tells of a gay return!
AWAKE, DEAREST MADALINE.
This fair summer morning to view;
The sun's left his bed where the seas kiss the skies,
The lark his green couch 'mong the dew.
But the sun rising brightly, o'er nature, all gay,
On one fair as thee does not shine;
Nor voice of the morning lark, wakening the day,
Can equal the music of thine!
And modestly blush into day;
A joy and a gladness are over the earth,—
Arise, my sweet love, come away!
The summer appears, half in smiles, half in tears,
Thy beauty will heighten't the while:
The sweet little flower will outlive its short hour,
If thou on its fair blossoms smile!
With songs grove and glen loudly ring;
'Tis surely the season of love and of joy,
When summer is woo'd by the spring.
There's nothing awanting from pleasure like this,
Which nature gives fondly and free,
Save one to partake in the banquet of bliss,
And that one, fair Madaline, thee!
O! THOU BROOM, THOU BONNIE BUSH O' BROOM.
I leave that land and thee,
Where freedom and thou hae flourish'd lang,
Where freemen still are free!
And bright is the floweret's bloom,
But what are the flowers and the myrtle bowers,
If I miss my native broom?
And grow on a Foreign strand?
That I may think, when I look on thee,
I'm still in fair Scotland!
Though thou beside me sprang;
Nor though yon bird, to Scotia dear,
Did follow wi' its sang.
At morn thy flowers might blaw,
But it wadna be on Cowdenknowes,
Nor yet by Ettrick Shaw.
Thou bonnie, bonnie broom,
I maist could weep for days that are gane,
When I think on days to come!
And thou, sweet broom, a tear,
For I canna tak thee frae the braes
To which thou'st lang been dear.
I leave that land and thee,
Where freedom and thou hae flourish'd lang,
Where freemen still are free!
PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE.
Pity the chiels that are single;
For gude sake! tak pity on me,
I'm teased night and day wi' Jean Pringle.
For lasses I carena a preen,
My heart's my ain, an' I'm cheery,
An' were't na for that cutty Jean,
I'd sleep as soun' as a peerie!
For nane o't wad I gie a bodle;
But her's hauntin' me like a ghaist,
Is whiles like to turn my noddle!
She's wooers—but what's that to me?
They're walcome to dance a' about her;
Yet I like na her smiling sae slee
To lang Sandy Lingles the souter!
The lasses were a' busy spinnin';
I stoiter'd as if I'd been fou,
For Jeanie a sang was beginnin'.
I hae heard fifty maids sing,
Whiles ane, an' whiles a' thegither;
But nane did the starting tears bring,
Till she sang the “Braes o' Balquhither.”
I met wi' my auld aunty Beenie,
I looked as stupid's a stirk
When she simply said—“How is Jeanie?”
An' at e'en, when I, wi' the rest,
Was carritch'd, baith Larger and Single,
When speered—Wham we suld like best?
I stammer'd out—“Young Jeanie Pringle!”
To wair out my Hallowmans guinea,
When, wha suld I fa' in wi' there,
A' dinkit out finely—but Jeanie!
I couldna gang by her for shame,
I couldna but speak, else be saucy,
Sae I had to oxter her hame,
An' buy a silk snood to the lassie.
It's no but she's winsome and bonnie:
Her een, glancing 'neath gowden hair,
Are brighter, I daursay, than ony.
But pawkie een's naething to me,
Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin';
Folk speak about love—but they'll see
For ance, by my faith! they're mistaken.
I promised the lads a paradin',
I canna well hae't—let me see—
Unless I get up a bit waddin'.
I think I'll send ower for the clark,
He might cry us out the neist Sunday;
It's winter—we're nae thrang at wark,
Sae I think I'll just marry gin Monday!
NORWEGIAN SMUGGLER'S SONG.
The storm is loud and high,
And not a light, this livelong night,
Hath gleam'd athwart the sky;
And the seamew's heard—lone Ocean bird—
To scream most piteously.
And our hearts are bold and free,
And thus we sweep the troubled deep
By Norway's stormy sea;
And the winds may howl, as we onward trowl,
But dauntless men are we!
Though wild its waters roar;
Our danger's when we spy the land,
Or touch upon the shore—
For a hundred hands are ready there
To seize our sea-brought store!
Where the cliffs hang o'er the sea;
And a golden piece who brings us there,
His guerdon it shall be;
And sword in hand we'll quickly land,
Then launch again to sea!
For the tempest's strength is past;
And bravely hath our little bark
Borne out the bitter blast—
And see, the mainsheet loosely hangs
In ribbons round the mast!
And let him sing who pours—
“The winds, my lads, have had their song,
Now, messmates, we'll have ours!
Hurrah! hurrah! here's to the heart
That never shrinks nor cowers!”
'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.
That waking we sall never see;
Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!—
I thought we sat beside the burn
That wimples down the flowery glen,
Where, in our early days o' love,
We met that ne'er sall meet again!
And gladdened, wi' his parting ray,
The woodland wild and valley green,
Fast fading into gloamin' grey!
He talk'd of days o' future joy,
And yet my heart was haflins sair,
For when his eye it beamed on me,
A withering death-like glance was there!
That life was young and love was free,
For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
And hameward hied the janty bee!—
We pledged our love and plighted troth,
But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave,
When starting from my dream, I found
His troth was plighted to the grave!
And nought would do but silent mourn,
Were't no for dreams that should na come,
To whisper back my love's return;
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
WE'VE A BONNIE WEE FLOWER, IN A FAR COUNTRIE.
In a bright and sunny bower, in a far countrie,
Where the sky is ever fair,
And the myrtle scents the air,
O! our lovely blossom's there, in a far countrie!
And tent it ilka hour, in a far countrie;
And the nightingale's soft song,
The spicy groves among,
Its slumbers shall prolong, in a far countrie.
And gems and jewels rare, in a far countrie;
But the brightest, purest gem,
From a fondly cherished stem,
Is the flow'ret we could name, in a far countrie.
Nor traverse hill and plain, to a far countrie;
But when the primrose springs,
And the lintwhite sweetly sings,
O! we'll welcome hame our flower, from a far countrie!
MANOR BRAES.
And Castlehill's white wa's appear,
I spent ae day, aboon a' days,
By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
The purple heath was just in bloom,
And bonnie waved the upland broom,
The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
Or heedless wander'd at their will.
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
I met a maiden fair to see,
Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
'Twas bliss to look—to linger there!
Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
Wi' love to win, and sense to charm,
So much of nature, nought of art,
She'll live enthroned within my heart!
Aboon her head the laverock sang,
And 'neath her feet the wild flowers sprang—
O! let me dwell, where beauty strays,
By Manor stream, an' Manor braes.
Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
She said her heart frae love was free,
But aye she blushed wi' doun cast e'e.
The parting cam, as partings come,
Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;
Yet I'll return, ere many days,
To live and love 'mang Manor braes!
THE BONNIE BRAES OF SCOTLAND.
My blessings on them a',
May peace be found in ilka cot,
And joy in ilka ha'.
Whaure'er a beild, however laigh,
By burn or brae appears,
Be there the gladsome smile o' youth,
And dignity of years.
Sae blooming and sae fair,
There's mony a hame o' kindness
And couthie dwallin' there;
And mair o' warldly happiness
Than folk wad seem to ken,
For the leal and happy heart
Maks the canty but and ben.
Or walth seek to obtain,
Be 't 'mang the busy scenes o' life,
Or on the stormy main;
When the shepherd on his hill,
Or the peasant at his plew,
Finds sic a share o' happiness
Wi' unco sma' ado?
And sleety blasts may blaw,
Or, swirlin' round in whitening wreaths,
May drift the wintry snaw;
But the gloamin' star comes blinkin'
Afore he maist does ken,
And his wifie's cheerfu' smile
Maks the canty but and ben.
To my remembrance bring
The lang, lang simmer sunny day,
When life was in its spring;
When, 'mang the wild flowers wandering,
The happy hours went by,
The future wakening no a fear,
Nor yet the past a sigh.
Hame o' the fair and free,—
And hame it is a kindly word,
Whaure'er that hame may be—
My weary steps I'd fain retrace
Back to the sunny days,
When youthfu' hearts together joy'd
'Mang Scotland's bonnie braes.
THE MAID OF ALLAN.
On ev'ry flower the dew had fallen,
While I, to join in simmer's joy,
Strayed by the bonnie brig of Allan.
And there, in beauty's artless guise,
A maiden fair did blooming wander,
Pure as the morning light that lies
On Allan's stream o' sunny splendour.
Whaur ne'er a leaf was sered or fallen,
The sun flung gowd adown the cluds,
To please the bonnie maid of Allan.
Sweet bloomed the flowers in simmer bowers,
While birdies, in their leafy dwallin',
Together sang, an' echoes rang
For joy around the maid of Allan.
On bud an' blossom fondly callin',
But nature lists when she does sing,
For nane sing like the maid of Allan.
I canna boast of fortune's smile,
For aft her frown has on me fallen,
Yet walth could ne'er my care beguile
Like her, the bonnie maid of Allan.
Wi' her whose love could banish sorrow,
Then days would glide in blissfu' dream!
Wi' ne'er a dread of coming morrow.
I've wandered far by burn an' brae,
Through mony a Highland glen an' Lawlan',
But had I her that I wad hae,
'Twould be the bonnie maid of Allan!
THE TRYSTING HOUR.
Adown the glen the burnies rin,
Adown the glen my laddie comes
My love to seek, my heart to win.
What can a lassie say or do?
The Ay or No's a solemn word,
When faithfu' lovers come to woo.
The brow he's ca'd sae aften fair;
I'll try to quiet my anxious heart,
For, O! an unco flutt'ring's there.
Nae doubt but love would win the day,
But then, although sic were my thoughts,
I'd ne'er find words to tell him sae.
Then why to speak should I be slow?—
But there he comes: now say, fond heart,
Is it to be an Ay or No?
What can a lassie say or do?
The Ay or No's a solemn word,
When faithfu' lovers come to woo.
DEEP MOANED THE NIGHT.
Had quietly stown away,
As hame I journeyed 'neath my plaid
That's seen a better day:
The wind soughed loud, and aye the cauld
Gaed to my duntin' heart,
Yet still I sang—My auld grey plaid,
We twa sall never part.
But, like the faithless snaw,
When just about to seize the prize,
It melted fast awa'.
My lassie left me for a lout,
Whilk maist did break my heart;
But still I sang—My auld grey plaid,
We twa sall never part.
That ance was dear to me;
And mony a weel-kent face is gane,
That never mair I'll see!
For what is life, e'en at the best?
We meet but just to part!
And thou, my plaid, art maistly a'
That gathers round my heart!
THE DANCING WINE, THE DANCING WINE.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the dancing wine,
When hearts are high, and bright eyes shine,
Hurrah! hurrah! for the dancing wine!
Not gathered grape from Xerez' shore,
Nor purple juice, Oporto's store,
Not cooling Hock, from flowing Rhine,
Hurrah! hurrah! for the dancing wine!
The Claret quaffed to ladies fair,
The Champaign bright does mantling flow
To raise our joy or drown our woe;
While Hermitage, or Frontignan,
Awake the latent powers of man:
But give me nectar, all divine,
The dancing wine, the dancing wine!
Bring light wines from Italia's plains;
For critic sour, or lawyer stern,
Bring Rudesheim, or Haut Sauterne;
For those who would in wit excel,
The beverage of the blue Mozelle;
But I, who would in all things shine,
Give me, give me the dancing wine!
Not Vin de Grave nor Palatine,
Not Tuscan grape from Apennine—
O! no; but fill the dancing wine.
One draught—enough for every woe!
One draught—enough for all below!
One draught—enough for heaven divine!
Hurrah! hurrah! for the dancing wine!
O! WHAT IS THIS WORLD, WI' ITS WEALTH AND RENOWN.
If content is awanting ilk pleasure to crown?
And where that does dwell, be't in cot e'er sae low,
There's a joy and a gladness nae wealth can bestow.
Wi' its clean sandit floor, an' its but and its ben,
Where there's mair o' that peace whilk contentment aye brings,
Than is found in the palace o' Princes or Kings.
We canna behind us a' leave a bit name;
But this we can a' hae, and, O! 'tis na sma',
A heart fu' o' kindness, to ane and to a'!
For the langest that live can ne'er ca' it lang;
Then, since it is sae, make it pleasant the while;
If it gang by sae soon, let it gang wi' a smile.
While he that is lowly is safe frae it a'.
The flower blooms unscath'd in the valley sae deep,
While the storm rends the aik on its high rocky steep!
Is quietly to glide down the swift stream o' time;
And when the brief voyage in safety is o'er,
To meet with loved friends on the far distant shore!
THE MIRTH'S LEFT THE GLEN.
The auld steeple bell threatens aught hours at e'en—
A stoup o' the strongest bring speedily ben,
The night has a charm that the day doesna ken.
Wha flinch frae a tumbler when toddy's agaun;
The pith o' the bauldest let ilka ane shaw,
It's but a wee drap we can stand, after a'.
There's gowd for the getting to them wha've a mind,
There's a blink o' blithe sunshine in life's dullest day,
A n' the warld's no sae bad yet as some folk wad say!
We're dowie eneugh if we ance let grief in;
A cowart's a cowart the hale warld alang,
Sae stand to your glasses, and scrieve us a sang!
A CANTY SANG.
Will naebody gie us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
Less envy ye'd see, less anger and spite;
What saftens doun strife, and maks love mair strang,
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang?
They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum i' their mou';
The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu' thrang,
Suld learn to lilt to them a canty sang.
I'se gie ye a cure whilk never will fail,—
When their tongues get short an' their arms get lang,
Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang!
Your sair wordy bodies are no for me:
A wee dribble punch, gif it just be strang,
Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang!
Will naebody gie us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
THE HOUR IS COME, MY MARY DEAR.
That bids us part, an' part in sorrow;
A waefu' fare thee well is near,
Wi' nae blithe word to meet the morrow.
Fare thee well!
An' hearts that absence ne'er can alter;
As mine still constant is and true,
Though fausely thus my tongue does faulter,—
“Fare thee well!”
The broom, wi' yellow flowers, is waving;
But, ere its gowden blossoms fa',
Thy love will angry seas be braving.
Fare thee well!
Where wild-woods wave o'er streams the clearest,
But there's a voice within that says,—
“A lang adieu to thee, my dearest!”
Fare thee well!
AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY MAIR THAN ONY.
This day that, wi' pleasure, aye welcome returns;
For then was proclaimed o'er thy wilds, Caledoni,
The birth-day of genius—the birth-day of Burns!
The deeds of our fame sank in time's rapid river,
Auld Scotia sat wae, till his wild harp was strung;
That harp, whose sweet tones, O! they'll vibrate for ever
The strains that breathe freedom where'er they are sung!
The pastoral Allan, whose name is aye dear;
'And Ferguson, O! every heart will adore him,
And shed o'er his memory sympathy's tear:
And names that will shine in auld Scottish story,
Bright stars that give lustre to Fame's glittering sky;
But Burns, he arose, like the sun in his glory,
With splendour unrivalled, that never will die!
Soon closed was the hand that 'woke the sweet strain;
And soon was he laid on his low earthy pillow,
To charm and awaken us never again!
But still is he sung 'mong our glens and our mountains,—
For echo hath whispered his name to the air,—
And still is he heard by our sweet gurgling fountains,
And still, in our bosoms, he's permanent there!
Nae simmer smiled sweet when his birth-day was nigh;
He came 'mid the gloom of a bleak winter sky:
And sad was his fate, as the wild breeze around him,
And loud were his wails, as the stormy sea wave;
At the dawning of life, misfortune it found him,
And only departed when he reached the grave!
He whiles bade defiance to sorrow and care;
And aften the time slipped by unco cheery,
When friendship, unfeigned, was mingling there.
Then may the bright halo of friendship be ever
Around us, when this day aye welcome returns;
A day that, in Scotland, will pass away never,
Without being hailed as the birth-day of Burns!
ISING OF THE LAND OF AULD SCOTLAND.
Where pinewoods in majesty wave;
Her rocks the abode of the eagle,
Her dwellings the homes of the brave!
Our fathers! they feared no invader,
For quickly the sword or the gun,
With hands that could wield them, were ready
To fight for the fields they had won!
The land of the hill and the glen,
The land of the soft blooming maidens,
And land of the true-hearted men!
The country that's wedded to fame,
By patriots, heroes, and statesmen,
The high and the mighty of name!
Then pledge me success to auld Scotland:
She's fine, wad they let her alane;
For us, may we aye strive to follow
The footsteps of those that are gane!
Our valleys—may peace shelter there;
Our sons—be they generous and noble;
Our daughters—as good as they're fair!
Our moorlands—the home of the happy;
Our woodlands—the path of the free;
Our fond wish—the land of our fathers;
Our bumper—“Auld Scotland, to thee!”
The land of the hill and the glen,
The land of the soft blooming maidens,
And land of the true-hearted men!
COME, FILL MY WINE CUP.
The cup a hundred friends gave me;
And Captain Gray, I'll drink to him,
That's far upon the Grecian sea.
The south wind blows from Salamis—
The noble Vernon greets the gale,
And o'er the ocean wilderness
She spreads her sun-lit snowy sail!
Though waters swell, or loud winds blow,
Or though a hostile fleet was near,
Thou'dst fling thy thunders to the foe!
And foremost 'mong the strife of waves,
Or first amid the battle fray—
Where glory leads, or danger braves—
There would you find the gallant Gray!
That neither shrinks from friend or foe;
His bark through every sea has trowl'd—
Or India's heat, or Zembla's snow.
Come, fill the wine cup—pledge again,
From silver bright, the ruby wine—
Long live his sea-born lyric strain—
The honour his, the bumper mine!
The blue-eyed beauties of the land;
And while of noble sons to dare
She boasts a brave and numerous band—
So long shall proud hearts sweep the sea,
'Mid warring winds or ocean's spray;
So long this toast shall live to thee—
The good, the glorious, Captain Gray!
EMIGRANT'S SONG
That bears me far away,
From kindred, and the friends I love—
Alas! and lose for aye!
And soon my native hills and glens,
Now robed in summer's hue,
Shall vanish like a passing thought
That memory never knew!
As struggling to be free;
And ocean, with its thousand waves,
Will soon my dwelling be:
For every sound that greets mine ear,
Of parting seems to tell;
And wavelets, rippling to the shore,
Half-whisper—“Fare thee well!”
Now dazzles in my sight,
And ne'er, until this hour, appeared
So lovely and so bright!
And yet a saddening thought awakes
My bosom's every pain,
For ne'er, in gladness nor in gloom,
Shall I see her again!
Thou native spot of mine!
Where maiden charms, and manly worth,
In happy blendings shine.
Ye bright blue skies, that circle in
Romantic Scotia's shore,
I leave you for the murky cloud
And gathering tempest's roar!
The wildest, sweetest strain;
I may not, will not, cannot touch
Thy thrilling chords again,—
Since her I leave, whose heavenly name
Thy silver tones well know:
In joy I might of Mary sing,
But not in maddening woe!
THE QUEEN OF MERRY ENGLAND.
What Queen so loved as she?
A gallant band she may command,
In all her kingdoms three;
And there the smile of beauty
Still falls upon the free:
O! the Queen of merry England,
What Queen so loved as she?
O! the Queen of merry England, &c.
The Rose upon its stem,
Shall twine with Erin's Shamrock
Around her diadem;
Shall ne'er forgotten be.
O! the Queen of merry England,
What Queen so loved as she?
O! the Queen of merry England, &c.
When sounds the battle drum,
With hearts of fire and swords of flame
A thousand warriors come,
To drive from land her foemen,
Or sweep them from the sea!
O! the Queen of merry England,
What Queen so loved as she?
O! the Queen of merry England, &c.
AWAY TO THE WOODLANDS.
The morning is bright and the valleys are green,
The glad smile of nature shall welcome you there,
Of fond hearts the dearest, of beauty the Queen.
Away to the woodlands, the winter is gone,
The green earth is budding in summer's array,
The blackbird is singing, in deep mellow tone,
Away to the woodlands, Eliza, away!
The sun's on the lake, and the lark's in the sky;
And, if the young rose is bedew'd with a tear,
'Tis the soft tear of gladness, the dew-drop of joy.
Away to the woodlands, and there we shall roam
Till the sun woo the Ocean at calm evening's close:
Your heart is my treasure, your bosom my home,
And there all my fond hopes in safety repose.
AGAIN THE DAY.
To Scotia ever dear, returns,
(O! it demands your noblest lay,)
That gave to Caledonia Burns!
A day that we shall ne'er forget,
As lang as we hae breath to draw;
For we will drink the memory yet
Of Burns, the bard, that's now awa'.
His sangs, how aften they'll be sung;
His sterling sense aye charms the auld,
His playfu' strains aye please the young.
But spread through ilka English ha',
His fame, in Foreign lands, has rung—
The fame o' him that's now awa'.
Hae rais'd themsels to heights o' fame!
The patriots, guardians o' our land,
The poet an' the warrior's name!
To these, ilk Scotsman proudly turns
Wi' fondest pride, wi' deepest awe;
But Nature only made one Burns,
The proudest name the warld e'er saw.
While years, insidious, steal away,
To celebrate the birth of Burns,
Some social few shall meet this day.
Then raise the cup, with heartfelt joy,
Though haply in 't a tear may fa',
An' drink it to the memory
Of Burns, the bard, that's now awa'!
FARE THEE WELL.
But, O! let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine—believe me!
My love for thee will last for ever;
I leave thee—but thy image dear,
Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
One farewell smile before we sever;
The only balm for parting woe
Is—fondly hope 'tis not for ever.
Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
But, O! let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine—believe me!
SONG.
[They will come! they will come! the bright flowers]
In sunlight and beauty all gay;
But they bring not the fond happy hours,
Nor music of years passed away!
Its songs and its sweet flowery bloom;
But now I behold it with sadness—
It wakes not the sleep of the tomb!
That gladdened life's blithe early day—
The young and the gay have departed,
The loved and the leal are away!
And summer has blossoms in store,
But rather the wintry winds raving,
When friendship and love are no more!
O! BID THAT SUN NOT SHINE SO BRIGHT.
In yonder summer sky;
His glancing beams, on woods and streams,
Mind me of days gone by.
Or rock, by stormy shore;
Why does he shine, since Madaline
Now smiles on me no more?
That truth was ever true,
Nor thought I that a form so fair
Or change or coldness knew:
My dream of joy is o'er,
For Madaline, once true and kind,
Now smiles on me no more!
Thy light I still could see,
Did it bring forth a flower as fair,
One half so fair as she.
Like woman's love—soon o'er;
O! do not shine, since Madaline
Now smiles on me no more!
YOUNG WILLIE, THE PLOUGHMAN.
An' yet the blithe callant's as crouse as a king;
He courts his ain lass, an' he sings a sang till her,
Tak tent, an' ye'se hear what the laddie does sing:—
“O! Jenny, to tell that I lo'e you 'fore ony,
Wad need finer words than I've gatten to tell;
Nor need I say to ye, Ye're winsome and bonnie,—
I'm thinkin' ye ken that fu' brawly yoursel!
I've courted you, thinkin' ye yet wad be mine;
And, if we should marry wi' only ae shilling,
At the warst, only ae shilling, Jenny, we'se tine.
But love doesna aye lie in gowpens o' guineas,
Nor happiness dwall whaur the coffers are fu';
As muckle we'll surely aye gather atween us,
That want ne'er sall meet us, nor misery pursue.
Ken nought o' the pleasure that hard labour brings;
What in idleness comes they in idleness squander,
While the labouring man toils a' the lang day and sings!
Then why should we envy the great an' the noble,
The thocht is a kingdom—it's ours what we hae!
A boast that repays us for sair wark an' trouble,
‘I've earned it!’ is mair than a monarch can say.
The sun, at a breath, drinks the hale morning dew,
An' nature is glad at the comin' o' simmer,
As glad as I'm aye at the smiling o' you.
The flowers are a' springing, the birds are a' singing,
An' beauty an' pleasure are wooin' the plain;
Then let us employ it, while we may enjoy it,
The simmer o' life, Jenny, comes na again!”
OF BESSY BELL AN' MARY GRAY.
Wha hasna heard, wha hasna sung?
Twa bonnie—but it's mony a day
Sin' they were blooming, fair, an' young.
Ae lass, gude sooth, is plenty, O,
For ony douce an' sober man;
Yet, though I'm baith, I've gatten twa,—
My Maggie an' my Mary Ann.
As e'er gaed barefit through a glen;
I'd toast her in anither glass,
Though I before had tippled ten:
E'en, after that, I'd aiblins brew,
Did strength permit, anither can,
An' drink to—Maggie?—no!—to you,
My bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann.
I dream o' Mary a' the night:
Maggie's the sun's bright shining ray,
Mary the moon's pale modest light.
How happy could I be wi' baith,
Or either, as the auld sang sings;
But, as it is, I'll tak my aith,
Nor day nor night me gladness brings.
That in the valley blooms sae fair;
Mary the primrose wild, that grows
'Mang sweetest flowers, the sweetest there.
My Maggie fair, for you I'd dee,
My face, you see, is pale an' wan;
But I maun live, to gaze a wee
On bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann!
SHE'S AWA', SHE'S AWA', I LO'E DEAR.
She's awa', she's awa', I lo'e dear,
Far, far o'er the main,
To return ne'er again,
Our ain happy valley to cheer, to cheer,
Our ain happy valley to cheer.
Nae mair on the bright simmer e'en
Will the young join in praise,
And the auld stand and gaze,
As they did when she walked on the green, on the green,
As they did when she walked on the green.
There was joy on the white ocean faem,
When she went from our sight
Like a vision of light,
But an unco heart-breaking at hame, at hame,
But an unco heart-breaking at hame!
The lily ance mair woos the plain,
But my sweet modest flower
To her ain native bower
Returns, oh! never again, again,
Returns, oh! never again!
THE MARINER TO HIS BARK.
That thou chaf'st thus thy keel on the sand?
Then, away! for I love to career it with thee,
Far away, far away from the land.
We shall traverse where nought meets the eye,
Save the green wave, or high flashing spray;
Where no sound, save the wild wheeling sea-bird's lone cry,
Screaming welcome to us on our way.
That shall waft us o'er yon summer sea;
By the sun, bright and clear, our wild course we shall steer,
And the stars our night compass shall be.
Then, away! my swift bark, o'er the deep,
Bound along o'er the vast rolling main;
Like an eagle across the broad wave thou wilt sweep,
And return to thine eyry again.
Where no haven of shelter was nigh;
Thou hast plunged thy bold prow in each wave of the sea,
Spread thy white flag beneath every sky.
Is there bliss to be found in this world?
O! that bliss I can tell where to find,—
On thy deck, my tight bark, with thy sails all unfurled,
And thou shooting away 'fore the wind!
That our loved ocean wand'rings were o'er;
Unheeded, I sank in the dark stormy deep,
And thou lay a frail wreck on the shore!
But away with such visions as these,
When thy true helm I thus grasp again;
Thou art leaving behind thee thy track on the seas,
And our home is the far distant main!
AWAKE THE SONG.
In strains of joy the chords shall swell;
Save when the tones breathe notes of woe
At friendship's close, or love's farewell!
When music's tones the past recall,
And picture forth the past again
In glowing tints, 'mid sunshine all!
To steal in dreams to hours gone by;
When those have met who ne'er shall meet,
And hearts now low, then mantled high!
Rejoice when freed from winter's thrall;
So music comes when those who sing
The lov'd and lovely we may call!
In strains of joy the chords shall swell;
Save when the tones breathe notes of woe
At friendship's close, or love's farewell!
THE EMIGRANTS' WELCOME.
From the glens of old Scotland, the pride of the North;
And we, though away o'er the dark roaring main,
Can think of our dear native mountains again.
In the fond ties of friendship our brothers they come;
And loud though around them the ocean may roar,
The pilgrims shall rest when the journey is o'er!
Where the heather is red, and the thistle waves free;
Where the primrose grows wild, and the brier is in bloom,
To the dark winter forests of Canada gloom.
With age in its night, and youth in its noon;
And soft blooming maidens, all lovely to see,
The joy of the brave, and the pride of the free!
A welcome we'll give them, as we got before;
We'll banish their sorrow if they should repine,
When they think on the “Scotland o' bonnie langsyne!”
To warm and to welcome the wand'rers that mourn;
And though different the sky and the landscape around,
Oh! 'tis home, oh! 'tis country, where kindness is found!
O! THIS WERE A BRIGHT WORLD.
Most pleasant and gay,
Did love never languish,
Nor friendship decay;
And pure rays of feeling,
That gladden the heart—
Like sunshine to nature—
Did never depart!
To fond hearts no pain;—
Did hope's buds all blossom—
All blooming remain!
No sorrow to blighten,
No care to destroy;
O! then what a bright world
Of gladness and joy!
Nor distance remove
The friends that we cherish—
The fond ones we love—
A sky never clouded,
Nor darkened by woe—
O! then how serenely
Life's streamlet would flow!
Nor brought in its train
The mem'ry of joys fled,
That come not again—
O! then what a bright world—
All gladsome and gay—
Did love never languish,
Nor friendship decay.
WE CANNOT LIVE OUR DAYS AGAIN.
But we can dream them o'er;
Thus nightly visions, free from pain,
Youth's sunny hours restore;
And, oh! who would not prize the past,
To love—to memory dear;
The golden moments could not last,
But they in dreams appear.
Though summer's taken wing—
The rose-bud, 'mid the wintry wild,
Comes like a dream of spring,
Till, 'neath some blast it bows and breaks
In beauty's sad decay,
And 'mid fond dreams the morning wakes
To chase them all away.
BONNIE LASSIE, FAIREST LASSIE.
Dear art thou to me;
Let me think, my bonnie lassie,
I am loved by thee!
I speak na of thy ringlets bright,
Nor of thy witching e'e;
But this I'll tell thy bonnie sel',
That dear art thou to me.
Yet, though that beauty's thine,
I love na thee for beauty's sake,
'Tis just I wish thee mine.
Thy smile might match an angel's smile,
Gif such, save thee, there be,
Yet though thy charms my bosom warms,
I'll tell na them to thee.
Thy form is winsome fair;
But when for lang thou'st heard that sang,
O! wherefore hear it mair?
Thy voice, saft as the hymn of morn,
Or evening's melody,
May still excel, as a' can tell,
Then, wherefore hear't frae me?
Think na 't strange o' me,
That, when thy beauty's praised by a',
That I should silent be!
For wha can praise what nane can praise?
Yet, lassie, list to me,—
Give me thy love, and in return
I'll sing thy charms to thee!
WILLIE MILLAR O' THE GLEN.
The first o' friends, the wale o' men,
Ye'll meet wi' few sae leal an' true
As Willie Millar o' the glen!
Wha dinna ken him, dinna ken,
The ae best friend to age an' youth,
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
For keekin' into things far ben,
Ye'll wait a while or ye meet ane
Like Willie Millar o' the glen!
Auld-warld stories nine or ten;
His fame through a' the kintra gangs,
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
Sae Willie wields them wi' his pen;
Ye'd better tak him at his word,
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
The swankest cry, when he does sten',
“The deil's put lightning in his heels!”
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
When folk are unco grieved, ye ken;
Or foremost at the bridal glee,
'Tis Willie Millar o' the glen!
He has them at his finger en',
He might been ranked amang the clarks,
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
At bicker or at tappit hen,
Losh! how his e'e does kindle up,
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen!
The first o' friends, the wale o' men,
Ye'll meet wi' few sae leal an' true
As Willie Millar o' the glen!
This little jeu d'esprit referred to my late valued friend, William Millar, Esq. author of the “Fairy Minstrel,” &c. who, with a number of other bards, dear to Scotland, has, since the song was written—
O! COME, MY LASSIE, CALDER BANKS
Are blooming fresh an' green,
Wi' sun an' shower—there's mony a flower
Where snawy wreaths hae been!
The primrose blooms upo' the brae,
The lily by the burn,
The sun shines wi' a downward glent,
An' nature's smiles return!
Fa's on the balmy air,
Wi' singin' din the streamlets rin,
And a', like you, is fair.
Then come, my lassie, come wi' me,
Adown yon birken shaw,
Where breezes frae the bowers o' spring
In simmer saftness blaw.
An' warbles, dimly seen,
The mavis learns his simmer sang
Amang the leaves sae green.
O! Calder banks are dear to me,
For there, in love's fond hour,
Ye blossom'd forth, my lassie fair,
Young beauty's purest flower!
THE TAX-GATHERER.
Ye're weel aff wha ken naething 'bout him ava:
They ca' him Inspector, or Poor's Rates Collector—
My faith! he's weel kent in L---, P--- M'C---.
He ca's, and he comes again—haws, and he hums again;
He's only ae hand, but it's as gude as twa;
He pu's 't out an' raxes, an' draws in the taxes,
An' pouches the siller—shame! P--- M'C---.
On Tyesday ye're favour'd again wi' a ca';
E'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last Sunday,
Whilk meant—“Mind the preachin' an' P--- M'C---.
He keeks through the keyhole when I am awa';
He'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it
To “Blisse God for a' giftes,”—but P--- M'C---.
That yours, for a wonder, 's the first on the raw!
There's nae jinkin' P---, nae antelope's fleeter—
Nae cuttin' acquantance wi' P--- M'C---.
'Twas just Friday e'enin', Auld Reekie I'd been in,
I'd gatten a shillin'—I maybe gat twa;
I thought to be happy wi' friends ower a drappie,
When wha suld come pap in—but P--- M'C---.
Oh P--- tak pity, and some mercy shaw!
I yince had a hunder o' notes—do ye wonder?—
Hae ye made as mony yet? P--- M'C---!
My yill stands nae mair in yon auld girded barrel,
The rattans sit squeakin' in nooks o' the wa';
Nae bonnie lass now bakes for me scon or farle—
Ye've made a toom house to me! P--- M'C---.
An' roun' her frail timmers the angry winds blaw;
I've aften gat kindness unlook'd for frae strangers,
But wha need houp kindness frae P--- M'C---?
I've kent a man pardon'd when just at the gallows,
I've kent a chiel honest whase trade was the law!
I've even kent fortune's smile fa' on gude fallows,
But I ne'er kent exceptions wi' P--- M'C---!
Our shippies hae left us, our trade is awa';
There's nae fair maids strayin', nae wee bairnies playin',
Ye've muckle to answer for! P--- M'C---.
But what gude o' grievin' as lang's we are leevin',
My banes I'll sune lay within yon kirk-yard wa';
There nae care shall press me, nae taxes distress me,
For there I'll be free frae thee,—P--- M'C---.
WHAT MEANS A' THIS SCORNING, MY LASSIE?
An' what mean thae looks o' disdain?
It wasna your wont to be saucy,
It isna your nature, I ken.
Langsyne, when we met 'mang the breckan,
You laughed the young simmer day by;
But now, sin' this turn ye hae taken,
Ye've grown unco scornfu' and shy!
Be frank, just at ance, now, an' tell;
I'll deave ye nae mair, lass, about it,
Gin I be the loved ane mysel.
An' buy you a braw prentit goun;
An', faith! ye'se appear the niest Sunday
The fairest young bride in the toun.
An' gie me a kind look the while;
Leave them to be frowning and saucy
Whase faces were ne'er made to smile.
I'm but a puir hand at beseeching,
And words hae nae mony to spare;
Sae I'll mak a short end o' the preaching,
Gin ye will but listen the prayer!
AWAKE, MY HARP, THY SAFTEST LAY.
And, O! let love be a' the strain,
While ower thy strings I deftly play
Till echo bring the notes again!
An' sing how Peggie's blooming, fair,
An' tell how Peggie's loving, kind;
The sweetest form an' simplest air,
The warmest heart an' noblest mind.
But, 'neath their darts, young love-beams play
Like streaks of morn, that usher in
The splendours o' the coming day.
Her waving ringlets glossy hing,
Her neck is pure as snaw new driven;
Her eyebrows nane daur ever sing,
They seem the pencil-wark o' heaven!
The wee birds round her beauty thrang;
And, when she smiles, the infant day
Awakes a' nature into sang.
Where'er she strays there I'll be found,
For I will follow in her train,
Until the happy time come round
That lovely Peggie's a' my ain.
THOU WEARY MORN.
And yet nae gladness comes wi' day;
But day an' night I mourning sigh
For loved hours fled an' joys away.
My laddie was the kindest swain,
An' sought my heart wi' a' his skill,
An' yet I've tint that lad sae true
Wi' woman's pride an' woman's will.
It wasna but I thought him kind,
But just that silly pride o' heart
That lovers shouldna ever mind.
He tauld me that my heart was proud,
An' what he said was maybe true;
But little does my laddie ken
How humbled low that heart is now!
To see if he would look at me,
But ne'er a blink gat I frae him,
Although the tear stood in my e'e.
An' when the preachin'-time was done,
Ilk lassie had her lover gay,
While I gaed dowie hame alane,
An', O! it was a weary way!
Although his nest's deep in the glen;
Sae, though my withered hopes are low,
They maybe yet will rise again!
The sun behind the cloud does shine,
Although his face we dinna see;
Sae my dear lad may yet prove kind,
Although it a' seems dark to me!
THERE'S PLEASURE WHEN THE MORNING SUN.
And shines on the flowerets a' blushing in the dew;
When the starnies in the blue lift in dimness fade away,
And the little singing birdies their sangs a' renew.
But no the sun o' morn, though in brightness he appear,
And simmer in gladness come ower the flowery lea,
Can gie me sic delight as a smile frae my dear,
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me!
Her ringlets the slae-berries o' the jetty dye;
Her neck sae round and sma', is the bonnie lily flower,
Her een the dewy pearls in its bosom that lie.
And sweet is the blackbird singin' on the tree;
But the voice o' my lassie a sweeter music brings,
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me!
When his flocks on the green braes are a' feeding by;
The bard loves to wander beneath the smiling moon,
When the wind scarcely breathes through the blue e'ening sky.
The bee loves the wild flowers adown the glen that blaw,
The lammie the gowan that blossoms on the lea;
Sae I lo'e my bonnie lassie, the fairest of a',
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me!
I sigh na for walth, sin' it never can be mine;
Could riches bring me joy, or my sorrows beguile,
Like the jewel that I prize an' never shall tine?
Her beauty's but the image o' her pure heart within,
The language o' her soul it is tauld in her e'e;
And her love mair than gowd I will ever seek to win,
The love o' my lassie that's dearest to me!
ON SIMMER NIGHTS, WHEN SAFT WINDS BLAW.
An' flowers on ilka bank are seen,
To throw the bowl, or toss the ba',
The lads assemble on the green;
But bolder sport is ours, I ween—
The gay, the gallant, and the free—
When winter comes, in siller sheen,
A merry band o' curlers, we!
'Tis crisping ower the moorland burn,
'Mid frozen rigs the plough does sleep,
Till wakening spring again return.
An' to the ice-ground quickly flee;
We'll play them yet a souple turn,
An' up the rink bear aff the gree!
We'll guard, or draw, or wick a bore—
Fair play, an' clear the ice o' snaw,
We'll leave them lagging on hog-score!
And now the gallant game is o'er:
Hurrah! we've beat them ten to three!
Now, let us join in social splore,
A merry band of curlers, we!
Or, listen to this toast o' mine,—
Here's “Icy winters, sax weeks lang,
Sic winters as we've seen langsyne!”
O, wha our manly sport wad tine?
O, wha wad miss our canty glee?
Be't nappy ale or sparkling wine,
A merry band o' curlers, we!
O! THE GOWAN'S IN THE GLEN.
And through the budding birken tree the simmer breezes blaw,
And my heart is wi' my lassie, though my lassie's gane frae me,
O! my heart is wi' my lassie, for where else could it be!
But sweeter far my fairest, wi' her een o' clearest blue;
I'll welcome hame my lassie, for she's been lang frae me,
Ye'll get a blink o' beauty when ye my lassie see!
Where the bonnie streamlets play, and the singin' burnies rin;
Where the laverock is piping his music in the cluds,
And the blackbird is pouring his wild notes in the woods!
Her smile to nature's loveliness it adds anither charm;
O! the gowan's in the glen, an' the lily's on the lea,
An' my heart is wi' my lassie, where'er my lassie be!
AGAIN LET'S HAIL THE CHEERING SPRING.
That now returns, an' a' that;
The little birds now gladly sing
Their artless notes, for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Bleak winter's fled, an' a' that;
Nae mair we see the leafless tree,
For verdure blooms ower a' that.
That dreary seemed, an' a' that,
Hae now become the shepherd's home,
Wha envies nane, for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Real grandeur we may ca' that;
Content does smile, an' fraud an' guile
Ne'er enters there, for a' that.
Adorns the banks, an' a' that;
The daisy lifts its crimson head
Amang the braes, for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
For Nature's hand maks braw that;
Art still may try, but when will 't vie
Wi' Nature's sel', in a' that?
An' seed fu' thrang does saw that;
He dreads nae harms, nor war's alarms,
For peace smiles sweet ower a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
Lang may 't abide, for a' that:
Now sword an' spear the ground uptear,
As men of old foresaw that!
Her ancient worth, an' a' that;
Ilk knavish plot may she disdain,
An' slavery keep awa' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Her rights there's nane shall thraw that;
May peace an' wealth, an' joy an' health,
Reign ower her plains, for a' that!
THE TRUMP OF WAR HATH CEASED TO BLOW.
And Britain has no more a foe;
The sword is sheathed that Scotia drew,
That gleamed so red on Waterloo.
That morn in darkness rose the sun,
And darkly, too, our weapons shone;
And lightning's flash displayed to view
The blood-stained field of Waterloo.
But night beheld the warriors low;
At morn they marched o'er spangled dew,
At night they bled on Waterloo.
But closed in death the victors lie;
Yet the sun shall take his last adieu,
Ere the fame shall cease of Waterloo!
Shall Scotia's warriors hear the strain;
They sleep, but not on their mountains blue,
The heroes' bed is Waterloo!
Britannia weeps for many a son,
And a wail is heard in Caledon
For the gallant youths, so brave and true,
Who, fighting, fell on Waterloo!
BLITHE, BLITHE, WE'LL A' BE MERRY.
Let social harmony prevail;
Wha wad care for port or sherry,
Whan they've Scotia's nappy ale?
It gies new vigour to the mind;
It stilleth strife to rise nae mair,
An' friendship's social link does bind.
A bicker rouse a sang or tale;
Sae let us be as we hae been,
For here's the nappy—here's the ale!
The land o' mountain, muir, and dale;
The land where freedom's star does gleam,
The land o' cakes and nappy ale!
Let social harmony prevail;
Wha wad care for port or sherry,
Whan they're Scotia's nappy ale?
PARODY.
Scots wham whisky's aft made glad;
Welcome, for the duty's fled,
And it shall be free!
Now's the time and now's the hour!
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour—
Pledge it three-times-three!
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
When the whisky's free!
Wha for Scotia's ancient drink
Will fill a bicker to the brink?
Scotsmen wake, or Scotsmen wink,
Aquavitæ aye for me!
By the smuggler's ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
For it shall be free!
Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whisky flow!
Like liberty, aye free!
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne,
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Was't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose where thy leaves withered lie.
But, alas! soon thou'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair,
Yet I'll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.
AWA', YE CAULD LOVERS!
Ye seek na to taste o' the charms that ye sing;
Gie me the sweet lassie, baith modest an' free,
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me!
Wha, saving her beauty, could boast naething mair?
I'll tell ye, the lass that mine ain lass would be,
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me!
I'd quarrel nae meikle though she had the pence!
Nae doubt, had she nane, it were better, I say,
But whan will folk get a' thing just as they'd hae?
An' dance wi' wild gladness when joy did return;
A cheek that is fair, and an e'e that is blue,
I'll speak na o' beauty—I've felt it ere noo.
Gude keep me frae wranglings an' janglings o' men!
The dear ties o' love an' warm friendship be mine,
Where manly hearts glow an' where lovely eyes shine.
Wha'd prize sae its beauty gif nane durst it pu'?
An' O! durst I pu' my ain floweret sae fair,
I'd place't in my bosom, an' bid it grow there!
I'd tent it as suns do the roses that blaw:
O! gie me my lassie, baith modest an' free,
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me!
THE BOATIE'S ROWING OWER THE DEEP.
An' hastening to the shore;
O! guard it frae ilk rocky steep,
Or ocean's angry roar!
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows ashore;
Lightsome be the sailor's heart,
When a' his toils are o'er.
Rich laden frae the sea,
But Willie coming in the boat
Is mair than gowd to me!
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows ashore;
Lightsome be the sailor's heart,
When a' his toils are o'er.
Wi' sleety blasts an' rain,
I thought upon my Willie's ship,
Far drifting ower the main:
But the boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows ashore;
Lightsome be the sailor's heart,
When a' his toils are o'er.
To gar the tempest roar,
I carena now, let them rave on,
Sin' he is safe on shore.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows ashore;
Lightsome be the sailor's heart,
When a' his toils are o'er.
AGAIN MY NATIVE COT APPEARS.
My early haunts appear in view:
How mony days, how mony years,
Hae fled, sin' last I gazed on you!
The bonnie woods are waving green,
An' flowers are blooming, just as fair
As if the simmer aye had been,
Sin' last I took my fareweel there!
There blossoms still the hawthorn tree,
But, ah! where are the voices dear
That 'neath its shade aye welcomed me?
The burnie rins as blithe alang
As it was wont in days bygane,
An', hark! there's still the blackbird's sang,
But, ah! I'm listening till't my lane!
I've pondered mony an hour an' day;
An' aften, 'mang yon braes, I've strayed
Wi' playmates, happy, young, and gay.
An' did I their glad faces see,
By sunny knowe or lanely glen,
(For ilka spot is dear to me!)
I'd think my boyhood come again!
Lang past, though crowding into mind;
What sad emotions memory brings,
When nought save memory's left behind!
The birds, when simmer flees awa',
A' sympathize in plaintive strain;
But wha marks here these tears that fa'
For days lang fled, an' friends lang gane!
DUMFERLINE TOUN.
An' wha says that it isna bonnie?
For gin we had again braw kings o' our ain,
It would lift up its head yet wi' ony.
O, Dumferline toun is a bonnie, bonnie toun,
An' it tells o' auld Scotland's grandeur;
For within it, langsyne, kings “drank the bluid red wine,”
While their queens 'mang its bonnie braes did wander.
Will ony ane daur to deride thee?
Thou place of ancient name, which kings aye made their hame,
And now they're a' sleeping beside thee!
In yonder palace, auld now and hoary;
An' there Bruce did ponder ower his country's wae,
How he'd achieve her freedom, fame, and glory!
Wi' green woods thy valleys lining;
An' the sun shines sae gay on ilka turret grey,
As if for thee alane he was shining.
O, Dumferline toun, thou art still a bonnie toun,
An' thy braes are as bonnie as ever;
But the gowan's pu'd nae mair by the princely bairnies fair,
And our gallant chiefs hae left thee a' thegither.
An' thy queens nae langer would tarry;
But there's still a lovely queen near thy palace to be seen,
An' I ca' her my bonnie “Queen Mary!”
O, Dumferline toun, an' my Mary's toun,
Though the fates hae caused us to sever,
Let days be as I've seen, an' let Mary aye be queen,
An' I'll be her subject for ever!
MY LOVE IS NO FOR GOWD.
An' neither is't for house nor lan';
It's a' for her, my charming fair,
My bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann!
On the loch below white swims the swan;
But Mary's hand is fairer still,
The lily hand o' Mary Ann!
Their crimson leaves the saft winds fan;
But Mary's cheek wad shame them a',
The bloomin' cheek o' Mary Ann!
Frae John-o'-Groat's-House to Japan,
But fairer maid they ne'er hae seen
Than bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann!
BY ROSLIN'S ANCIENT TOWERS.
Where Esk steals slowly to the sea,
'Twas there ae morn in simmer,
My bonnie lassie fled frae me.
Nae smile then—beguiled then
A heart ower aften filled wi' care,
But, eerie, an' weary,
I sighed for her I saw nae mair:
An' sought her 'mang the woods an' glens,
Where bonnie wild flowers blooming sprang,
An' wandered by the tinklin' burns
That echoed ilka birdie's sang.
Nane could forget that ever saw,
A form that had nae equal
In lowly cot or lordly ha'.
Within her presence aye was found,
Sae cheering—endearing,
Was ilka smile she coost around.
I said her een were saftly blue,
Than jewels rare they brighter shone,
But nane had seen a face sae fair,
Though it seemed made for gazing on.
To find her out I gat a sign,
For, round her ivyed window,
Birds sang mair sweet, flowers bloomed mair fine.
There, peering—careering,
The laverock waked the blushing day,
Inviting—delighting,
The blackbird sang his e'enin' lay.
Twas there, in beauty's guise, I found
The lass for whom a' else I'd tine;
An' now, on earth, what seek I mair?
I've found this bonnie lass o' mine!
O GIN I HAD A KEEKIN' GLASS.
I then might see my bonnie lass;
O gin I had a keekin' glass,
To keek at my love's window.
For cowart love has made me shy;
I canna look as I gae by,
Nor blink up to her window.
Ane might hae gazed wi' heedless air,
But ae glance—I could thole nae mair—
Clean killed me at her window.
For a' that e'er was looked upon;
Nae Indian worshippeth the sun
As I'd do at her window.
An' round it mony a jet lock hings,
Her face wad draw a sigh frae kings,
Gif they gaed by her window.
O gin I had a keekin' glass,
To see my bonnie charming lass;
O gin I had a keekin' glass,
To keek at my love's window.
LET GALLED GREECE.
An' ither lands enslaved, complain;
Gie us that spot—for it's our ain—
They ca' it Caledonia.
Whilk nane shall e'er wrench from our hand,
For Burns bade ilka Scotsman stand
Or fa' wi' Caledonia.
Be it aye marked for social mirth;
Let latest ages o' the earth
Aye hail't in Caledonia!
The land that's named in ilka tongue;
Where Bruce has fought, an' Burns has sung,
The land o' Caledonia.
Thy face was dowie, douf, an' wae;
Few o' thy minstrels tuned a lay
In praise o' Caledonia.
How beauty wept when lovers fell?
Till Burns awoke the harp's wild swell,
An' sang o' Caledonia!
'Bout blithsome lads an' lasses fair;
An' nappy, famed for killin' care,
When brewed in Caledonia.
Ilk valley green an' mountain blue,
Whaur flowers before unheeded grew,
A' dear to Caledonia.
Begun in care and closed in pain:
It paused—then faintly thrilled again,
An' whispered—“Caledonia!”
We owe to him our highest fame;
For, when we're mentioned wi' acclaim,
'Tis—“Burns an' Caledonia!”
JANET AN' ME.
O, wha are sae happy as Janet an' me?
We're baith turning auld, and our walth is sune tauld,
But contentment ye'll find in our cottage sae wee.
She spins the lang day when I'm out wi' the owsen,
She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough;
And aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil,
As up the lang glen I come wearied I trow!
She's darnin' the stockings when I sole the shoon;
Our cracks keep us cheery—we work till we're weary,
An' syne we sup sowans when ance we are done.
When I'm i' the stable she's milkin' the kye;
I envy not kings when the gloamin' time brings
The canty fireside to my Janet an' I.
That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa';
We've twa wabs o' linen, o' Janet's ain spinnin',
As thick as doug-lugs, an' as white as the snaw!
We've a kebbuck or twa, an' some meal i' the girnel,
Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph at the door;
An' something, I've guessed, 's in yon auld painted kist,
That Janet, fell bodie, 's laid up to the fore!
Aften times pouches toom, and hearts fu' o' care:
But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses,
Contentment, be thankit, has aye been our share!
I've an auld roosty sword, that was left by my father,
Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a fae;
We hae friends ane or twa, that aft gie us a ca',
To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when we're wae.
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e;
His lady, aye braw, may sit in her ha',
But are they mair happy than Janet an' me?
A' ye, wha ne'er kent the straught road to be happy,
Wha are na content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwallin' of whilk I've been tellin',
Ye'se learn't, by lookin' at Janet an' me!
'TWAS NOT THE SONG, 'TWAS NOT THE DANCE.
That charmed me in the pictured hall,
But 'twas the light of her, whose glance
Awakened joy and love in all.
O! she was lovely as the spring,
When sun and song make glad the sky—
Fair as the young rose blossoming,
When summer's freshening breath is nigh.
That tells to morn of coming day,
So beamed her eye, serenely bright,
A pure and holy, heavenly ray!
In softest music, from her tongue,
Appeared as if, where angels dwell,
A minstrel angel raptured sung!
Or summer shower to leafy tree,
Or hope's bright ray to heart forlorn,
So her bright presence gladdened me.
The music's fled, the dance is o'er,
The song has melted into air—
But round my heart, and in its core,
The fair one dwells that charmed me there!
FLOW, GENTLE STREAMLET.
Sweet be thy music, spring time is near;
Primrose and harebell wake from their dream—
Murmur in gladness, thou lovely stream.
Pure is the fountain—sparkling its flow;
Greenwood and valley all blossom gay—
Fairest of streamlets, murmur away!
Welcomed with music, followed by flowers,
Mantled in robe of verdant array—
Fairest of streamlets, murmur away!
I DREAM NOT NOW.
And now I wake to woe;
For him I hold the same as dead,
Whence all my life did flow.
I dream not now—yet, oh! how bright
The fleeting phantom shone;
It came in joy and went in light—
The lovely vision's gone!
Why does it pass so soon?—
A flower of morn—why does it seem
To wither ere its noon?
Bright gem of heavenly dew—
Why lonely do I ling'ring stay,
Nor fade and wither too?
When summer breezes blow;
But when the wind of autumn's past,
You mark it sered and low!
And now since Love's young summer's o'er,
Which nought to me could save,
Soon winter with its hollow roar
Shall murmur o'er my grave!
AWA', YE FLAUNTING DAYS O' SPRING.
An' summer, wi' your hours o' bloom,
To me nor hope nor joy ye bring,
For a' is grief and a' is gloom!
For aye when these fair seasons come,
With wild flowers green and flowerets gay,
To where the Highland red-deer roam,
My bonnie lassie hies away!
My heart is in the Highland glen,
Or down the valley, winding deep,
In sunless grandeur, darkening ben!
O! there my fairest strays, I ken,
In beauty bright and fancy free;
O! for sic happy days, as when,
'Mang Lawland braes, she strayed wi' me!
Where beauty reigns in sovereign sway;
Or when she mingles in the dance,
Or raptured lists the vocal lay.
Or when the sun, at close o' day,
Saft sinks beneath the western sky,
When forth the blooming maidens stray,
Ye'll mark my bosom's dearest joy!
By streamlet clear, or valley green,
Awake your sweetest minstrel sangs,
Ye'll sing to few sae fair, I ween.
By ilka star that blinks at e'en,
And yon bright sun, that shines by day,
She'll live for aye my bosom queen,
The bonnie lass that's far away!
O! COULD I LOSE THE POWER OF THOUGHT.
I still might happy be;
At least this grief might leave my heart,
Could busy memory flee.
And yet, though anguish wrings my soul,
Would I the task forego
Of counting o'er each moment passed
With her who caused my woe?
Whate'er their love might be,
Else parting with her had not wrung
Such bitter pangs from me.
Yet musing on what might have been,
I dream my time away;
'Tis idle as my early dreams,
But, ah! 'tis not so gay.
A pleasure mixed with pain,—
'Tis pondering on the days gone by,
Which ne'er can come again!
When she, all lovely as she's still,
Blushed when I called her fair;
And if she never bade me hope,
She ne'er bade me despair.
For thee I now repine,
Since Fate has sworn, in solemn words,
Thou never canst be mine!
Yet fondly do I love thee still,
Though hope ne'er mingles there;
A wilder passion sways me now—
'Tis love joined to despair.
No pleasure bring to me;
I'd hate its smile, did I not think
It may give joy to thee.
But if thou ever lovedst like me,
No joy will light thine eye,
Save transient gleams, like wintry suns,
Short glancing in the sky.
TENTING SHEEP BY MUIR AND GLEN.
Is a' my airt—I ken nae ither—
Save courting o' my bonnie Jean,
Amang the fragrant blooming heather.
O! the bonnie blooming heather;
Content is mair than kings can buy,
An' yet 'tis found amang the heather!
The sun lets fa' in simmer weather;
Her face would shame the sweetest flower
That blaws amang the blooming heather.
They've clean bewitched me a' thegither;
An' aye sae slee they blink on me,
Whene'er we meet amang the heather.
Till e'enin' draw the cluds thegither,
An' then I dream the nicht awa',
Till she, wi' morn, come ower the heather.
Save owsen twa, left by my father;
An' yon wee cot, down by the burn,
That flings its reek outowre the heather.
Her heart worth kingdoms tied thegither;
Gie me that heart—sae void o' art—
The heart I fand amang the heather.
O! the bonnie blooming heather;
Content is mair than kings can buy,
An' yet 'tis found amang the heather!
BONNIE PEGGIE GORDON.
On ilka flowery bank she's seen,
Then come, my love, thou'rt simmer's queen,
Bonnie Peggie Gordon.
Where the rose-bud dewy hings,
Where the burnie murmuring sings,
“Bonnie Peggie Gordon!”
Where the scented hawthorn tree
Sheds its fragrant sweets for thee,
Bonnie Peggie Gordon.
An' comes—O! weel its notes I ken—
Saft humming frae the moorland glen,
“Bonnie Peggie Gordon!”
An' saft's the winds that ower it blaw,
But love has tales mair saft than a',
Bonnie Peggie Gordon.
Where the blackbird wakes his sang,
There, my fairest, wilt thou gang?
Bonnie Peggie Gordon.
May please the sense, may charm the eye,
But to my heart nought gies sic joy
As bonnie Peggie Gordon.
WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER.
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Many a tome is your memento mori!
Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;
Come from your small beer to vinegar turning,
Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!
Leave, then, each scribbler, your high attic story;
Critics shall many a day speak of your book and say,
“He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
THE SAFT SIMMER E'ENIN' IS GLIDING AWA'.
And a' thing is still, baith in cot and in ha',
There's peace for ilk bosom and sleep for ilk e'e,
But Jeanie, young Jeanie, has stown them frae me!
For Jeanie's as true as she's bonnie and fair;
But for joy at the thocht, I'm whiles like to dee,
That Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sall be!
It's maybe as weel that walth isna mine;
'Twould only divide the love hers a' suld be;
O! Jeanie, young Jeanie's the treasure for me!
An' winter is cauld, an' frosty winds chill;
But this cheers my heart, when the snaw's on the lea,
That Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sall be!
An' sing't to mysel' a' the simmer day lang;
My skill is but sma', but the burden sall be,—
“O! Jeanie, young Jeanie's the treasure for me!”
No mony will see it, no mony sall ken;
But when the brown leaves fa' frae yon birken tree,
O! Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sall be!
A BUMPER TO THEE!
(THIS SONG AND THE SEVEN FOLLOWING ARE PUBLISHED IN M'LEOD'S VOLUME OF “ORIGINAL SCOTTISH MELODIES,” FORMERLY ALLUDED TO.)
A cup to the fair, and a health to the free;
O! this toast hath a spell, we shall quaff it with glee,
A bumper to thee! a bumper to thee!
Be it Alicant bright or Burgundy famed,
O! my soul, like the cup, to my lip shall spring up,
When friendship and thou in a bumper are named!
And fair on its banks grows the wide-spreading vine;
In the juice of that vine we shall pledge heart and hand,
To bright eyes that sparkle, as sparkles the wine!
Forgets half his toil if a streamlet he find,
So, in life's dreary waste, fill a cup deep and strong,
And sorrow and care we shall fling to the wind,
Nor brood on to-morrow to waken a sigh;
For to souls, if there's bliss, 'tis a moment like this,
When cups flow with wine, and bosoms with joy!
A cup to the fair, and a health to the free;
O! this toast hath a spell, we shall quaff it with glee,
A bumper to thee! a bumper to thee!
THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.
And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;
An' whaur shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,
When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?
But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears:
O! I'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,
For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.
For the blithe happy days that never can return:
When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,
An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet:
The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,
As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk tree.
There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;
Sae fareweel happy days, an' fareweel youthfu' glee,
The young may court your smiles, but ye're gane frae me.
MARY'S BOWER.
The laverock in the sky;
An' a' is fair round Mary's bower,
An' a' aboon is joy!
But sad's the gloom in Mary's bower,
Though a' without be gay;
Nae music comes to greet the morn,
Nae smile to glad the day.
His ship has crossed the main;
There's waefu' news in Mary's bower,
He ne'er returns again.
A breaking heart's in Mary's bower,
A wasting form is there;
The glance has left that e'e sae blue,
The rose that cheek sae fair.
The laverock quits the sky;
An' simmer sighs o'er Mary's bower,
For coming winter's nigh.
The snaw fa's white on Mary's bower,
The tempests loudly rave;
The flowers that bloomed round Mary's bower
Now wither on her grave!
ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.
Gather in, gather in, ane an' a';
This night, ever dear,
Claims a cup an' a tear
To the memory of Burns that's awa', awa',
To the memory of Burns that's awa'!
Auld Scotland's had bards ane or twa;
But the minstrel that sang
Coila's wild braes amang,
O! he was the sweetest of a', of a',
O! he was the sweetest of a'!
He came like the flowerets that blaw;
But his bright opening spring
Nae simmer did bring,
For soon, soon, he faded awa', awa',
For soon, soon, he faded awa'!
But short though he sang 'mang us a',
His name from our heart
Will never depart,
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa', awa',
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa'!
O, MY LOVE, NIGHT IS COME.
And fled is the glory and splendour of day;
The bright flaming sun, with the daylight, hath gone
To his palace of ocean, love, far, far away.
O, night, my love, night! to a lover is dear,
When the wind is all hushed, and the moon in the sky;
Then, haste to thy lattice, love, quickly appear,
With the smile on thy cheek, and the glance in thine eye.
With the bird's happy song and the bloom of the rose;
But, at night, roses weep, and the little birds sleep,
All still as the green leaves on which they repose.
Yet night, my love, night! O! 'tis dearer to me,
Though the flowers are in tears, that the sun does not shine;
For thou art the floweret I ever would see,
And the music I'd hear is that sweet voice of thine!
THE BRIGHT SUN O' SIMMER.
The birds sang in joy, and the earth blossomed green;
And hope spoke of days without care or repining,
Like those that in dreams o' my childhood I've seen.
But now the brown leaves o' the forest are fa'ing,
And quickly the sun hastens down through the sky;
The winds frae the caverns of winter are blawing,
They tell me that simmer, like youth, has gone by.
Nae mair by the greenwood or valley they're seen:
They've perished, like flowerets the fair earth adorning,
As if childhood and young simmer never had been.
That swelled through the grove a' the lang simmer day?
Alas! a' is fled, and my heart's filled wi' sadness,
For the music o' youth, too, hath melted away!
That sprung on the mountain, or bloomed on the lea;
And farewell, ye fond hearts, the warmest and lightest,
Nae mair ye return to charm nature an' me.
And welcome bleak winter, wi' days wild and dreary,
For the blasts of misfortune have left me forlorn;
And my soul it is sad, an' my spirit is weary,
Wi' pondering on joys fled that ne'er can return.
O! STRIKE THE WILD HARP.
The deeds and the fame of our fathers to tell;
When red was the fight, by land or by sea,
They fought as the brave, or fell as the free!
When bold hearts were needed our freedom to gain!
The watchword was still, and it ever shall be—
To fight as the brave, or fall as the free!
Together to fall, or together to stand;
And woe to the foe who had courage to dare,
When swords flashed revenge, and eyes struck despair!
May peace guard thy mountains, and freedom thy strand;
But war let it come, or by land or by sea,
We'll fight like our fathers, or fall as the free!
THE EXILE'S SONG.
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,
The bulbul sweetly sings.
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn:
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie;
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!
And a balm for every pain,
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea;
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!
I'VE AYE BEEN FOU SIN' THE YEAR CAM' IN.
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in;
It's what wi' the brandy, an' what wi' the gin,
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
The bicker gaed round, and the pint stoup did clank;
But that was a' naething, as shortly ye'll fin'—
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
Had scarce shawn the hour whilk the new year did bring,
Whan friends an' acquantance cam' tirl at the pin—
An' I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
Wi' scon in her hand, an' cheese in her lap,
An' drank—a gude New Year to kith an' to kin—
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
There's some ken his mettle, but nane ken his drouth!—
I brought out the bottle—losh! how he did grin!—
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
Wi' here tak' a kaulker, an' there tak' a horn,
I've gatten baith doited, an' donner't, an' blin'—
For I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
He felt at my hand, an' he straiket my crown:
He ordered a bottle—but it turned out gin!—
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
To slip into the kirk, to steer clear o' the de'il;
But the chiel at the plate fand a groat left behin'—
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
Are chirming an' chirping as if they wad sing;
While here I sit bousing—'tis really a sin!—
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
An' sune down the valley the primrose will blaw;
A douce sober life I maun really begin,
For I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in!
AGAIN THE CIRCLING MARCH OF TIME.
Brings round the glad, the glorious day,
That gave to Masonry Sublime
A brighter flame, and purer ray;
And though the many be away,
Who first the dawning light did see,
A numerous band is here to pay
High honour unto Masonry!
We mix not in a Service Mean,—
That Sacred Light that here does shine,
The Peasant and the Prince have seen!
And while, in spring, the woods are green,
Or summer decks with flowers the lea,
That lambent flame shall burn, I ween,
The glorious Light of Masonry!
Which wealth, not worth, may still command;
Nor in the giddy tide of joy,
That Masonry does take its stand!
But ours, the social generous band,—
The only tie whose link makes free,—
Where heart to heart, and hand to hand,
Proclaim the badge of Masonry!
To chase the tear from beauty's eye;
To aid the right, and check the wrong;
And bid the weary cease to sigh.
To soothe the orphan's mournful cry,
A Brother help, where'er he be,
To love all men beneath the sky,
This is the bond of Masonry!
Those men of might and dauntless brow!
Still Masonry can boast a Head,—
A St Clair then, a Ramsay now!
With such bold spirits at the prow,
Our bark shall bravely ride the sea;
Nor shall her flag to any bow,—
The pendant of high Masonry.
KNIGHT TEMPLAR'S SONG.
Would fain approach that Temple high,
Which stands 'mong airy clouds upborne,
Unseen by vile or vulgar eye;
Where, in that palace of the sky,
A thousand heavenly sights are seen,
Where Truth presides in majesty,
And Love—all lovely—reigns as queen!
Knows he the dangers of the way?
The hill is high, the valley deep,
That lead from night to glorious day!
Where is his trust, and whence his stay?
Hath he a spirit meekly given,
To leave the clods of kindred clay,
And cross the Archway path to Heaven?”
He fears not in their steps to go;
And glad would leave the gloom of night,
To where the beams of morning glow!
For though, o'er mountains clad with snow,
'Mid darkness he is doomed to stray,
Still Burnes the upward track will show,
And Ramsay he shall lead the way!
Thy heart is good, thy courage strong;
Up! to the awful height sublime,
The Temple and its Priests among!
Thy steps we'll cheer with wine and song,
And words that tell the soul is free:
Up! Pilgrim, up! thou'lt reach, ere long,
The high Mont Blanc of Masonry!
And gladness takes the place of woe;
Awake the harp, and sound it high,
Let mirth and all its music flow.
And buds shall bloom that will not die:
This is the land of Light!—below
Dark storms and low'ring tempests lie!”
Dr James Burnes, Provincial Grand Master for the Western Provinces of India, Grand Constable of the Order in Scotland, and Prior of the Canongate Kilwinning Templars—a Brother to whom Masonry owes much, both in this country and in the East, whither he has lately departed.
AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS BLITHE HAPPY DAY.
That true Scottish Masons will honour for aye;
And though from their country our Brothers may roam,
This day will awaken up kindred and home.
Oh, this day will awaken up kindred and home.
Not travers'd by Brothers,—we fondly adore;
Though absent afar, yet their heart we may claim,
For absent or present, they're ever the same!
For absent or present, they're ever the same!
To where the blue waves of the bright Ganges sleep,
'Mong the fair groves of Italy, or bleak Zembla's snow,
“St Andrew” and “Scotland,” in bumpers shall flow!
“St Andrew” and “Scotland,” in bumpers shall flow!
Of soft blooming Maidens, and true-hearted Men,
Oh! long may thy Thistle a dear emblem be
Of Liberty's birth-place, the home of the free!
Of Liberty's birth-place, the home of the free!
More flourish in splendour—or more proudly wave
Than now when it blossoms for Scotland's Fair Queen!
Than now when it blossoms for Scotland's Fair Queen!
Through all thy dominions—the length of the land!
In devotion more deep—or in service more free,
Than the Masons of Scotland are, lov'd Queen, to thee!
Than the Masons of Scotland are, lov'd Queen, to thee!
ANTHEM.
(SUNG AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, ON THE OCCASION OF THE BENEFIT FOR THE FREEMASONS' SCHOOL FOR FEMALE CHILDREN, 9TH FEBRUARY 1838.)
Join'd here with heart and hand,
In love to all.
Long may their Watchword be,—
Freedom and Charity,
Fond links of Masonry,
That ne'er shall fall.
Nor domes that touch the sky,
Alone they prize.
Theirs is a nobler sphere,
To love, to virtue dear,
To chase the fallen tear
From weeping eyes.
And temples shall decay;
But this shall stand.
Truth,—badge of Liberty—
And glorious Charity,
High bond of Masonry—
O'er every land!
Darkness from earth is driven,
When thou dost shine.
Many shall mark thy ray—
Dawn of a brighter day,
That lights the Orphan's way
To virtue's shrine.
SONG IN THE PLAY OF “MONSIEUR JACQUES.”
She set me from my dungeon free,
And bade me quickly cross the wave,
And said, My love, I'll follow thee!
Though twenty years have passed away,
Since at my prison door she stood,
And thus in joyful words did say—
A father's vengeance may not flee;
Oh! fly, my love, the light bark waits,
And quickly I will follow thee!
Come dancing o'er the booming main;
But soon the vision disappears—
'Tis but a phantom of the brain!
Though flowers have fallen and years have fled,
Since my sweet flower, beneath the tower,
With tears of joy thus fondly said—
My gondola is on the shore;
Twice shall yon moon not light the deep,
When we shall meet to part no more!
For many a moon has lit the sky,
And yet she comes not o'er the wave,
With rapture to these arms to fly!
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
And minds me of the sunny hours, when life was free of care,
When far adown the sleeping glen I strayed in happy glee,
The long, long summer day was mine, but not too long for me!
Recalling all the golden dreams that memory lets not die;
And though in clouds the evil days slow gather in their gloom,
My heart leaps back to joyous morns beside this flow'ret's bloom.
That gladdened, by the voice of streams, the landscape smiling gay;
The music of the woods is fled, the lays of youth are o'er,
And only thou, at memory's call, lost harmonies restore.
When, heedless as the streamlet's course, I ran in quest of thee;
And still, though anxious days must come, and many heavy woes,
I hail thee as the fairest flower that in the valley blows.
YESTREEN I SLEPT.
Wha aften keeps the sleep frae me;
I thought we met in some bright land,
Some holy land where angels be!
For every face we there did see
Was dimmed by neither woe nor care,
And harps woke heaven's high minstrelsy,
Because my love was listening there!
And as bewitching she did seem:
I thought her mine, ah! cruel bliss,
This might have shown me 'twas a dream!
Revisit aft, or aye remain,
I'd wake nae mair, nor e'er return
Back to this weary warld again!
And what is love wi' nae return?
Oh! is there aught her heart could move,
Or cause mine, mourning, cease to mourn?
If life give nought but dark despair,
If hopes an' joys but visions seem,
I'd rather wish my days nae mair,
Or passed in an eternal dream!
O, COULD I BUT PICTURE MY LASSIE.
As weel as the charms o' my lassie I see!
But whaur hae I phrases or language sae warming,
As tell o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e?
Her lips are as red as the saft rose o' simmer,
Or berries that grow on the tall rowan tree;
The moon-beam that sleeps on the white snaw is dimmer
Than the glance that fa's down frae her bonnie black e'e.
A' sparkling in diamonds that come ower the sea;
I'm thinkin' they need them to gie them some splendour,
But Mary needs nane, save her bonnie black e'e!
And dear is the flower to the young hiney bee,
And dear to the traveller the desert's lone fountain,
But dearer to me is her bonnie black e'e!
She whiles is, or seems to be, saucy to me;
But there is nae hiding, for a' her coy chiding,
The tell-tale that lies in her bonnie black e'e.
I speered gif she wanted to part wi' her lover?
I speered gif she wanted her lover to dee?
An' keekit to see if my words they did move her,
An' saw a tear blindin' her bonnie black e'e!
She turned round her head, an' she lookit ajee;
I took her an' kissed her, an' to me I pressed her,
An' dichted the tear frae her bonnie black e'e.
Her sweet smile returning, she blushed like the morning,
An' said, “I am yours till the day that I dee!”
O, love! ever tarry wi' me an' my Mary,—
I'm blest 'neath the smile o' her bonnie black e'e!
THE SUN BEHIND YON MOUNTAIN.
Is setting lovely, bright, and fair,
While I, the moments counting,
Am filled with anguish, grief, and care.
For, ere he beams to-morrow,
An' streaks wi' gowd yon sky sae blue,
I'll hear that word of sorrow,
That fareweel parting word—adieu!
Had Willie wooed less kindly,
Wi' nae sic truth an' witchin' power;
Had I but lo'ed less fondly,
I might have borne the parting hour!
While future woes appear in view:
'Twill break my heart asunder
To hear that parting word—adieu!
The ship is now in motion,
That wafts my lover o'er the sea;
And soon the swelling ocean
Shall roll between my love and me!
No that the waves can sever
His love an' mine, sae tender, true!
But what if 'tis for ever
I hear that parting word—adieu!
THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE TO DEAVE US.
How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine;
The tane is an angel, and, save us!
The niest ane you meet wi's divine!
An' then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet,
Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean;
An' the moon or some far awa' planet's
Compared to the blink o' her een.
For similes to set aff their charms,
An' no a wee flower but's attackit
By poets, like bumbees in swarms.
Now, what signifies a' this clatter
By chiels that the truth winna tell?
Wad it no be settlin' the matter
To say—Lass, ye're just like yoursel?
For they are no deaf to the din,
That, like me, ony puir luckless deevil
Daur scarce look the gate they are in!
But e'en let them be wi' their scornin',
There's a lassie whase name I could tell,
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin',
But, whisht! I am ravin' mysel.
When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on,
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket
Than that buckled to by Mess John!
An' he wha, though cautious an' canny,
The charms o' the fair never saw,
Though wise as King Solomon's grannie,
I swear is the daftest of a'.
DAYS OF SORROW, NIGHTS OF MOURNING.
Dreams of joy that's ne'er returning;
I try to weep, but canna weep—
Can tears flow when the heart is burning?
Nor did he love a faithless Mary;
But, waes my heart! the loved hours flew,
Sic hours o' love, they couldna tarry!
An' silks frae India to his deary;
An' he'd be blest aboon a king,
When ance I was his ain dear Mary.
I waited langer for my lover;—
What would I now wi' silks or ring?
Nae silks a breaking heart should cover!
And fondly gaze the braid sea over;
Ye waves! when will ye cease to roar,
An' gie me back my ain true lover?
O, JENNY, LET THIS STRIFE BE OWER.
An' let this weary wark be done;
Ye ken I'm subject to your power,
As ocean is to yonder moon!
I've ca'd ye aften fair and braw,
The sweetest lass by hill or plain;
Now, I've a reason—maybe twa—
To tell it ower an' ower again.
Ye say ye hae nae love to spare;
O, then, accept o' some frae me,
I'm sure I've gat an unco share!
'Twill maybe free my mind o' care,
'Twill maybe ease my heart o' pain;
An' if, like me, it wound ye there,
Ye just can gie me't back again.
I'll roose ye in a bardie's sang;
Ye'll be my muse, an', at your name,
The todlin' words will jump alang.
I'll sing ye bloomin', young, an' kind,
Wi' laughin' een o' clearest blue,
But naething o' your heart an' mind,
Else a' the warld were courtin' you!
Frae your sweet mouth although they come;
The tongue's aye ready saying—Na,
Though a' the time the heart be dumb!
But I will mark your reddening cheek,
An' I will watch your glancin' e'e,
For love's true language these aye speak;
O, Jenny, let them speak for me!
DRINK IT YET.
We're no just sae fou but we'll drink it yet;
To the name that is dear, though we'll no tell it here,
We'll tout aff a bumper and think it yet.
The warst that can happen is just to get fou;
But though we get fou, we'll never forget
Our friend and our lassie—sae drink it yet.
But he that says sae is a knave and a lout;
For what gieth life to friendship and wit
Like a fu' sparklin' glass?—sae drink it yet.
Time enough to be sad when gangin' awa';
A charm's in the bowl round which gude friends sit,
And the spell to awaken't is—“Drink it yet!”
'Tis a moment of sunshine in life's winter day;
Then, ere the clouds gather, and joy's sun set,
Let the pass-word to pleasure be—“Drink it yet!”
We're no just sae fou but we'll drink it yet;
To the name that is dear, though we'll no tell it here,
In a fu' flowing bumper we'll think it yet.
THE PEARL DIVERS' SONG.
Our home the hollow sea;
Not on the wave, nor o'er the wave,
But down the wave go we.
'Tis down, boys, 'tis down, boys,
We journey through the deep,
Where far the coral echoes wake,
Or caverned mermaids sleep.
Some tempt the stormy wave,
And some amid the cannon's flash
Seek glory or a grave.
But who, like us, 'mid ocean's depths,
Can dive the floods below?
'Tis down, boys, 'tis down, boys,
Full forty fathoms we go!
The sky may give its showers,
To waken earth with gladness,
Or freshen it with flowers.
But, oh! not all the beauty
Which flowery springtime shows,
Can equal ocean's grandeur,
Where sea-nymphs fair repose.
The merchant may deplore
His treasure buried in the deep,
Or wrecked upon the shore.
But we have nought to fear, boys,
When whirlwind tempests blow—
'Tis down, boys, 'tis down, boys,
Full forty fathoms we go!
O! LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE, 'TIS HARD, I DECLARE.
To look on your charms as if nae charms were there,
But ye'll no hear o' beauty, though I'm in despair,
Nor yet will ye let me lo'e ye.
“Ye neither maun flatter, ye neither maun praise,
“Nor yet maun ye on me sae wistfully gaze,
“Far less maun ye think to lo'e me.”
'Tis little I want, be it little ye gie—
A smile o' your face, an' a blink o' your e'e,
As meikle's to let me lo'e ye.
Your talk o' my charms, and your talk o' my smiles,
The tongue that is saftest aye soonest beguiles,
I never can let ye lo'e me!
Wi' saft notes o' gladness an' bosom of joy,
May gaze on that heaven to which he is nigh,
O! then, let me look to lo'e ye.
At portals o' heaven, steals naething away,
But my puir fluttering heart ye've stown it for aye,
O! then, I maun let ye lo'e me!
BONNIE ARE THE BRAES.
The rose is on the brier in its fresh simmer bloom;
And swift o'er the burn my laddie comes to me,
Wi' kindness in his heart and love in his e'e.
Bonnie are the braes, and sunny the glen,
And that is the note o' the mavis, I ken;
Oh! cease, my sweet bird, I haena time to hear,
For, hastening through the broom, my laddie is near.
That saftly glides by, like childhood's sunny dream:
Row on, lovely streams, sae gently winding clear,
In silence row on, for my laddie is near.
And fain would I join in Nature's happy lay;
But how can I sing, when there my laddie true
Comes, blithe as the morning, his Jeanie to woo!
AWAY TO THE CHASE.
And our steeds have awoke from their slumbers of night;
The mist's on the breeze, and the morning is young,
The cock he hath crowed, and the bugle hath sung!
To rouse the brown stag from his lair in the den—
To waken the echoes of rock and of glen—
To bound o'er the earth amid sunshine and showers,
Away, gallant huntsmen, such pleasures are ours.
Our path it is free as the flight of the wind;
O'er moorland, or meadow, or bold craggy steep,
Where mountain is high, or where valley is deep,
We seek not our joys from the juice of the vine,
Our home is the woodland, the brooklet our wine;
Or if, 'mid our wanderings, the wine-cup we share,
'Tis “Hurrah for the chase!” and a health to the fair.
MY BONNIE BELL.
Ye've left me filled wi' sorrow;
A waefu' day is ilka day,
A grieving day ilk morrow.
Ye've left the bonnie Lawland braes,
Where the heather-bell is blooming,
For the craggy steep and the valley deep,
Where the Highland deer is roaming.
And no for your feet clim'ing;
Far better by your ain burn side,
Where the siller trouts are swimming.
Cross mountain, muir, or river;
But there is ane, in a Lawland glen,
His heart is thine for ever!
They've tint wi' you their grandeur;
While proud will seem ilk mountain stream,
As by its banks ye wander!
O, haste ye hame, for nae birds sings
Save waesome notes o' mourning;
They keep their sangs an' canty springs
To welcome your returning!
I LOOKED LONG AT THY WINDOW, LOVE.
Thy lovely sweet glance to see, my love;
The evening sun
On thy window shone,
And I thought for a while it was thee, my love.
A smile that is just thine own, my love;
The sun, at thy sight,
Withdrew his clear light,
And left thee shining alone, my love!
Who often have sighed for thee, my love;
And my days, though o'ercast
With misfortune's keen blast,
Will appear bright sunshine to me, my love.
When he kisses the western sea, my love:
But the sun's bright ray,
At departing of day,
Was never so lovely as thee, my love.
WHY TARRIES MY TRUE LOVE?
Spirits of ocean! tell, why tarries he?
Dark is the midnight sky,
Loud raves the storm on high!
Where closeth he his eye!
To dream of me!
Spirits! oh! where is he, by sea or shore?
“Far in the ocean's deeps,
“Where death his vigil keeps,
“There thy fond lover sleeps,
“'Neath its loud roar!”
I COURTED MAGGIE MONY A DAY.
To tell how lang, I'd weary, O;
But ne'er a word wad Maggie say—
She wadna be my deary, O.
Though she'd na speak, it spak again;
Though she wad say—Gae, bide away,
It bade me aye come back again!
To mak me crouse an' cheery, O,
But Maggie's heart nae words could touch—
She wadna be my deary, O.
An' took anither smack again;
“Yes,” quo' she, “come ye back again!”
But fient a knife my Maggie brang;
She then, wi' jeering scornfu' word,
Bade me sit in an' cut a whang!
I syne grew bauld an' spak again;
Quo' she—Gae, whistle on your thoum,
But, gudesake! come na back again!
Suld never mak a lover shy;
I've gained my Maggie's bonnie smile,
I've gained my Maggie's heart forbye!
Though she'd na speak, it spak again;
Though she wad say—Gae, bide away,
It bade me aye come back again!
COME, A' YE JOVIAL TOPERS.
That drink the rosy wine;
An' ye wha quaff Glenlivet,
Attend this sang o' mine.
I'll tell ye o' a pleasure
That some folk daurna name,
'Tis to meet wi' twa three social friends
At our ain house at hame.
O, our ain house, &c.
O, a pleasant sight to see!
An' the bonnie wee bit bairnies
Hae faulded up their e'e:
To which a' joys are tame,
The sweetest blinks are those that shine
On our ain house at hame.
O, our ain house, &c.
Nor yet the Lon'on brown,
Nor is't beside the brandy punch,
In taverns o' the town:
'Tis beside the mountain dew,
Frae the stell without the name,
When we toast our friend an' lassie
At our ain house at hame.
O, our ain house, &c.
The bowl he's gaun to fill;
Though the night is stealin' hame,
His friends are sittin' still:
For they downa gang to rest
Till their noddle's in a flame,
An' they mind nae mair on a' the earth
But our ain house at hame.
O, our ain house, &c.
What happiness hae ye?
Instead o' friends an' whisky punch,
Ye've cookies, care, an' tea!
Gie me the honest-hearted chiel
That owns nae frowning dame,
But can sport his jug o' toddy
At his ain house at hame.
His ain house, &c.
ONE STAR OF THE MORNING.
Amid the deep blue of the sky,
O! it waits for the sun and my Mary
To light up the green earth with joy.
Then haste, love, the fair lily's weeping,
The young rose is drooping in dew;
The lark, in its sweet dream, is sleeping,
'Till wakened by Nature and you!
And sunbeams on bright streamlets play,
When the deep glen and dark misty mountain
Rejoice at the coming of day:
When summer and morning are young,
Can equal that rapture of bosom,
When you are the theme of my song.
To skies of a lovelier hue,
To sparkle on lands that are fairer,
But on maid never fairer than you!
The golden sun now walks in glory,
And gladdens with smiles flower and tree;
Like you who, in joy or in sorrow,
Still gladden this bleak world to me!
THE GRAVE IT HOLDS MY FAIREST NOW.
The loved one of my heart;
Ah! little thought I we so soon,
So sadly soon, should part!
She perished in her loveliness,
In beauty pined away,
Like flower that falls beneath the storm,
Before its leaves decay!
Nor cloud nor storm was there;
But sunny tints, in golden hues,
Tinged all the landscape fair.
And hope's gay vision fled;
And life has now no charm for me,
Since all my life is dead!
YE RAX ME A BICKER.
Waes me! ye ken naething o' love's dreadfu' sting;
Or after sic trifles ye never wad speer,
Nae sang could ye sing, nae sang could ye hear!
I yince had a lassie, baith sonsy an' fair,
Wha jilted me fairly—sae 'bout her nae mair;
Yet thinkin' o' her wham I courted sae lang,
I'd as sune mak a preachin' as sing ye a sang!
What new way I might leave this warld o' pain;
For hangin's threadbare, an' the knife's no for me,
An' arsnic micht no wi' my weak stamack gree!
It's only my wais'coat grown straiter behind!
Sae I maun just thole what is no like to kill,
I'se no sing a sang, but I'se preeve o' your yill.
Ken ye aught o' Tam Spears, or his fair dochter, Bell?
She's his ae only bairn, but she's worth half a score,
I'm daft no to think o' that lassie before!
Come, lads! dinna tarry, the nicht's glidin' by,
I doubt na but thun'er's in yon troubled sky!
Let's chap for the lawin, an' settle the soom,
I'll down to Tam Spears' when the bicker is toom!
GLENYALVEN BRAES.
An' joukin burnies scarcely seen,
A-listening to the cuckoo's sang,
I've tint my heart thy braes amang.
Thy mountain breezes saftly blaw,
An' sweet's the flower in Yalven shaw;
Thy woods are green, thy braes are fair,
An' a bonnie Highland lassie's there.
A bonnie stream wi' mony a turn,—
I met the maiden blushing young,
Wi' Highland heart and Highland tongue.
Though mute the tongue, the heart was fu';
But vain my sighs an' silent vows,
She wouldna leave her heathery knowes.
To steal the lassie's heart away;
But sweetly she, in Highland sang,
Replied, she wouldna—couldna gang.
She gave her hand, but kept her heart;
An' yet, when rising to depart,
A tear upo' her cheek had fa'n,
Like dew-drap on a rose new blawn.
Though still unsung in minstrel lays,—
Ye're dear, O! dearer far to me,
Than “Braes o' Doon,” or “Banks o' Dee.”
Adieu! thou land of hill an' glen,
Of lovely maids and gallant men:
In gazing on the fairest she,
I've tint my peace—my heart in thee!
SONG TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
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?”
A youthfu' shepherd heard the strain,
Wha aft amang the hills had strung
A harp, though rude, yet 'twas his ain!
An' deftly he began to play,
While ilka glen an' fairy nook
Wi' echoes murmured back the lay.
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 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!”
An' lang may Scotia hear the sang;
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!
OLD MAN'S SONG.
When a' that cared for me are gane?
Why drag life's weary chain sae lang,
When friends to lighten't there are nane?
A stranger—I but strangers see;
And, when I sleep with them that sleep,
A stranger's grave my bed shall be!
And ilka wee flower in its prime,
I thought this was a pleasant world,
For happy, happy, was that time:
With age—life's winter—hurried on;
Swift fled the flowers with youth's fond hours,
Like summer sun that o'er them shone!
The weary ken where they will dee;
Yet here, a weary wanderer, I
Ken nought but sad adversitie.
But scarcely bends the aged tree—
When will I lay me down to sleep?
When will I lay me down to dee?
THE CHARM OF LIFE HATH PASSED AWAY.
My Mary is no more;
Love's fleeting vision would not stay,
Its golden dream is o'er!
They talk of joy who know not woe,
Of hope who know not care;
They speak of peace who do not know
The depths of dark despair!
And in its train the flowers;
While music, with its silver sound,
Made glad this world of ours.
And autumn, sad and slow,
Comes lowering on the sweeping blast,
To lay the flowerets low.
'Neath evening's wintry sky,
Nor morning from her orient throne
Shall wake them forth in joy.
They mind me of the flower that's fled—
A fairer never shone—
They tell me that my joy is dead,
My lovely one is gone!
A being formed for love—
Whose image might a grace confer
On angel homes above;
For heaven's fair radiance, softly bright,
Was settled on her brow;—
Farewell, blest days, that knew no night—
They close in darkness now!
THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING.
An' nature is mourning the simmer's decay;
The wee birdies singing, the wee flowerets springing,
Hae tint a' their sangs, an' withered away!
I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning,
Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay?
Why should they perish?—the blossoms we cherish—
The beautiful are sleeping cauld in the clay!
The mavis sang sweet at the closing o' day;
Now the winds are raving, the green grass is waving,
O'er the buds o' innocence cauld in the clay!
Should gowden locks fade before the auld an' grey?
But still, still they're sleeping, wi' nae care nor weeping,
The robin sits chirping ower their cauld clay!
In joy and in gladness, time murmured by;
What now were pleasure, wi' a' the warld's treasure?
My heart's in the grave where my fair blossoms lie!
The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are fa'ing,
Moaning is the gale as it rides on its way;
A wild music's sighing, it seems a voice crying,—
“Happy is that land that knows no decay!”
O! TAKE ME TO YON SUNNY ISLE.
That stands in Fortha's sea,
For there, all lonely, I may weep,
Since tears my lot must be.
The caverned rocks alone shall hear
My anguish and my woe,
But can their echoes Mary bring?
Ah! no, no, no!
Or climb the rocky steep,
And list to ocean murmuring
The music of the deep;
In evening's silver glow,
Shall Mary meet me 'neath its light?
Ah! no, no, no!
And lovely flowers are there,
They'll maybe bow their heads and weep,
For she, like them, was fair;
And every bird I'll teach a song,
A plaintive song of woe,
But Mary cannot hear their strains?
Ah! no, no, no!
As loath to part with day,
But airy morn, with carolling voice,
Shall wake him forth as gay;
Yet Mary's sun rose bright and fair,
And now that sun is low,
Shall its fair beam e'er grace the morn?
Ah! no, no, no!
Lest Mary mark my care:
But it shall linger there!
I'll even feign the outward smile,
To hide my inward woe,
I would not have her weep in heaven?
Ah! no, no, no!
FAIR MAIDEN WITH THE BRIGHT BLUE EYE.
Thou'st stolen my heart away;
Thou'rt mingled in my dreams by night,
And in my thoughts by day!
Or falters on my tongue—
O! I was ne'er beguiled before
By one so fair and young!
Appears in all I see;
For nature, in her fairest forms,
But breathes and speaks of thee!
On evening calm and fair;
And in the rose's opening tint,
Thy beauty's pictured there!
Aught else it cannot be—
To think that all my joy or woe
Finds sympathy with thee.
Or flowers of summer gay,
And sing—O! maiden, ever fair,
Thou'st stolen my heart away!
SONG OF THE WINE BOND.
The Burgundy's bright, and the brandy is strong;
Our bold deeds shall flourish in fame's future story,
Brave kings of the wine-cup, and knights of the song.
We'll stifle the lockers, and burke the wine brokers,
With hammers and pokers we'll force in our way;
Our torches are gleaming, the red wine is beaming,
In bright oceans streaming—away, lads, away!
Unconscious the spoilers thirst strong for its blood;
Its heart-drops shall waken our wild swelling numbers,
It dies as the flower dies when nipt in the bud!
Its cold forms of friendship, tame, tame, are they all;
But here is the mine where repose its chief treasures,
And, goblet of Bacchus! enjoy them we shall!
Ha! ha! 'tis its brightness but meeting with thine;
Come, bleed him again—the bluff barrel can bear it,
In joy let us share it—hurrah! for the wine!
The night moon is up, through the heavens see her wander,
'Tis well, for our torches grow drowsy and dim;
Rouse, sons of the night! let us crown it with splendour,
In glory and grandeur, with cups to the brim!
THE BATTLE FLAG WAVES ON THE BREEZE.
Hark! hark! the bugle's calling;
Each soldier coming glory sees,
And foemen round him falling!
One youth remains, to beauty true,
To coward fear a stranger,
The last to bid his love adieu,
The foremost in the danger.
Which rose and woodbine cover;
She knows it is the farewell hour,
The parting with her lover!
She cries, in words of sorrow;
I know thou'rt with me here to-day,
But where art thou to-morrow?
With love and honour burning—
It suits not one in tears to part,
With laurelled brow returning!
Adieu, fair maid, this heart is thine,
No fate our love shall sever;
And while I hold thy bosom mine,
O! I am blest for ever!
HURRAH! FOR THE LAND OF THE BRAVE!
As riseth the sun o'er the wave,
In the temple of Fame they shall echo her name—
Hurrah! for the land of the brave!
That never was trod by a slave,
And beauty's fair smile gives a charm to the isle—
Hurrah! for the land of the brave!
Each spot is a warrior's grave;
Their bold deeds we'll tell, while the chorus shall swell—
Hurrah! for the land of the brave!
And liberty's banner shall wave
In pride o'er the main, while the harp sounds the strain—
Hurrah! for the land of the brave!
THE LILY NOW BLOOMS IN ITS BEAUTY.
The hawthorn blossoms sae fair,
And simmer, on saft sunny breezes,
Comes dancing in gladness ance mair.
The clear siller burnie is gushing,
Late covered in deep winter snaw,
And a', save my puir heart, is cheery—
My bonnie dear laddie's awa'!
I ken by the lintie's saft sang,
I ken by the shrill singing laverock,
High piping the white cluds amang:
I ken by the wail o' the plover,
That echoes through greenwood and shaw,
A' nature thegither is telling 't—
My bonnie dear laddie's awa'!
I meet him when morning is young,
Nor down i' the valley at gloamin'
I list to his love-wooing tongue!
Nae mair do I hear his wild music,
For sweetly the pipe he can blaw,
I wonder what's come o' my laddie—
O! he was the dearest of a'!
Rekindles the dark rocky glen,
Sae I, though my heart it be eerie,
May welcome its sunshine again.
But, hark! yonder note as it rises,
Or laigh down the valley does fa',
I ken 'tis the pipe o' my true love—
O! he is the dearest of a'!
CAPTAIN MUNRO.
Whose barks o'er its bosom bound fleet as the roe;
Success to all captains who fight for promotion—
The bravest of captains is Captain Munro!
He fights with the boldest, he rouses the coldest,
His weapon's the strong wine as black as the sloe;
Your bucklers and targes can ne'er stand his charges,
The prince of all warriors is Captain Munro!
And there did we meet when the sun journeyed low;
The night breeze was blowing, but the cock it was crowing
Ere we thought of going from Captain Munro!
While Bob swore that Burgundy best cured his woe;
And Mack, man of merit, hob-nob'd wi' the claret,
Or nobly did share it wi' Captain Munro!
Like fifers and drummers, a' stood in a row:
“Now seize on the nearest, and drain out the clearest,
And drink to the dearest,” said Captain Munro!
Such laughing and singing, to full cups such clinging,
While speeches like Baltic's dark waters did flow;
And when tongues failed in duty, the eye rose in beauty,
Speaking eloquent glances to Captain Munro!
The waves danced in gladness, the light breeze did blow,
The sails were in motion, and quick o'er the ocean,
Away went the good ship and Captain Munro!
Their bright dewy grandeur to nature will show;
O, welcome, gay season! I'll tell you the reason—
For then come the white sails of Captain Munro!
MY HOME IS THE HIGHLANDS.
Where woods are the darkest and streamlets the clearest;
No arts of the Lawlands, with fashions so gaudy,
The mountains for me and my dear Highland laddie.
O! there the dun deer in its wild freedom boundeth,
And there the shrill pibroch its martial notes soundeth;
A thousand bright swords to its summons are ready,
And first 'mong the brave is my dear Highland laddie.
Our bright-bosomed waters are fairest and deepest;
O'er steep rock or streamlet with foot free and steady,
As swift as the roe comes my dear Highland laddie.
His eye is as keen as the eagle's high soaring,
His soul only yields to his loved maid adoring;
His heart it is true, and his cheek it is ruddy,
And kind, kind to me is my dear Highland laddie.
As pure as the light stream that flows from the fountain,
So high is his heart, and so pure and as steady,
The love that I bear to my dear Highland laddie.
His parting is only to cheer his returning,
He speeds o'er the lake like a bird of the morning,
With sails snowy white and streamers so gaudy—
The mountains for me, and my dear Highland laddie!
DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.
Though the trumpet's sounding,
And gallant steeds for noble deeds
In martial pride are bounding;
Dinna think this brief farewell
Will e'er give cause to grieve thee,
From battle plain I'll come again,
To love and never leave thee.
This the hour of sorrow—
The glorious light but falls in night
To wake a brighter morrow;
And though misfortune's clouds may seem
Our morn of joy to cover,
The Powers that gave to me thy love
Will give thee back thy lover.
When the foe is flying,
And where was life and battle strife
Are now the dead and dying;
Dinna think, though red the fight,
And all around be gory,
This heart shall cease to beat for thee,
Or share with thee the glory.
While the danger spurning,
And for a name of deathless fame
Each soldier brave is burning;
Dinna think that beauty's charms
Shall be remembered never—
The brave in fight, the true in love,
Shall be victorious ever!
ODE TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT,
AS SUNG BY MISS BYFELD IN THE MASQUE, PERFORMED IN THE THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, IN HONOUR OF THE GENIUS OF THE MINSTREL OF THE NORTH.
The bowl beside the fount is broken,
And we shall hear that Harp no more
Whose tone to every land hath spoken!
Claims what is only common now;
His eye hath lost its kindling ray,
And darkness sits upon his brow!
His spirit its last flight hath taken;
The magic wand is broke at last,
Whose touch all things to life could waken!
The soul's returned back to the Giver,
And all that e'er could die is dead,
Of him whose name shall live for ever!
In tears of woe, and sighs of sorrow;
For though each day his song returns,
The Minstrel's voice it knows no morrow!
Hast laid the mighty with the slain—
The mantle fallen, is folded now,
And who may it unfold again?
THY ROSES, ENGLAND.
When two such lovely ones we see—
O! I would bid farewell to care,
Could I beside such blossoms be!
Puts forth its leaves of shady green:
The palm-tree lifts its head on high
Where Ganges' sunny banks are seen.
Nor those Italia's gales perfume,
Can match with England's fairest flowers,
The roses of the living bloom!
For them I breathe my fondest prayer;
Aught else of joy brings not of joy,
If they its pleasures may not share!
Of these fair flowers one rose were mine;
But which to choose would vex me still,
They're both so lovely, so divine!
To meet no more in love's fond tie;
But still enthroned within my heart,
My roses there shall never die!
I HEARD A MAIDEN PLAINTIVE SING.
While sorrow seemed to cloud the brow of her still fair and young.
“Had I,” she said, and, oh! how sweet the trembling accents fell,
And yet they told that hope with her had ta'en a long farewell!—
I would not mourn so many hours of gladness pass'd away:
I would not sigh for pleasures fled, that cannot come again,
If one of all the many gone to me but did remain!
Since those fond moments vanished now, again I may not know,
When he, the kind, the young, the brave, made those fleet moments seem
As if this world were one of joy, and all its cares a dream!
To-morrow o'er the foaming main, his gallant bark it flew;
And many a day I've counted o'er, and many a morrow mourn'd,
But ne'er unto these longing eyes has that swift bark return'd!
Yet soon a boding voice I heard, that whispered thus to me:—
Not where the yew-tree, darkly green, its wintry branches wave,
But 'neath the wild and stormy deep is thy fond lover's grave!”
ONE SONG, AND SINCE IT IS THE LAST.
Oh! let it be a plaintive strain,
That I, when all our loves are past,
May weep o'er it again.
Perhaps had spared this pang from me;
Another fate, had it been thine,
Had saved those tears from thee.
And parting it were quickly done,
Did tyrant memory never tell
That fond hearts once were one.
The busy world must never know,
That e'er our hearts with love did beat,
As now they beat with woe!
MY SOUL'S NOT IN THE MOTLEY THRONG.
Nor busy crowds we see;
I wander 'mid the world of song,
Where Nature's voice is free.
With murky thunders driven
Athwart the sky, proclaiming high
The Majesty of Heaven!
Or in the sunless glen
To commune with the silence there,
Remote from mortal ken!
To be where none shall be—
The privilege to be alone,
The glory to be free!
THE BEAUTIFUL'S AWAY.
In all their beauty fair;
They deck no more their throne of green,
Nor fondly linger there!
For lovely eyes that watched their bloom,
Or bade their blossoms stay,
Have closed their brightness in the tomb—
The beautiful's away!
But soon its hour went by,
Permitted but to bud on earth,
It blossoms in the sky!
While summer yet was gay,
Ye flowerets take a long repose,
The beautiful's away!
Nor weep though she is fled;
No sigh should come nor tear drop down
For what is with the dead!
But in my heart there is a woe,
A grief that seems to say:—
Bright flowers, lay all your blossoms low,
The beautiful's away!
ODE TO THE HARP.
Thy once high tones are low;
Yet Moore hath sounded all thy joy,
And Byron all thy woe!
Beside the silent stream,—
Do all the mighty slumber now,
In death's unbroken dream?
On Coila's flowery lea?
Whose song—harp of a thousand years—
Brought glory back to thee!
All on thy trembling string,
The pride, the pomp of chivalry,
From time's long vast did bring?
Nor neighing steeds come forth
To welcome, in their bright array,
The Minstrel of the North!
Is all thy music o'er?
Shall none for love, for freedom, fame,
Thy harmony restore?
And wakes this feeble strain—
“The halcyon days of song are past,
And may not come again!”
Thy thrilling tones are low;
Yet Moore hath sounded all thy joy,
And Byron all thy woe!
LET YOUNKERS BOAST HIGH.
Mere baubles of childhood, or youth's idle toys;
Gie me the warm friendship that age aye can len',
The frank hearty welcome of honest auld men!
And speak o' the friends that are cauld in the clay,—
These tales of the past may awaken a sigh,
But it charms us to call up our simmers gane by!
And count o'er the mile-stanes o' life we hae pass'd;
The road whiles was rough, and we whiles fand it lang,
But aften 'twas smooth'd wi' a blithe canty sang.
Oh! wha wad throw clouds on the rest of the way?
The morning is fled, and gane is the noon,
And evening, fast coming, will steal on us soon!
Oh! let us be happy, and social, and fain;
We're far-travelled pilgrims, and a' of ae band,
Then pledge me your heart, as I now pledge my hand!
DIRGE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
His loved harp sounds no more,
Though scarce we think its notes are dead,
And all its tones are o'er;
The leaf's not fall'n that late was green,
When in his woodland bower,
Amid his forest solitudes,
We listened to its power.
His spirit's flight it tells,
And thus, in cadence wild and deep,
The wailing chorus swells;
While hill and dale, and rock and tree,
And every vale around,
In music's saddest sound:
We bore the Bard along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song.
The grave is now his resting place,
Where weary pilgrims sleep,
His dwelling is the narrow house,
Which death's strong warders keep.
The mountain pipe was still,
Another came, and yet we missed
The Minstrel on his hill.
We sought him where his home appears,
Far in the forest glen,
And found Kilmeny's Bard had left
The land of living men!
And now from Yarrow's stream
The pride of love and pomp of song
Have vanished like a dream;
In beauty fair did blow,
Now mourns her moorland harp unstrung,
And all her flow'rets low!
The lily yet shall spring,
The mountains shall burst forth in song,
And all the grove shall sing;
But who shall call the Minstrel forth
When summer decks the plain?—
The tenants of the narrow house
Come never back again.
Which Ramsay did descry,
And at the feet of Ferguson
In pebbly pride went by;
Or nobly o'er its crystal banks
Did gushing overflow,
When Burns, in glory and in joy,
Beside the stream did go.
And others of the lyre,
In Yarrow did expire.
Bright fount of song, whose cooling draught
Did soothe our deepest woe,
Who now shall raise the wand, and bid
The rock-lodged waters flow?
Hath gladdened with its sound,
Is only where the willows weep
In sadness to be found!
Or should the rude blast wake a chord,
'Tis but a passing strain—
The Bard who of Kilmeny sang
Comes never back again!
Or charm in Ettrick Vale,
Or cheer the shepherd's humble hearth
With simple song or tale!
All mournfully—all mournfully,
We bore him sad along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song!”
POEMS AND BALLADS
THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW.
A wild and wailing sound;
The spectre-drummer leaves his grave,
Parading round and round.
With drumsticks on the drum,
And now the martial reveillé
Or roll-call beat doth come.
That, wakening to the strain,
Old soldiers from their gory sleep
Start up to life again!
Who fell 'neath Russian sway,
And those who from Italia's grave
Return not back to day.
And Nile gives up her slain;
And, lo! in ghostly armour clad,
They crowd the ranks amain!
The trumpeter doth come,
And shrilly answers with his blast
The summons of the drum.
The warrior throng is seen,
With many a gash'd and gory wound,
And visage dark, I ween!
Their bony hands aspire;
But from their grinning skulls the eyes
Give out no wonted fire!
The Chief of all the band,
On blanched steed, comes slowly forth
To give the still command.
No mark of kingly fame,
Nor plume nor glittering star
Add splendour to his name.
His shadowy form beside;
But all the Hero's fire is gone,
And all the Monarch's pride.
On the spectral forms below,
And he who reins the blanched steed
From rank to rank doth go.
In silence greet they him,
Save when the drum and trumpet notes
Rise o'er the phalanx dim!
And Generals bend the sword,
And, see! the Chieftain stoops to one,
And gives a whispering word!
With lightning swiftness driven;
'Tis France! their watchword—St Helene!
The password quickly given!
The spirits of the slain
Assemble round a Mighty Chief,
That troubleth not again!
MUSIC.
For harmony shall be
The charm that binds my heart to all—
And every heart to me!
And sadness quickly flies,
Or calms into a pleasing dream,
When melodies arise.
Would erring mortals know,
Let beauty only wake the strain,
And bid the numbers flow!
The woods burst forth in song,
And Ocean, with its dreamy voice,
Sings high the waves among.
May never once compare
With music falling from the tongue
Of lovely woman fair.
To her 'tis kindly given
To raise the grovelling soul from earth,
And taste the joys of heaven.
STANZAS TO MRS M---'S CHILDREN ON THEIR ARRIVAL FROM INDIA.
Welcome to Scotia's shore;
Ye come 'mid our brief summer's prime,
When all our storms are o'er.
Short-lived our days of breezes bland,
Unlike your own bright sunny land!
Nor flowers of living bloom,
Nor wafted airs of scented balm,
A soft and sweet perfume!
Nor skies that know no cloud, like those
'Neath which your childhood did repose!
Whose waters gently flow,
Or your loved landscapes know!
Our mountain torrents burst along,
Not like those famed in Indian song!
Whose plumage mocks the sun,
Whose music fills the morning air,
Nor stops till day is done.
Our warblers wake a feeble song,
Compared to those you lived among!
All gorgeous to the view,
Where Spring exclaims—These scenes are mine!
And Summer claims them too!
Our vales oft show a prospect drear,
And Winter comes to cloud our year!
Bleak, rugged, though she be—
Her worth o'er every land is known,
Her fame on every sea!
And 'mid our mountains cold and bare,
The warm and friendly heart is there!
Between and India's sky—
May each be still a mother's pride,
And each a mother's joy!
Long days of happiness and love,
Esteemed below, and blessed above!
WINTER SONG OF THE FLOWERS.
While loud the winds did blow,
Above their heads the crisping frost,
Around the wintry snow:—
Pent in thy icy tomb,
Where summer green leaf never spread,
Nor flow'r of Spring did bloom.
Far on its weary wing;
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower,
We'll all come out in Spring!
The primrose on the lea,
And where is now the daisy sweet,
So fair, so bright to see?
Even thou hast lost thy queen-like pride,
Which all the bards did sing;
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower,
We'll all come out in Spring!
Their branches, no more green,
Are waving to the summer breeze,
Where song-birds oft were seen!
The morn comes not with early dew,
They day no sun doth bring;
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower,
We'll all come out in Spring!
And joy shall light the glen,
Shall blossom forth again!
The earth is now a wilderness,
And darkness reigns as king;
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower,
We'll all come out in Spring!
To lift thy fragile form;
For loud and angry is the wind,
And awful is the storm.
But when thou hear'st the cuckoo's note,
Or thrush in woodland sing,
Then may'st thou leave thy wintry home,
And welcome in the Spring!
FUNERAL DIRGE FOR WILLIAM IV.
Glow in the setting sun,
And far upon the ear of night
Is heard the funeral gun;
It speaks of glory fled,
It tells of greatness gone—
That death has shown how vain the pomp
That circles round a throne!
Nor wields the sceptre now!
The jewell'd chaplet's passed away
That bound the royal brow!
The sword of power is sheath'd,
And, for the music's swell,
That rose within the princely hall,
Now chimes the burial bell!
Wakes echo from her cave!
Sinks 'neath the western wave!
Sadly he goes away,
Like our old King, to rest;
And now the Queen of night appears,
In virgin beauty drest!
With high attendant train,
To shed a glory o'er the land,
And bid it smile again!
She comes, in youthful pride,
With kind and gentle sway;
And all shall own her purer beam,
Her softer, milder ray!
A cloudless path be thine,
Thou lovely—but, oh, not the last—
Of a long and noble line.
Old England is thine own!
Thou'rt loved by Erin green!
And not a heart in all Scotland
But will rise for Scotland's Queen
THE DEATH OF THE INFANTS.
An' buds were on the tree,
Twa bonnie bairnies o' this earth
A-laid them down to dee!—
Or shall you wait for me?
We journey to a happier land,
Let's gang in company!
Likewise our mother's knee,—
We journey to a happier land,
And gang in company!”
That scarce ye'd ken'd it there,
Had not the breath, like the rose's breeze,
Played round their lips nae mair,
In this low world of pain?
Yet there's a bright and happy land
Where we shall meet again!”
And tear fell frae the e'e,
When the fair took flight to the world of light,
Where tears maun never be!
To light them on their way;
And the laverock high, with notes of joy,
Attuned his sweetest lay!—
That we'll gang through the sky?—
We left an earthly hame to-day
For a heavenly hame on high!”
Till near the hour of even,
When the bairnies heard the angels' song
At the portal gates o' heaven!
Nae farther maun ye flee;
For these are sounds ye maunna hear,
And sights ye maunna see!”
The bairnies to the sky,
While the seraph strain awoke again
To welcome them wi' joy!
The blossoms fade away;—
But, lovely ones, ye've reached the land
Where flowerets ne'er decay!
IT'S OH! GIN I WERE YOUNG AGAIN.
It's oh! gin I were young,
Nae faithless swain should e'er again
Deceive wi' flattering tongue.
Ne'er blossomed forth sae gay,
As did my hopes of happiness
In love's young gowden day.
Was quickly overcast,
And sorrow came, for love's young flame
It canna always last.
But promised to be true,
Till nature seven times o'er the earth
Its beauty did renew.
And sae was mony a day;
But aye the thought o' his return
Beguiled the time away.
In beauty come an' gang,
And seven times did the simmer gale
Waft down the cuckoo's sang;
Blew frae the Norlan' main;
And seven times simmer's bonnie face
Came smiling back again;
That he gaed ower the sea,
But yet, for a' his solemn vows,
He ne'er returned to me.
I canna that deplore;
He's wedded to a foreign bride,
And on a foreign shore.
In beauty she does shine;
But can she boast a warmer heart,
Or fonder love than mine?
And, oh! gin I were young,
Nae faithless swain should e'er again
Deceive wi' flattering tongue!
TO A SLEEPING INFANT.
How soft thine eyelids close!
No thoughts of sorrow cloud thy mind,
Nor trouble thy repose!
Across thy face so fair;
And round thy brow, of purest white,
Bright falls thy golden hair!
At calm of dewy eve,
When sunbeams, and the birds of song,
Its flowery blossoms leave!
The softly blushing rose,
Ere o'er the earth the blessed sun
His golden glory throws!
Thy dreams are far away,
To where the fields are ever green,
The landscape ever gay!
Thy bosom heaves no sigh;
But like a thing of love and light,
Thou peacefully dost lie!
And on thy placid brow
May joy and peace for ever dwell,
As calm as they do now!
Could I, with spirit free,
Forget past woes and future cares,
And sleep as soft as thee!
O! THE MERRY HUNTING DAYS ARE GONE.
When gallant hearts led beauty on
O'er moorland wild, or winding hill,
When hounds were fleet and horns were shrill!
But summer's fled, and winter's come,
No more my dog and I can roam;
Yet, when flowers are fair, and fields are dry,
To the hunting go my dog and I.
And darkness falls o'er glen and wold,
Save when the sun shows feebly bright,
One snowy waste of endless white!
Awoke the lark at early morn!
For days like these I fondly sigh,
When a-hunting go my dog and I.
Save when he dreams of fields gone by,
And, starting, thinks he still does trace
The bygone glories of the chase!
Sleep on, my dog! for fierce winds blow,
And streams run hoarse 'neath ice and snow;
But when summer comes, and fields are dry,
To the hunting go my dog and I.
A homeless pilgrim, old and poor:
Come in, lone man, and wake a chime
Of song and tale of olden time!
Recall those scenes still in my mind,
Of stag before, and steed behind!
The storm is loud, but the time draws nigh
When a-hunting go my dog and I.
Fair hands will spread that couch of thine;
Though minstrel's sleep is short repose!
The wanderer sleeps; ah! soon, forlorn,
He'll sleep that sleep which knows no morn!
Yet, o'er his grave oft will I sigh,
When a-hunting go my dog and I.
THE BARD OF SONG ROSE IN THE WEST.
And gladdened Coila's land,
The badge of fame was on his brow,
Her sceptre in his hand.
While glory round him shone,
Walk forth to kindle with his glance
Whate'er he looked upon!
Acquire a greener hue,
And sunny skies high o'er his head
Assume a brighter blue.
In cadence wild and strong:
His song was of bold freedom's land—
Of Scotland was his song!
Beyond the mortal ken;
His song was of the moorland wild,
The happy homes of men.
To his enraptured view—
He knelt before the Bruce's crown,
And sword that Wallace drew!
He marked the patriot band
Who stood, 'mid dark and stormy days,
The guardians of our land.
“Thy star shall ne'er decline;
A deathless name, and lasting fame,
Shall ever more be thine!”
But thus she boding sung—
“Away, away, nor longer stay,
Thy parting knell hath rung!”
A few sad tones there fell;
They told of honours—all too late,
And of his last farewell!
Would need a cold world's fame—
Of proud memorials to his name,
When he was but a name!—
The proud man's passing by—
The Minstrel left to die on earth,
Yet lauded to the sky!
That thrills the chords among:
'Tis—Scotland's song shall be of Burns,
Who gave to Scotland song!
IT WAS 'BOUT THE AULD HANSEL MONANDAY TIME.
When dancin', an' drinkin', an' singin' 's nae crime,
That a canty auld carle cam' down by the burn,
An' towards our dwallin' his feet he did turn.
“Ye're welcome, auld man, to our feastin' an' din;
“What news do ye bring frae the kintra or town?”
Sae we dichted a chair, an' he sat himsel down.
At his feet was a dog, and his hand held a rung;
An' his auld-fashant coat, o' patches no few,
Might, thretty years syne, hae aiblins been new!
Sair worn—like its owner, bespak better days;
But his white sark, sae hale, as if just frae the loom,
Shawed a pride in the heart, though the pouch might be toom!
Wi' the sense o' the auld, an' the wit o' the young,
An' sae weel they cam' in, an' sae fine they did chime,
That they seemed as they'd a' just been made for the time.
Than the gudeman himsel he seemed mair at his ease;
But yet, naething forward, nor saucy, nor high,
Twas the ease o' a king when his crown is laid by!
He drank aff his cappie, an' crackit again:
His noddle wi' lair was fu' to the brim,
E'en auld Rabbie Gordon had nae chance wi' him!
An' Saunders Kilpatrick sat gaping, an' gazed;
An' Willie Carmichael, in wham gude sense lies,
Said something 'bout folk being lords in disguise!
That you'd thocht the auld carle was courtin' them a';
But there aye was a dignity mixed wi' his fun,
An' his e'e claimed that rev'rence his arm could hae won.
He spak o' the Turks an' the Wallington wars—
But his picture of Waterloo made our hearts sair,
An' the round siller medal shawed he had been there!
An' the doggie an' bairns were as thick on the floor;
Seemed to share, wi' his master, the daffin' an' glee!
Maun aye dree the fell thocht o' gangin' awa';
If the meeting gie pleasure, the parting gies pain—
Shall we e'er see the canty auld carle again?
Our canty auld carle said—“Fare ye weel a'!”
We pressed him to bide, but he wadna sit still,
But said he'd be back when the snaw left the hill.
An' looked to the place where the auld man had sat:
We sought him in hamlet, we sought him in glen,
But the canty auld carle cam ne'er back again!
THERE CAM' TO OUR VILLAGE A STRANGER.
A braw chiel frae braw Lon'on town,
An' aff a braw naig at the alehouse
Fu' brawly he lighted him down.
The landlord, auld Rabbie M'Vicar,
Wi' booing I wat didna spare,
Said, “Walcome to this our plain dwallin',
Yet bravely I vow ye sall fare!
The fattest e'er ran on twa legs;
I'll slit up the craig o' a grumphie,
They mak' famous eatin'—young pigs!
There's a clag o' cowheel on a trencher,
A gude haggis sooms i' the pat,
An' Girzy, ye see, 's makin' puddin's;—
What else could we do wi' the fat?
The trouties dance by in the burn;
It's fine to kill birds an' catch fishes,
An' eat them when ance we return.
An' after a's done, we've a drappie,—
The gauger ye'll surely no tell,—
I say we sall hae a gude cappie,
We whiles brew the whisky oursel!
We've somebody's something on law;
We've Burns ‘complete in ae volume,’
But then the best half o't 's awa'!
We yince had a Patie and Roger,
I think we've still gatten a part,
But auld Tibby Gowans, the howdie,
Can rhyme owre the maist o't by heart.
Our Jenny hersel can sing ten;
The ‘Braw lads o” famed ‘Gala water,’
An' the lass that made love to Tam Glen.
There's Sandy M'Gregor, the piper,
His music might charm down a saunt:
Sae what the deil else wad ye want?
For sample I'se name ye a few:
There's Jamie Macfarlane, the skipper,
He's been whaur the oranges grew.
An' there's Eppie Blake, decent bodie,
Brings cookies frae Auld Reekie's town;
Na, mair—she sells tea, tripe, an' soda,
An' sugar baith candied and brown.
O' Charlie's gowd locks I've a hair;
A shoe that has Africa trodden—
It belanged to Mungo Park's mare!
Then sic is a spice o' our village,
O' what you may baith eat an' see;
An' now, by the ghaist o' my gutcher!
We'll hae ben a bottle an' pree!”
O TELL ME, GIN THOU WERT A KING.
What pleasure would be thine?
Wouldst thou for pearls explore the deep,
For diamonds search the mine?
To sparkle on thy silken robes,
Or glitter on thy crown,
With lords and ladies worshipping
Thy glory and renown?
What pleasure would be thine?
Would sumptuous banquets be thy fare,
Thy drink the ruby wine?
With ladies fair to sing to thee
The minstrel's sweetest lay,
And lords to laugh at ilka word
That thou wert pleased to say?
What pleasure would be thine?
Wouldst thou for feats of chivalry
Or deeds of valour shine?
Or follow at the gallant chase,
Or lead the glorious war,
Returning with the laurelled brow,
And breast with honour's star?
What pleasure would be thine?
Wouldst thou pursue the road to fame,
And woo the fickle Nine?
Have earth to laud thy heaven-born strains,
And praise thy witching theme?
Enjoy the dream of poesy?—
It is a pleasing dream!
What pleasure would be thine?
Wouldst thou cause genius cease to mourn,
An' poortith cease to pine?
Bring halcyon days to all thy land,
Such as the poets sing?
Gin thou wert made a king?
The pleasure mine should be:
I'd have nor wealth, nor fame, nor power,
Nor cruel tyrannie;
Nor lords nor ladies gay should wait
Upon me, or my crown,
Save ane, whase bonnie smiling face
Would gar them a' look down!
Would mak' a king o' me;
And, had I ane, this bonnie lass
My lovely queen should be:
The pearl might sleep in ocean's bed,
The diamond in the mine,
A fairer jewel I would hae
In bonnie Madaline!
STANZAS WRITTEN IN MISS ---'S ALBUM.
While I strike thy trembling string;
Waken now thy sweetest numbers,
Sweet as her for whom I sing!
Not to strains of tyrants' fall—
Not to songs of freedom's glory—
Waken now to beauty's call!
Waken! for I bid thee wake;
Waken! for thy tones I've number'd;—
Sound them all for Mary's sake!
Strains of grief, and strains of glee;
Wailings now of woe or madness,
Harp of my soul, have fall'n from thee
Oft I've trembled when they came,
Wak'ning pangs of love long hidden,
Pangs I may not, cannot name!
Follow weary nights of pain,
One more song, oh! let me borrow,
Harp of my soul, awake again!
Hark! 'tis swelling deep and strong;
Listen while the spirit lingers,
Hear its high prophetic song:—
Days of peace, with nought of care;
In thy bosom pure may never
Sorrow find a dwelling there!
O'er whose sky no clouds are driven;
Colours all of purest whiteness,
Mixed with rainbow-tints of heaven!”
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
And Shakspeare well its magic knew,
When he, with more than Raphael touch,
Such lovely, living portraits drew!
To name the name I love so well,
Around it all the graces meet,
Within it all the cupids dwell.
To hear that name I love to hear,
Even passion's rage it does control,
To name that name to me so dear.
Enough all men to lovers make;
And did you know my fair one's name,
You'd almost love her for its sake!
What's in the sun when he does shine?
Or ask this lovely world of ours,
What were it but for Madaline!
STANZAS. WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF A VILLAGE CHURCH.
With tower and turrets riven;
This is the house of God no more,
No more the gate of Heaven!
Its walls grow to decay;
Its very burial mounds are gone,
Its monuments away!
Thy power what can outbrave!
When thus we mark thy ravages
On the enduring grave!
The week's sad toilings o'er,
We see the train of villagers
Assemble here no more!
Of prayer—when hearts did bow—
The worship, and the worshippers,
Alas! where are they now!
The voiceless throng is there;
None weeps for them, none weeps for thee,
Thou lonely house of prayer!
Be opened unto day,
Where sleep the countless multitudes
Of ages passed away:
And claim a kindred here,
And mourn to see thy mouldering walls,
That naked thus appear!
Where wild the nettle grows;
And there the owl has found a home
Where heavenly songs arose!
Come from those aisles so dim;
And thus the viewless Choristers
Chant forth their solemn hymn:
And time is on the wing,
That shortly to a final close
All earthly pomp shall bring!
Behold them every where;
Then, mortal, lift thy soul to heaven,
Nor death, nor change, is there.”
PARAPHRASE UPON ISAIAH.
CHAP. XXXV.
God shall Redemption bring;
Then every valley shall be glad,
And all the woods shall sing.
Shall singing thus rejoice—
Of Lebanon the glory is,
And her Redeemer's choice.
Where green leaf never grows,
Lo! they in beauty shall bud forth,
And blossom as the rose.
Confirm the feeble knees,
And bid the drooping hands be raised,
For God their trouble sees.
Their sorrows will repay,
And they with joy shall find in him
A Saviour in that day.
The blind shall look and see:
The deaf shall hear, and of the dumb
The mouth shall opened be!
Where weary pilgrims go;
And waters from the barren rock
In living streams shall flow.
For just men shall be spread;
But fools, and those that wicked are,
That pathway shall not tread.
Shall find that valley fair;
But they—the ransomed of the Lord—
Shall walk and worship there.
And there for ever stay;
And sighs and sorrows, griefs and tears,
Shall ever flee away!
EZEKIEL'S VISION.
Upon Ezekiel came;
The prophet knew the voice of God,
And kindled at the same:—
“This is the valley of the dead,
Behold it wide and deep;
Where, from their troubled dream of life,
A thousand strong men sleep!
That blanched and withered lie.”—
The prophet look'd upon the bones,
And they were very dry.
“Say, son of man, can these bones live,
In which no life-springs dwell?”
The prophet answer'd, “O! Lord God!
'Tis thou alone canst tell!”
And this that word shall be—
Awake, ye dead men, from your sleep,
The Lord shall set you free;
New flesh upon your bones shall come,
And skin shall gather there;
And round the clouded brow of death
I'll stamp my image fair:
Your Maker's praise shall sing,
Then shall ye know that I am God,
Your Saviour and your King!”
The prophet raised his voice and cry'd,
“Ye dead men, now awake!”
And, lo! a mighty noise was heard,
And all the bones did shake.
Each bone into its place,
But cold and lifeless was each form,
And ghastly was each face;—
The eye had not yet light—the mouth,
Unmoving, still was dumb,
And from the heart no living stream
In purple tide did come.
And breathe upon the slain,
That they may wake to life once more,
And walk the earth again!”
“Come forth, ye winds of heaven! obey
His voice who bids ye blow;
And raise the sleepers from their sleep,
Whom death has long laid low.”
In lofty notes, his praise;
And high as ever angel soared,
Their voices forth they raise.
The dead men startle at the sound,
The breath of life is given
By Him who walks upon the wind,
And rules the host of heaven!
To see this living band,
That grew an army great in power—
That covered all the land.
“Who are the sleepers?—Who the dead?
Once blind, but now who see?
Whence is the vision of the bones?
And what may those things be?”
Wandering from the way,
Refuse the Witness sent from God,
Their only hope and stay;
Who sleep in darkness and in death,
And scattered o'er the plain,
Till God's free Spirit o'er them come,
And call to life again.
And dreary is their tomb;
But summer yet shall o'er them smile,
And bid the valley bloom.
Then shall their dry bones quicken'd be,
And they shall hear his word,
And know that Jesus reigns as King,
The great and mighty Lord!”
SONG OF PEACE.
Let nations join the strain;
The march of blood, and pomp of war,
We will not have again!
Let fruit-trees crown our fields,
And flowers our valleys fair;
And on our mountain steeps—the songs
Of happy swains be there!
And bid the timbrel sound;
Soft dreams no more shall broken be
With drums parading round.
No tears for lovers slain,
From lovely eyes shall fall;
But music and the dance shall come
In halcyon joy to all!
Their path of fame is o'er;
The trumpet and the trumpeter
Shall squadrons rouse no more!
No fields of vict'ry won,
With blade and battle brand!
A nobler triumph shall be ours—
A bright and happy land!
Hath ruled without control;
Nor widows' tears, nor orphans' sighs,
Could touch his iron soul!
But, lo! the Mighty's fallen—
And from his lofty brow
The chaplet fades that circled there—
Where are his trophies now?
Where sleep the thousands slain!
The morning songs no more call forth
The stirring bands again!
The din, the strife is past,
Of foe with falling foe—
The grassy leaves wave o'er their heads,
And quiet they rest below!
And raise the joyous strain;
But war's rough note be it ne'er heard
To swell the chords again.
Put all its trappings past—
Vain pomp of bygone years:
To ploughshares grind the pointed swords,
To pruning-hooks the spears!
Come in the bond of peace;
Then strife and war, with all their train
Of dark'ning woe, shall cease.
Come, with that spirit free,
That art and science give;
Come, with the patient mind for truth,
Seek it, and ye shall live!
The seasons forth shall bring;
And summer fair shall gather sweets
From sunny bowers of spring!
While autumn mellow comes
With full and liberal hand;
And gladness then shall fill each heart
Through all the happy land.
THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
Where rests his weary clay;
And yet no gravestone lifts its head,
To say what gravestones say!
No sculptured emblems blazon here,
No weeping willows wave,
No faint memorial, e'er so faint,
Points out the poor man's grave!
As softly does repose,
Though marbled urn around his grave
No idle incense throws!
His lowly turf it burdens not,
Yet that is ever green;
And, hopping near it oft at morn,
The little redbreast's seen!
To touch it who would dare,
Save some kind hand to smooth the grass,
That grows all wildly there!
The poor man's grave! call it his home—
From sorrow all secure—
For woe and want vex him no more,
Whom Fortune stamped as poor!
And profit by't who can—
Here lies a man all nobly poor,
And yet an honest man!
He was a man well known for worth,
But all unknown to fame;
And yet within his village bounds
He did not lack a name!
When they had need to call;
His counsel free to all was given,
For he was kind to all!
The young, the old, the sick, the hale,
Found him a friend most sure;
For he rejoiced in others' weal,
Although himself was poor!
Made all that he possess'd
Be cherished with a grateful heart,
Which made it doubly blest.
Serene 'mid ills,—to age resigned,
His days in peace did flow—
His timeward pilgrimage is past,
And now he sleeps below!
His bark was roughly driven,
Yet still he braved the surge—because
His anchorage was in Heaven!
I know no more—what more would'st know,
Since death deliverance gave:
His spirit took its flight on high—
This is the poor man's grave!
“THERE IS MUCH BETWEEN THE CUP AND THE LIP.”
The tide of joy to flow began:
I stoop'd to cool my parched tongue,
But still the waters past me ran!
I rush'd to chase the giddy stream
That onward, onward still, did flow;
Thinking the race a pleasing dream,
And only woke to find it woe!
I sought fair pleasure's sunny sea;
The shores were green, and clear the sky,
And every wave danc'd wild and free!
I touch'd the brink!—when backward flew
The waves that lately kiss'd the shore:
The sky around all inky grew,
And darkness came—where light before.
Whose waters upwards gushing came;
And, oh! how lovely was the maid
That held the cup whence flowed the same!
“This is the fount of love,” she cried;
And though the goblet oft was mine,
Some hand still dashed that cup aside,
Before I drank the rocky wine!
And glorious did that stream appear;
And many a voice, like music's tone,
Rose from its wave upon mine ear!
“Give me to drink this water pure,
And lasting friendship mine shall be:”
Alas! while still it did allure,
It join'd thy shores, Eternity!
Its wavelets of a golden hue;
And thousands stoop'd with impulse strong,
And I would taste its waters too.
I raised the cup, but ere I drank,
A giddy madness seized my brain;
Back to its feverish stream again!
Earth's baubles, how I hate ye all!
Ye hold your cup!—ah! dearly bought—
I've found your waters from me fall!
One cup!—no hand shall dash away,
Whose bitter dregs will soon be mine:
Death pours the draught, and seems to say—,
“This cup, at least, is certain thine!”
THE PSEUDO AUTHOR.
My case is very hard;
I've struggled long to gain the name
Of novelist or bard;
I've six Romances cut and dry,
Of Epics I have more;
I've written ballads by the yard,
And sonnets by the score.
A bloody tale of woe,
It breath'd of daggers, fire, and death,
With four mad scenes or so;
I read it to a manager
From curtain's rise to fall,
He bade me cut it to a farce—
The cruelest cut of all.
They say the press is free—
Alas! the freedom of the press
No freedom brings to me.
A slave to dactyles, anapæsts,
Iambics and spondees,
The “well of English undefiled”
I've drained ev'n to the lees.
In Learning's deepest mines,
And yet, in place of getting free,
I'm caught in my own lines:
My prose, in periods rounded smooth,
And turned with nicest care,
Will soon a period put to me,
Or plunge me in despair.
Keep talent out of view—
But I cannot get a publisher!
So what am I to do?
They talk of patrons in the “trade,”
To which I quite agree,
They will not trade with me.
Would hand me up to fame,
And waited on the tenter-hooks
Till out the Monthly came;
But not a line or scrap of mine
Could I find printed there,
Save “To ‘O. O.’ we say, Oh! Oh!”
Which drove me to despair!
To him I bent my way—
He said his hands were filled by all
The first pens of the day:
Pshaw! 'tis too bad—were I shown up
In Quarterly Review,
How does he know but I might rank
A first-rate writer too!
And Cadell scarce will bow:
Macrone, he was a crony once—
He's not a crony now!
Looked o'er some lines of mine,
And now they send a line to say—
They are not in that line.
No answer to my prayer,
Although I wished most anxiously
To Curry favour there.
I thought the Modern Athens might
Afford some chance for me,
So, charged with trunk, high pressure crammed,
I thither hied with glee.
I found even to the full;
They said my grave works were too light,
My light works far too dull.
Blackwood at once did black ball me,
And Tait—'twas silly spite—
Showed me a snuff-shop where they'd buy
As much as I could write.
Thinking we might agree;
With either mine or me!
Then Oliver I thought would take
My tale, “Roland the True;”
But a “Roland for an Oliver”
I found here would not do.
Whene'er on them I call,
And Bradfute quickly makes light foot
Between me and the wall;
And he who talked of “types” and “tomes”
Has also turned my foe—
Ye're no sae kind's you should hae been,
John Anderson, my joe!
And what is to be done?
My Perryian pen will pen no more,
My inky stream is run—
Go get a goose-quill! sink expense!
Come, wind, blow rack or rain,
Big with a summer Tragedy,
I'll try the field again!
INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALBUM.
Thy destiny to tell;
Here love and song shall find a home,
And here shall beauty dwell.
That knows no woe or care,
Safe, in thy silken folds, shall find
A dwelling fit and fair!
Shall here her wreath entwine;
And here shall summer's fairest flowers
In all their brightness shine!
The lily no decay;
The hare-bell, in perpetual blow,
Shall never fade away!
Shall sound the golden lyre;
Her thrilling tones they cannot die—
Here lives her sacred fire!
Shall wake her voice and sing,
In strains of softest minstrelsy,
Like bird of merry spring!
The wood-nymph shall reveal
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows all,
That lovers ever feel!
Of many tinted hue,
May all who in thy pages look
Find lovers ever true!
STANZAS TO AUTUMN.
Comes from yon aged tree;
It tells of summer days now fled,
Of flow'rets dying all, or dead,
Of leaves that withered be.
The rose of summer gay,
The lily by the shining stream,
And moorland hare-bell, like a dream,
Have vanish'd all away.
In sadness on the blast;
And every leaf they bear along
Joins in the melancholy song,
That summer hours are past.
A requiem for the flowers,
No music wakens in the grove,
No birds chant forth their notes of love,
In summer's sunny bowers.
Though mournful be thy song,
Is half so sad, or half so drear,
As autumn's moaning voice to hear
The rustling leaves among.
A glad and happy strain,
When, from the gentle budding spring,
The smiling sun shall flow'rets bring
To beauty back again.
Whose presence charms no more:—
No spring, when balmy breezes blow,
Nor summer sun—my flow'ret low,
To gladness shall restore!
Or winter's sullen gloom;
The dark, the joyless, and the drear,
Best suits with those which nought can cheer,
Whose heart is in the tomb!
STANZAS TO JULIA.
To those who high would shine;
A prouder wreath I'd weave for thee—
A happy home be thine!
Some charm within the hall;
But thou, with native loveliness,
Shedd'st glory over all!
The loved of look and name;
But thou, 'mid years of chance and change,
Still bloom'st to us the same!
Thy cheek is still as fair,
Though round thy form, like olive plants,
The fond ones gather there
Through many passing years,
Shower down on each a mother's love,
“But spare a mother's tears!”
Fair Julia, made for thee,
Would we forget thy bosom's lord,
The generous and the free!
When men fill high the wine;
His glory and his honour is,
To hold that heart of thine!
By which man's bark is driven,
May thou and thine an anchor find
Within the port of heaven!
HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.
Now thy far journey of day it is done;
Still art thou parting bright—shedding immortal light
Down on thy throne of night, hail! setting sun!
Are waiting to worship thee, fountain of light!
Where'er thy footsteps be, there do we beauty see,
Thou kindlest day in the dwellings of night!
Down 'neath the ocean deep there dost thou stray
Skirting creation's far verge on thy way!
Ling'ring in pity on summer's loved bowers:
Thy last ray is streaming, thy farewell tint gleaming,
Yet soon thou'lt appear to refreshen the flowers!
Brightness and majesty walk in thy train:
Darkness it flies from thee, clouds may not rise to thee,
When thou awak'st from the ocean again!
Blessings o'er Nature where'er its bounds be;
Afric's lone desert, it blooms at thy presence,
And Lapland is turned into summer by thee!
Years have no power to limit thy sway;
Strength and sublimity, still they attend on thee,
Pilgrim of ages!—but not of decay!
Now thy far journey of day it is done;
Still art thou parting bright—shedding immortal light,
Down on thy throne of night, hail! setting sun!
THE POET'S INHERITANCE.
Whence do his pleasures flow?
Are his the joys that fortune yields—
That wealth and power bestow?
A nobler heritage is his,
Far in the shady bowers,
With all the woodlands waving green,
And all the world of flowers.
In brambly brake, or dell;
Their language is not known to all,
But he doth know it well!
The stock-dove tells her woes;
The thrush unfolds to him her tale,
In words no other knows.
For him in gladness run;
And he partakes of every joy
That sparkles 'neath the sun.
'Tis his to strew each path with flowers,
Life's pilgrimage along;
His mornings are with music crown'd,
His evenings close with song!
All free from care or pain!
They rise from lowly earth to heaven,
And come from heaven again.
They picture forth a world of joy,
All lovely to the view,
Where woman reigns in virgin pride,
And virgin beauty too!
For there's a glory given
Be't ocean, earth, or heaven!
And who is Nature's worshipper
Like him who walks abroad,
And talks with woods, and hills, and streams,
The children of his God!
A limit given to power;
And soon the pomp and pride of state
Exhaust their little hour!
But what can bound the poet's soul—
What chain his spirit free?
He bursteth o'er the bounds of time,
And grasps eternity!
ODE. WRITTEN FOR THE SHAKSPEARE CLUB OF SCOTLAND, 9TH OCTOBER 1839.
To raise our poet's fame;
We merely lift the cup, this day,
And whisper Shakspeare's name!
Hath to the winds been given;
The ocean speaks it, and it sounds
Among the stars of heaven!
Dark gushing, deep, and strong—
In wintry grandeur and in pride,
Pour forth our poet's song!
That wake the coming day,
Attune their notes, and sing with joy
The wild Shaksperian lay!
Soft moonlight on the land—
Fancy awakes, and, lo! you hear
His sylvan fairy band!
Revenge—Remorse—Despair—
Or those that speak the fonder ties—
Then, Shakspeare! thou art there!
Removed—but art not gone;
Though ages with their crumbling sway
Long over thee have flown!
Alike for joy or woe—
Thou sitt'st 'mong sunbeams high enthroned—
Dark clouds they roll below!
APPENDIX.
LINES WRITTEN IN RESTALRIG CHURCH YARD.
Where sleep the dead—removed, but not forgot!
Where the loved ashes of the lost ones lie,
Tears o'er their grave—their memory a sigh!
A father's worth, although not known to fame;
And what a magic in a mother's name;—
The harebell lifts its humble head in spring,
When gaily o'er the young flowers song-birds sing,
While Summer's glories in their beauty wave,
But faded leaves become the silent grave!
'Tis Autumn now!—and short the sun's bright beams—
Sad leaves fall thick—an epitaph each seems,
Each o'er its turf-clad grave proclaims—“Here lies
A child, to better lands thus early gone,
Before, perhaps, the evil years come on;
A parent gathered to his last abode,
Though dust be here, the spirit's up to God!
A brother, sister, sleeping thus below,
While round their ‘narrow house’ the mourners go!
An honoured patron, or a loving friend,
This is their resting place—this is their end!”
How calm the churchyard on this solemn day,
Silence secure, and busy world away,
Unless half broken by the Sabbath bell,
Whose tones no echo from the stillness tell.
Shades of the dead! in melancholy bloom
Around you still some flowers take from your gloom,
To show that though Death's Winter reigneth here,
Hope's Spring shall bloom when Joy's eterne is near;
What time, or late or soon, when life's round's o'er,
And I must walk this waking world no more,
Here let me lie—this be my place of rest,
Where sleep the weary, and repose the blest!
SONG.
[Oh! weel I mind the days, by our ain burn side]
When we clam the sunny braes, by our ain burn side,
When flowers were blooming fair,
And we wandered free o' care,
For happy hearts were there, by our ain burn side!
Nor langest day seemed lang, by our ain burn side,
When we decked our woodland queen
In the rashy chaplet green,
And gay she looked, I ween, by our ain burn side.
And gath'ring tempests low'r, by our ain burn side.
The woods—no longer green—
Brave the wintry blasts sae keen,
And their withered leaves are seen by our ain burn side.
To meet, ah! ne'er again, by our ain burn side,
And the winter of the year
Suits the heart both lone and sere,
For the happy ne'er appear by our ain burn side!
THE DREDGING SONG.
(Nothing in the romance of music can be finer than to listen from the beach, on these fine autumnal mornings, to the song of the New-haven fishermen plying the oar and hauling the oyster dredge.)
Ye pilgrims of the deep;
The autumn winds are fresh and strong,
Why, then, your moorings keep?
The morning mists fast clear away—
Night's reign of darkness o'er—
Up sail! up sail! 'twill soon be day,
Then leave the slumb'ring shore.
Which roars from sea to sky;
But we who raise the tiny sail,
The active oar must ply!
With steady stroke and slow;
The sea-birds high above us fly,
And the oyster sleeps below!
When the sickle glances bright;
But not like the joys the waters yield,
When their treasures come to light!
Our hands were made for the bulky wave,
Our hearts are firm and strong;
And we launch our bark—be it light or dark—
Hurrah for the dredging song!
LINES ON HEARING THE GREAT ORGAN AT HAARLEM.
Æolus breathes in thee,
In thunder bursts, or swelling low
In softest melody!
The whirlwind blast is come,
Joined by a thousand trumpets loud,
Each with its rolling drum!
Far-spreading, wide, and strong,
So when thou speak'st the air becomes
One living sheet of song!
They tell of deepest woe;
Alternate given, as frail man finds,
In this sad world below!
Nor mirth nor mournful strain,
Fresh from her caves thou would'st awake
The trembling tones again!
No diminution knows;
As much of song remains, though now
Thou slumb'rest in repose!
Where fond ones claim a tear,
They are not dead—they only sleep
As music sleepeth here!
THE LAND OF BURNS.
Poured forth its tide of purest joy,
'Mong woody braes, in gushes strong
And music's melting ecstacy!
Gives out her flowers, in beauty rare;
With woodlands waving darkly green,
Along the bonnie banks of Ayr!
Sings sweetly as it flows along,
(Fit music for a Poet's dream!)
As conscious of the Poet's song!
Unseen, unsung, unknown by all,
'Till grasped by Burns's magic power,
As winter chains the waterfall!
Singing soft music, to the sea;
Thy song, the praise of him who gave
To thee thine immortality!
LINES UPON A MOTHER'S DEATH.
Nor let the bosom heave a sigh;
Rather awake the joyful song:
This day a saint hath reached the sky!
A spirit pure hath passed away
From earth to heaven—from night to day.
Need fall, though thus unbid they flow;
Full in the given round of years,
She's parted from a world of woe!
A world where sin and death hold reign,
Whose touch she ne'er shall taste again.
For true repentant sinners won;
How much more joy is felt in heaven
For one who always loved the Son?
On earth his cross was her renown;—
In heaven, behold! she wears the crown.
Though sometimes weary was the way,
With troubles oft and trials sore,
Still the good Shepherd was her stay.
His word, his law, was her command,—
His rod, his staff, was in her hand.
May claim the mortal frame of clay,
And friends may seek the silent path
That leads to homes shut out from day!
But whom ye mourn,—she worships now
Where kings, and priests, and angels bow!
Bid her high welcome to that shore,
Whose waters wash the better land,
Where sin and sorrow meet no more;—
Where care and weeping may not be.
“Worthy the Lamb, that once was slain,”
Is shouted heaven's high courts among;
And one more voice now swells the strain.
Take comfort, children, do not weep,
She did not die, but fell asleep.
DIRGE TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN WILSON, THE VOCALIST.
His harp on willow branches all unstrung,
Save when the breeze across it trembling sweeps,
Faint echoes 'wak'ning of the strains he sung!
Nor in some nook he rests on Fortha's shore,
His “narrow house” 'mid strangers—soft his dream!
His dirge the Niagara's troubled roar!
The “Ewe-bughts, Marion,” “Gowansin the glen,”
“Farewell, Lochaber!” or the “Parting Tear,”
“Up, gallants, up! we'll a' be Charlie's men!”
Across the wide and wild Atlantic main,
Sad was its song—“The voice is heard no more,
That, dying, hath not left its like again!”
Or, “Bonny Tibby, I ha'e seen the day,”
“My love is like the rose, all blushing red,”
Or, “Forest Flowers a' weeded are away!”
A Ramsay, Ferguson, and Burns are there,
To give him welcome with outstretched hands,
Who of their fame divided half the share!
Thy laurels spreading as wide-spread thy song,
Wilt bid a vocal brother thus come forth,
Who poured thy lays our woods and wilds among!
In sweetest melody that singing dies,
So Wilson, ere he spread his up-borne wings,
Gave out his sweetest strains 'neath foreign skies!
The heather bloom on uplands far and free,
The song-birds wake again their mellow strains
What time that bud and blossom crown the tree.
These to the sea shall fall in many a river,
But Wilson! power and light of Scottish song,
Thy voice is hushed—to wake again, oh, never!
THE WITHERED ROSE.
ON FINDING ONE IN THE AUTHOR'S COPY OF DANTE.
The rose that Mary gave to me
In years gone by, when, free of care,
We met on Roslin's flowery lea.
Some ling'ring tints of beauties o'er;
As in my heart past joys remain—
Long withered now—of her no more!
Too bright for earth's oft clouded sky,
She left us ere the sunny dream
Had shown 'twas one of briefest joy!
Than mine to Mary not more strong,
Though thou hast placed in lasting bliss
Thy lost one in thy lofty song.
Thee no rude hand shall take away;
And o'er thee shall my bosom thrill,
Though thus thou restest in decay.
Shall wake the flow'rets of the year;
But no fresh flower shall raise a charm,
Like thou, poor rose, that sleepest here!
SONG.
[Eliza! fairest, dearest treasure]
Hear my vows and list my prayer,
In thy presence there's a pleasure,—
And my heart—thou'rt circled there.
When the moonbeams softly falling,
Kiss the lake or flowery lea,
Echo fast on echo calling,
Dearest then art thou to me!
And the morn in smiles appears
With the sun all brightly glowing,
Drying up fair nature's tears!
When the streams from purest fountains
In music murmur to the sea,
Greenwoods waving on the mountains,
Dearest then art thou to me!
Thou shalt hold my heart in sway,
Let not fate nor fortune sever
Love that ne'er shall know decay.
Days shall pass in happy glee,
Joy shall banish care and sadness,
Eliza! when I'm loved by thee.
A VOICE FROM THE HERMITAGE.
The spring comes again,—
Plough up the red land,
And throw in the grain!
Hath now passed away,
And spring-time, all fresh'ning,
Now bursts into day!
Strive to recall
The last days of sunshine,
And joy over all.
Should join in the strain,
That glad verdant spring-time
Awaketh again.
Ice-streams are free,
Sweetly they flow on
In loved melody.
Awake from their gloom,
And, in their spring vestments,
Now bud into bloom.
The sere leaves among,
And waits for the echoes
Of fast-coming song.
The spring comes again;
Plough up the red land,
And throw in the grain!
TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
A picture prized art thou by me!
One feeling only doth me move—
Affection—when I look on thee!
And though the tints of eve are told
In gathering shades around thee hung,
Still in thy smile I yet behold
The face remembered once as young!
The fragrance of the flower's the same;
And Winter, when it comes in gloom,
Takes nought from Summer but the name!
So those far travelled on life's day,
To them our warmest wishes spring;
Like ivy when the walls decay,
The closer round them we shall cling!
Fair hands have fashioned thee, and thou
Dost show the artist's subtile skill,
The placid face, and lofty brow!
If aught of earthly fame be mine,
'Tis thou that fame with me must share—
One half these honours they are thine!
A thousand swellings fill my heart,
To mark her worth, and walk the same,
The upright and the noble part!
Not wealth, perhaps, nor honours riven
From some remote or ruthful tie,—
But to her children she hath given,
What wealth and honours will not buy!
Long may'st thou be the transcript still,
Whilst she the living copy, here
Mak'st thou the second in our will.
The earth shall give no more of green—
The sun no more shall gild the sea—
Stars shun the night—when I, I ween,
My mother, shall not think of thee!
SONG.
[Come hame, lassie, come hame]
Come hame, lassie, come hame,
Come hame o'er the sea, to your country and me,—
Oh! come, my dear lassie, come hame!
A wearyfu' absence to me,
But winter is past, wi' its cauld sleety blast,
And simmer now glints on the lea!
But their beauty, nae doubt, ye wad shame;
Yet trust me, my dear, whaure'er you appear,
O, I think you look aye best at hame!
By woodland and saft singing burn,
I've counted ilk hour, and I've watched ilka flower,
Till simmer would bid you return!
A' safe frae the wind and the rain—
And joy then to me, in perfection shall be,
For then my dear lassie's my ain!
Come hame, lassie, come hame,
Come hame o'er the sea, to your country and me;
O, come, my dear lassie, come hame!
ODE TO WINTER.
Thy harbinger whirlwind appears;
Thou art old, but not weak in thine age,
Nor art thou bowed down with thine years.
Whence camest? and where dost thou stay
In the summer and bright budding spring,
Whose flowers thou hast withered away?
Thou wakest the storms on the deep,
The navies which sink 'neath thine eye
Never maketh that stern eye to weep.
For thy white locks are covered with sleet,
Around thee the wind bloweth chill,
The cold drifting snow's at thy feet.
Why wage so unequal a strife?
Dost not know that his life is a span?
In that span is the winter of life!
SONG.
[The mem'ry of the past]
Comes like a sunny ray—
A spell that fain would last,
A dream that long would stay.
Appears in hues of spring,
Or decked in garlands rare,
When summer's song-birds sing.
For who would dote or dwell
On early hopes and joys,
That lang have ta'en farewell.
Its freshness and its flowers,
In music's mournful tone,
Sing—“Farewell, happy hours!”
A SABBATH AMONG THE MOORLANDS.
INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND THE REV. MR CRUICKSHANK, MINISTER OF MANOR PARISH, PEEBLESSHIRE.
That calls from earthly care,
To worship in the solemn place—
The holy house of prayer!
In some sequestered dell,
Far from the stirring haunts of men,
I love the Sabbath bell!
With deep and drifting snow,
When to the house of God the bands
With joyful hearts did go.
O'er moor and mountain, wood and wild,
They bent their lonely way,
To spend within its sacred courts,
A holy, happy day!
Ah! well the path they knew—
Came forth, all conscious that on earth
Their Sabbaths would be few!
Weep not! ye aged ones, nor mourn
In this your house of prayer;
In heaven, a long, long Sabbath is,
And ye are welcome there!
Nor sorrow bended low,
Had worshipped long ago.
Nor pomp, nor state, nor wealth, nor rank,
Nor high distinctions given,—
They seemed a family met on earth,
Before their God in heaven!
And glad hosannahs sing,
This is God's house, and this his day—
Ye people praise your King!”
One heart the notes prolong,
And ne'er from high cathedral choir
Burst forth a nobler song!
That murmur as they flow—
So swelled this song—so dear to those
That Scotia's Sabbaths know.
And when their pastor, father, friend,
Poured forth his soul in prayer,
It seemed as if the blessings craved
Showered down in mercy there!
Another closing prayer;
And now the band of worshippers
For happy homes prepare!
If heaven has bliss—oh! earth has peace,
When those who brothers be,
Walk in that love of Him who made
Mankind as brothers free!
SONG.
[Langsyne the flow'rets bloomed aye fair]
And a' that met the view;
The glens and bonnie woodlands wild,
Seemed clad in beauty too!
And blithe was ilka birdie's sang,
Whatever strain was sung:
Oh, a' on earth was loveliness
In the days when we were young!
Nor sorrow e'er was dreamed;
Ilk' face wi' pleasure beamed.
On ilka tree, like Eden's bower,
The fairest fruit was hung,—
Oh, sic a world o' happiness
In the days when we were young!
A' lovely, fair to see—
The gathered treasures o' their heart,
Seemed glancing in their ee!
And we, their willing slaves, around
Their budding beauties clung,—
Oh, then sic joys and tender ties
In the days when we were young.
And with relentless sway,
The hopes, the joys o' sunny youth,
Takes all our dreams away!
Fond loves all lost, and friendships dead,
And hearts wi' sorrow wrung—
These now we hold for what we mourn
In the days when we were young.
SONG.
[My own, my true loved Marion!]
No wreath for thee I'll bring;
No summer gathered roses fair,
Nor snow-drops of the spring!
O! these would quickly fade—for soon
The brightest flowers depart;
A wreath more lasting I will give—
A garland of the heart!
Thy morn of life was gay,
Like to a stream that gently flows
Along its lonely way!
And now, when in thy pride of noon
I see thee blooming fair,
Be peace and joy still o'er thy path,
And sunshine ever there!
Though 'tis a world of woe,
There's many a golden tint that falls
To gild the road we go!
A light hath round me shone,
Since thou cam'st from thine highland home,
In days long past and gone!
Cold, cold, this heart shall be,
When I shall cease to love thee still,
To cheer and cherish thee!
Like ivy round the withered oak,
Though all things else decay,
My love for thee shall still be green,
And will not fade away!
BIRTH-DAY RECOLLECTIONS.
When life and joy were young,
When nought but gladsome tales were told,
Or mirthful strains were sung!
When birth-day “healths” with welcome high,
Were given with cheerful brow!
Our cups, alas! in silence pass—
We've nought but “memories” now!
Was seen that watchful eye—
One who, though knit to us on earth,
Yet raised our hopes on high!
She who in childhood's helpless days,
Around our couch did bow:
A mother's name no more gives fame—
We've nought but “memories” now!
Came sorrow, grief, and tears;
And for the sunny morns of song
We number heavy years!
Fond friends are gone, and we alone
Must 'neath afflictions bow:
Time was when we gave happy healths—
We've nought but “memories” now!
SONG.
[I have dreamed of thee in the silent night]
When Nature was hushed in repose;
I have thought of thee when the morning light
O'er a slumbering world arose.
Fell soft on thy beautiful brow,
But ne'er in my waking or midnight dreams,
More dear than I love thee now!
Where streamlets meandering flow—
For where is thy image, I fancy the scene,
The sweetest to mortals below!
More softly the songsters pour forth their lay,
The flowers at thy fair presence bow:
O, I've loved thee by night, and I've loved thee by day,
But never more dearly than now!
O, say that I'm loved by thee;
And Time, as he travels his swift journey on,
Shall make thee more lovely to me.
Each hour that I gaze on thy fair beaming eyes,
Or look on thy placid brow,
Emotions shall waken, and joys shall arise,
As tender and true as they're now!
SONG. THE GERMAN STUDENT'S RETURN.
We have traversed many strand,
Now returning, we shall never
Leave again our fatherland!
The Rhine! the Rhine!
From the lofty Drachenfells,
While our barque is steady nearing
To the homes where beauty dwells!
The Rhine! the Rhine!
Back to cave the echoes bring,
While our hearts with joy are bounding,
And the song of home we sing!
The Rhine! the Rhine!
High o'er mountain peaks they grow,
While the sunbeams softly sleeping,
In the fairy dells below!
The Rhine! the Rhine!
How we welcome thee once more!
Where with wassail, wine, and story,
Passed the merry days of yore!
The Rhine! the Rhine!
In thy beauty ever flow,
And our steps shall linger ever,
Where the rocky vine trees grow.
The Rhine! the Rhine!
Poems and Songs | ||