The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
SONGS.
I. LOVE AND SOLITUDE.
I love the free ridge of the mountain
When Dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;
I love the old ash by the fountain
When Noon's summer fervours are high:
And dearly I love when the grey-mantled gloaming
Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,
And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,
A-list'ning the close of the grey-linnet's song.
When Dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;
I love the old ash by the fountain
When Noon's summer fervours are high:
And dearly I love when the grey-mantled gloaming
Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,
And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,
A-list'ning the close of the grey-linnet's song.
When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters
Over ocean her silvery light,
And the whisper of woodlands and waters
Comes soft through the silence of night,
I love by the ruined tower lonely to linger,
A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,
And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,
The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven!
Over ocean her silvery light,
And the whisper of woodlands and waters
Comes soft through the silence of night,
I love by the ruined tower lonely to linger,
A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,
And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,
The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven!
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Yet still, mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,
Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh—
I yearn for the sympathies glowing
When hearts to each other reply!
Come, Friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion
To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;
Oh, come, my Eliza! with dearer emotion—
With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh—
I yearn for the sympathies glowing
When hearts to each other reply!
Come, Friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion
To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;
Oh, come, my Eliza! with dearer emotion—
With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
II. MAID OF MY HEART, A LONG FAREWELL.
Maid of my heart—a long farewell!
The bark is launched, the billows swell,
And the vernal gales are blowing free
To bear me far from love and thee!
The bark is launched, the billows swell,
And the vernal gales are blowing free
To bear me far from love and thee!
I hate Ambition's haughty name,
And the heartless pride of Wealth and Fame;
Yet now I haste through ocean's roar
To woo them on a distant shore.
And the heartless pride of Wealth and Fame;
Yet now I haste through ocean's roar
To woo them on a distant shore.
Can pain or peril bring relief
To him who bears a darker grief?
Can absence calm this feverish thrill?
—Ah, no!—for thou wilt haunt me still!
To him who bears a darker grief?
Can absence calm this feverish thrill?
—Ah, no!—for thou wilt haunt me still!
Thy artless grace, thy open truth,
Thy form that breathed of love and youth,
Thy voice by Nature framed to suit
The tone of Love's enchanted lute!
Thy form that breathed of love and youth,
Thy voice by Nature framed to suit
The tone of Love's enchanted lute!
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Thy dimpling cheek and deep blue eye,
Where tender thought and feeling lie!
Thine eye-lid like an evening cloud
That comes the star of love to shroud!
Where tender thought and feeling lie!
Thine eye-lid like an evening cloud
That comes the star of love to shroud!
Each witchery of soul and sense,
Enshrined in angel innocence,
Combined to frame the fatal spell—
That blest and broke my heart!—Farewell!
Enshrined in angel innocence,
Combined to frame the fatal spell—
That blest and broke my heart!—Farewell!
III. I'LL BID MY HEART BE STILL.
I'll bid my heart be still,
And check each struggling sigh;
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherish'd woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.
And check each struggling sigh;
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherish'd woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.
They bid me cease to weep—
For glory gilds his name;
But the deeper I mourn,
Since he ne'er can return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame!
For glory gilds his name;
But the deeper I mourn,
Since he ne'er can return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame!
While minstrels wake the lay
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death-dirge alone!
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death-dirge alone!
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My cheek has lost its hue,
My eye grows faint and dim;
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him!
My eye grows faint and dim;
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him!
IV. O THE EWE-BUGHTING'S BONNY.
O the ewe-bughting's bonny, both e'ening and morn,
When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear;
But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn:
On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free—
But alas! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn;
While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear;
But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear
O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn,
To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn:
On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free—
But alas! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
O the sheep-herding's lightsome amang the green braes
Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes,
Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale
And the cushat croods leesomely down in the dale.
There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn,
And blithe lilts the laverok aboon the green corn,
And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime—
But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime!
Where Cayle wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes,
Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale
And the cushat croods leesomely down in the dale.
There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn,
And blithe lilts the laverok aboon the green corn,
And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime—
But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime!
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O the hay-making's pleasant, in bright sunny June—
The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune—
But while others are joking and laughing sae free,
There's a pang at my heart and a tear i' my ee.
At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn,
Fu' dowie and wae, aft I daunder and mourn;
Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane,
And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane.
The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune—
But while others are joking and laughing sae free,
There's a pang at my heart and a tear i' my ee.
At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn,
Fu' dowie and wae, aft I daunder and mourn;
Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane,
And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane.
O the days o' our youthheid were heartsome and gay,
When we herded thegither by sweet Gaitshaw brae,
When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells
By the Cayle's ferny howms and on Hounam's green fells.
But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird,
To win honour and gowd—(gif his life it be spared!)
Ah! little care I for walth, favour, or fame,
Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame!
When we herded thegither by sweet Gaitshaw brae,
When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells
By the Cayle's ferny howms and on Hounam's green fells.
But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird,
To win honour and gowd—(gif his life it be spared!)
Ah! little care I for walth, favour, or fame,
Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame!
Then, round our wee cot though gruff winter sould roar,
And poortith glowr in like a wolf at the door;
Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink,
And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink;
Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel,
Through the howe o' the year we wad fend unco weel;
Till the lintwhite, and laverok, and lambs bleating fain,
Brought back the blithe time o' ewe-bughting again.
And poortith glowr in like a wolf at the door;
Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink,
And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink;
Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel,
Through the howe o' the year we wad fend unco weel;
Till the lintwhite, and laverok, and lambs bleating fain,
Brought back the blithe time o' ewe-bughting again.
The first verse of this song is old. It was transcribed by the editor, from a fragment in the handwriting of the celebrated Lady Grisel Baillie, inclosed in a letter written from Scotland to her brother Patrick, who was at that time an exile in Holland along with her father (afterwards Earl of Marchmont) and her future husband, Baillie of Jerviswood. The style is not unlike that of her own sweet song —“O were na my heart light I wad dee.” The other four verses are an attempt to complete the simple ditty in the same pastoral strain.—T. P.
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V. MARY OF GLEN-FYNE.
Oh
, my lovely Mary! Mary of Glen-Fyne!
Oh, my gentle Mary! Mary, thou art mine!
Oh, enchanting maiden! thou dost far outshine
All who wear the plaiden in this glen of thine!
Oh, my gentle Mary! Mary, thou art mine!
Oh, enchanting maiden! thou dost far outshine
All who wear the plaiden in this glen of thine!
By Loch-Moraig's wild wood young affection grew,
Ere our simple childhood love's sweet language knew:
Kindness still grew stronger, till its depth was more
Than was known to lovers in this world before!
Ere our simple childhood love's sweet language knew:
Kindness still grew stronger, till its depth was more
Than was known to lovers in this world before!
Oh, my lovely Mary! &c.
Cushats, fondly cooing, taught me how to woo;
The soft art of suing woodlarks taught me too;
And the laverok, thrilling in the sky above,
Told the tender accents of impassioned love!
The soft art of suing woodlarks taught me too;
And the laverok, thrilling in the sky above,
Told the tender accents of impassioned love!
Oh, my lovely Mary! &c.
I am but the herdsman of Loch-Moraig's flock;
She, my mountain rosebud, boasts no gentle stock;
But for rank or riches I shall ne'er repine
While that priceless jewel, Mary's heart, is mine!
She, my mountain rosebud, boasts no gentle stock;
But for rank or riches I shall ne'er repine
While that priceless jewel, Mary's heart, is mine!
Oh, my lovely Mary! &c.
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VI. COME AWA, COME AWA!
Come awa, come awa,
An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie:
Leave your Southron wooers a',
My winsome bride to be, lassie.
Lands nor gear I proffer you,
Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie,
But I've a heart that's leal an' true,
And a' that heart is thine, lassie.
An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie:
Leave your Southron wooers a',
My winsome bride to be, lassie.
Lands nor gear I proffer you,
Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie,
But I've a heart that's leal an' true,
And a' that heart is thine, lassie.
Come awa, come awa,
An' see the kindly North, lassie,
Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlaw,
An' by the links o' Forth, lassie;
And when we tread the heather bell
Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,
You'll view the land o' flood and fell—
The noble North Countrie, lassie!
An' see the kindly North, lassie,
Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlaw,
An' by the links o' Forth, lassie;
And when we tread the heather bell
Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,
You'll view the land o' flood and fell—
The noble North Countrie, lassie!
Come awa, come awa,
An' leave your Southland hame, lassie;
The kirk is near, the ring is here—
An' I'm your Donald Græme, lassie,
Rock and reel and spinning wheel,
And English cottage trig, lassie,
Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel
The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie.
An' leave your Southland hame, lassie;
The kirk is near, the ring is here—
An' I'm your Donald Græme, lassie,
Rock and reel and spinning wheel,
And English cottage trig, lassie,
Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel
The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie.
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Come awa, come awa,
I ken your heart is mine, lassie,
And true luve sall make up for a'
For whilk ye might repine, lassie.
Your father—he has gien consent,
Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie—
Oh, that our foot were on the bent,
An' the Lowlands far behind, lassie!
I ken your heart is mine, lassie,
And true luve sall make up for a'
For whilk ye might repine, lassie.
Your father—he has gien consent,
Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie—
Oh, that our foot were on the bent,
An' the Lowlands far behind, lassie!
Come awa, come awa!
Ye'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;
My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,
My bonny Avondhu, lassie:
There's birk and slae on ilka brae,
And brakens waving fair, lassie;
And gleaming lochs and mountains grey—
Can aught wi' them compare, lassie!
Come awa, come awa, &c.
Ye'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;
My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,
My bonny Avondhu, lassie:
There's birk and slae on ilka brae,
And brakens waving fair, lassie;
And gleaming lochs and mountains grey—
Can aught wi' them compare, lassie!
Come awa, come awa, &c.
VII. THE HIGHLANDS!
The Highlands! the Highlands!—O gin I were there;
Tho' the mountains an' moorlands be rugged an' bare,
Tho' bleak be the clime, an' but scanty the fare,
My heart's in the Highlands—O gin I were there!
Tho' the mountains an' moorlands be rugged an' bare,
Tho' bleak be the clime, an' but scanty the fare,
My heart's in the Highlands—O gin I were there!
The Highlands! the Highlands!—My full bosom swells
When I think o' the streams gushing wild through the dells,
And the hills towering proudly, the lochs gleaming fair!
My heart's in the Highlands!—O gin I were there!
When I think o' the streams gushing wild through the dells,
And the hills towering proudly, the lochs gleaming fair!
My heart's in the Highlands!—O gin I were there!
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The Highlands! the Highlands!—Far up the grey glen
Stands a cozy wee cot, wi' a but and a ben,
An' a deas at the door, wi' my auld mother there,
Crooning—“Haste ye back, Donald, an' leave us nae mair!”
The Highlands! the Highlands! &c.
Stands a cozy wee cot, wi' a but and a ben,
An' a deas at the door, wi' my auld mother there,
Crooning—“Haste ye back, Donald, an' leave us nae mair!”
The Highlands! the Highlands! &c.
VIII. THE DARK-HAIRED MAID.
O sweet is she who thinks on me,
Behind yon dusky mountain;
In greenwood bower, at gloaming hour,
We'll meet by Morag's Fountain.
Behind yon dusky mountain;
In greenwood bower, at gloaming hour,
We'll meet by Morag's Fountain.
My hounds are on the hills of deer—
My heart is in the valley,
Where dark-hair'd Mary roams to hear
The woodlarks singing gaily.
My heart is in the valley,
Where dark-hair'd Mary roams to hear
The woodlarks singing gaily.
O sweet is she, &c.
My hawks around the forest fly,
And wonder that I tarry,
While lone on thymy banks I lie
And dream of dark-haired Mary!
And wonder that I tarry,
While lone on thymy banks I lie
And dream of dark-haired Mary!
O sweet is she, &c.
Her step so light—her eye so bright—
Her smile so sweet and tender—
Her voice like music heard by night
As o'er the wilds I wander!
Her smile so sweet and tender—
Her voice like music heard by night
As o'er the wilds I wander!
O sweet is she, &c.
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Her neck which silken ringlets shroud—
Her bosom's soft commotion—
Like sea-mew hovering in the cloud,
Or heaving on the ocean!
Her bosom's soft commotion—
Like sea-mew hovering in the cloud,
Or heaving on the ocean!
O sweet is she, &c.
Her heart as gay as fawn at play,
Among the braes of braiken—
Yet mildly dear as melting tear
That minstrel tales awaken!
Among the braes of braiken—
Yet mildly dear as melting tear
That minstrel tales awaken!
O sweet is she, &c.
And she is mine—the dark-haired Maid!
My bright, my beauteous Mary!—
The flower of Ardyn's lowly glade,
Shall bloom in high Glengary!
My bright, my beauteous Mary!—
The flower of Ardyn's lowly glade,
Shall bloom in high Glengary!
O sweet is she, &c.
IX. OH! NOT WHEN HOPES ARE BRIGHTEST.
Oh! not when hopes are brightest
Is all love's sweet enchantment known;
Oh! not when hearts are lightest,
Is all fond woman's fervour shown:
But when life's clouds o'ertake us,
And the cold world is clothed in gloom;
When summer friends forsake us,
The rose of love is best in bloom.
Is all love's sweet enchantment known;
Oh! not when hearts are lightest,
Is all fond woman's fervour shown:
But when life's clouds o'ertake us,
And the cold world is clothed in gloom;
When summer friends forsake us,
The rose of love is best in bloom.
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Love is no wandering vapour,
That lures astray with treacherous spark;
Love is no transient taper,
That lives an hour and leaves us dark:
But, like the lamp that lightens
The Greenland hut beneath the snow,
The bosom's home it brightens
When all beside is chill below.
That lures astray with treacherous spark;
Love is no transient taper,
That lives an hour and leaves us dark:
But, like the lamp that lightens
The Greenland hut beneath the snow,
The bosom's home it brightens
When all beside is chill below.
X. PLEASANT TEVIOTDALE.
Her light touch wakes the tuneful keys,
She sings some simple lay,
That tells of scenes beyond the seas,
In Scotland far away,—
By “Ettrick banks,” or “Cowden knowes,”
Or “The briery braes o' Cayle,”
Or “Maxwell's bonny haughs and howes,”
In pleasant Teviotdale.
She sings some simple lay,
That tells of scenes beyond the seas,
In Scotland far away,—
By “Ettrick banks,” or “Cowden knowes,”
Or “The briery braes o' Cayle,”
Or “Maxwell's bonny haughs and howes,”
In pleasant Teviotdale.
O gentle wind ('tis thus she sings)
That blowest to the west,
Oh could'st thou waft me on thy wings
To the land that I love best,
How swiftly o'er the ocean foam
Like a sea-bird I would sail,
And lead my loved one blithely home
To pleasant Teviotdale!
That blowest to the west,
Oh could'st thou waft me on thy wings
To the land that I love best,
How swiftly o'er the ocean foam
Like a sea-bird I would sail,
And lead my loved one blithely home
To pleasant Teviotdale!
From spicy groves of Malabar
Thou greet'st me, fragrant breeze,
What time the bright-eyed evening star
Gleams o'er the orange trees;
Thou com'st to whisper of the rose
And love-sick nightingale—
But my heart is where the hawthorn grows,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
Thou greet'st me, fragrant breeze,
What time the bright-eyed evening star
Gleams o'er the orange trees;
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And love-sick nightingale—
But my heart is where the hawthorn grows,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
O that I were by Teviot side,
As when in Springwood bowers
I bounded, in my virgin pride,
Like fawn among the flowers;
When the beauty of the budding trees,
And the cuckoo's vernal tale,
Awoke the young heart's ecstacies,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
As when in Springwood bowers
I bounded, in my virgin pride,
Like fawn among the flowers;
When the beauty of the budding trees,
And the cuckoo's vernal tale,
Awoke the young heart's ecstacies,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
O that I were where blue-bells grow
On Roxburgh's ferny lea,
Where gowans glent and crow-flowers blow
Beneath the Trysting Tree;
Where blooms the birk upon the hill,
And the wild-rose down the vale,
And the primrose peeps by every rill,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
On Roxburgh's ferny lea,
Where gowans glent and crow-flowers blow
Beneath the Trysting Tree;
Where blooms the birk upon the hill,
And the wild-rose down the vale,
And the primrose peeps by every rill,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
O that I were where Cheviot-fells
Rise o'er the uplands grey,
Where moors are bright with heather-bells,
And broom waves o'er each brae;
Where larks are singing in the sky,
And milkmaids o'er the pail,
And shepherd swains pipe merrily,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
Rise o'er the uplands grey,
Where moors are bright with heather-bells,
And broom waves o'er each brae;
Where larks are singing in the sky,
And milkmaids o'er the pail,
And shepherd swains pipe merrily,
In pleasant Teviotdale.
O listen to my lay, kind love—
Say, when shall we return
Again to rove by Maxwell grove,
And the links of Wooden-burn?
Nay, plight thy vow unto me now,
Or my sinking heart will fail—
When I gaze upon thy pallid brow,
Far, far from Teviotdale!
Say, when shall we return
Again to rove by Maxwell grove,
And the links of Wooden-burn?
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Or my sinking heart will fail—
When I gaze upon thy pallid brow,
Far, far from Teviotdale!
Oh haste aboard! the favouring wind
Blows briskly from the shore.
Leave India's dear-bought dross behind
To such as prize it more:
Ah! what can India's lacs of gold
To withered hearts avail?
Then haste thee, love, ere hope wax cold,
And hie to Teviotdale!
Blows briskly from the shore.
Leave India's dear-bought dross behind
To such as prize it more:
Ah! what can India's lacs of gold
To withered hearts avail?
Then haste thee, love, ere hope wax cold,
And hie to Teviotdale!
XI. DEAREST LOVE! BELIEVE ME.
Dearest love! believe me,
Though all else depart,
Nought shall e'er deceive thee
In this faithful heart:
Beauty may be blighted,
Youth must pass away,
But the vows we plighted
Ne'er shall know decay.
Though all else depart,
Nought shall e'er deceive thee
In this faithful heart:
Beauty may be blighted,
Youth must pass away,
But the vows we plighted
Ne'er shall know decay.
Tempests may assail us
From affliction's coast,
Fortune's breeze may fail us
When we need it most;
Fairest hopes may perish,
Firmest friends may change;
But the love we cherish
Nothing shall estrange.
From affliction's coast,
Fortune's breeze may fail us
When we need it most;
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Firmest friends may change;
But the love we cherish
Nothing shall estrange.
Dreams of fame and grandeur
End in bitter tears;
Love grows only fonder
With the lapse of years:
Time, and change, and trouble,
Weaker ties unbind,
But the bands redouble
True affection twined.
End in bitter tears;
Love grows only fonder
With the lapse of years:
Time, and change, and trouble,
Weaker ties unbind,
But the bands redouble
True affection twined.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |