The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alone I walked the wild wood-side,
Where Autumn breathed her airy breeze;
The silver moon-shine, far and wide,
Beamed glimmering through the branching trees.
The birdies now, on leafless bough,
Their carols gay had laid aside;
Grave silence reigns through woods and plains
With me along the wild wood-side.

Far-roaring Dee burst o'er his rocks,
While distance tuned his swelling moans,
O'erhung with oak, and ivied locks,
Where owls screeched out their wailing tones.
The fragrant bean was withering seen,
And flowery hawthorn's bloom decayed;
No heavenly dew shall them renew,
Till Spring revive the wild wood-side.

Now sleep her patent spell hath drawn,
And charmed creation into rest,
Save only thoughtless, hapless man,
Where guilt or love disturbs the breast.
Sweet Peace! descend, be thou my friend,
And white-robed Innocence my guide;
And teach me clear my course to steer,
Poor wanderer by the wild wood-side.

169

Ye twinkling stars, that shine afar,
To me unknown's your distant race—
Ye comets on your fiery car,
That wander through the boundless space—
Can Science scan your voice to man,
As through the concave blue ye glide,
And teach such views to vagrant muse,
That wanders by the wild wood-side?

Where now the distant landscape sweet?
Where now the busy haunts of men?
The chill dews o'er the grey grass creep,
The reapers now have left the plain.
With every blast the leaves fall fast,
As down the stream they mournful ride,
Changed Nature here looks pale and drear,
With me along the wild wood-side.

Again the lamp of day shall burn;
With harmony the woods shall ring;
The annual wheel of time shall turn,
With all the rosy hues of Spring:
But Man, when laid in lonely bed,
His griefs and joys are laid aside;
He ne'er again shall view the plain,
Or beauties of the wild wood-side.

170

WILL AND KATE:

OR, AN ANSWER TO “LOGAN BRAES.”

Thou maid, that sing'st by Logan stream,
Wi' plaintive note, and pensive mien,
While true affection tunes thy lays,
For thy ain lad on Logan braes,
As yon sweet linnet, in the spring,
Teaches her chirpin' young to sing,
So thou, wi' thine, may'st con thy waes—
He'll ne'er see thee, nor Logan braes.

For oh! what bosom without pain,
Can tell our sad mishaps in Spain?—
He's fa'n, wi' Moore, o' deathless praise,
Far, far frae thee and Logan braes.
Wi' sleepless nights, and famine faint,
Fell numbers urged him frae his tent;
Yet aft he, wheelin', faced his faes,
And thought on thee, and Logan braes.

But ere the fatal die was cast,
I saw him nobly breathe his last.—
“Gae, tak that ring,” he faintly says,
“And bear't to Kate, on Logan braes.”
The deadly tale her heart will stound—
But ebbin' life gushed frae ilk wound:
His latest accents spoke thy praise,
And blest his babes on Logan braes.

Ha'e ye no' seen the Autumn flower
Bow down its head wi' e'enin' shower,

171

Till chillin' frost its form bewrays,
And lays it low on Logan braes?
She beat her breast—her han's she rung;
Her hapless younglin's round her clung;
What pen, alas! can paint her waes?
She's faintin', fa'n on Logan braes.

But lo! the sodger doft his arms;
Like lightnin', clasped her fleeting charms—
Says, “Ope thine eyes of kindest rays
On thy ain lad on Logan braes.”
These accents kind her spirits cheer;
She views her lad wi' joyfu' tear:
Wi' joy they press—wi' joy they gaze,
And kiss their babes on Logan braes.

“Oh! dearest Kate, can ye forgie
The absent years I've been frae thee?”
Then in her lap a purse he lays,
That he'd brought hame to Logan braes.—
Says,—“This shall help for what is gane,
And I'll ne'er leave thee mair thy lane;
While life-blood in my bosom plays,
I'll stay wi' thee on Logan braes.

“Ilk flutterin' bird mair sweet shall sing;
Ilk blushin' flower mair sweet shall spring;
Our bairns shall herd, and gather slaes
Aroun' our cot, on Logan braes.
To each fond haunt we will repair,
Where I'll tell o'er my deeds o' weir;
While the blythe lambkin round us plays,
And pipes sound shrill on Logan braes.”

172

THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

[_]

Tune—“Ewe Bughts, Marion.”

Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
And visit our haughs and our glens?
There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's
That Lassie i' Lowlands ne'er kens.

'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;
But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, where they're risin',
Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

They're the scenes o' my youth, my dear Mary,
Where wi' solit'ry pleasure I've strayed;
There my forefathers fought in their glory,
Wi' their chieftains they conquered or died.

There the loud roarin' floods they are fallin',
By crags that are furrowed and grey;
To her young there the eagle is callin',
Or gazin' afar for her prey.

The aik, by his ain native fountain,
His arms out at random hath cast;
And the high towerin' fir on the mountain,
That nods to the sound o' the blast.

173

Or low by the birks on the burnie,
Where the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest;
There oft I would lead thee, my Mary,
Where the blackbird is building her nest.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
When shepherds return frae the hill,
Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.

Right sweet is the low setting sun-beam,
That points owre the quivering stream,
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.

Thy looks would gar simmer seem sweeter,
And cheer winter's bare dreary gloom;
With thee every joy is completer,
While true love around us should bloom.

But alas! for my cabin it's lowly,
And few are my flocks and my kye;
Yet my bosom to thee beats aye truly,
'Tis what titles or gowd ne'er could buy.

The Southron in a' his politeness,
His airs and his grandeur may shine;
Our hills boast o' mair true discreetness,
And his love is not equal to mine.

174

DONALD'S GRAVE.

SCENE, NEAR GLENCOE.

[_]

Tune—“Yellow Haired Laddie.”

Within the dark bosom of yon lonely glen,
There sleeps my young Donald, the flower of his clan,
In death's silent slumbers, where lowly he's laid;
The green sod his target, the cold clay his plaid.

How still lies the heart that to me aye beat true;
And dim now that eye, once a love-speaking blue;
Now withered those soft lips—the roses are flown,
And clotted those locks of a dark bushy brown.

Last night, when the stars from yon dun sky had fled,
And my red stiffened eyes had no more tears to shed,
While the blast thro' the broad oak did howl round my head,
Like the bursting of sorrow, or songs for the dead;

When weary with watching, methought he drew near,
And half of his fair form through blood did appear:
Though pale was his aspect, his manner was meek,
And his locked hollow jaw seemed to open and speak:—

“Why mourns my dear Flora along the lone heath?
Can the warm tears of sorrow retrieve me from death?
But the tie's ever binding, although we must part,
And love shall find room still within this cold heart.

175

“How soft rests the hero who dies for the cause
Of honour and freedom, his country and laws:
The bard's bursting song his achievements shall save,
And chieftains shall sigh as they stalk by his grave.

“We feared not their numbers, that darkened the plain:
They proffered us friendship—their offers were ta'en;
But the cold-blooded monsters no ties could engage—
In slumbers they slew whom they feared to enrage.

“But the miscreant minion of treacherous power,
His fame and false glory shall fall in an hour:
No sweet-sounding requiem his spirit may claim,
And forgetfulness leave but the dregs of a name.

“Then cease thee, my Flora, oh! cease thee to weep;
My light passing spirit thou marrest of sleep:
Thrice three months are passed since thou should'st been my bride,
But soon shalt thou stretch thee along by my side.”

But lo! I awoke, and the lark was on high;
The sun his gold tresses had spread o'er the sky;
Yet still the dark vision this truth did recall,
That the lovely soon fade, and the mighty must fall.

176

SONG.

[While roving round the banks of Cree]

[_]

Tune—“Roving Irishman.”

While roving round the banks of Cree,
Seeking a strayëd ewe and lamb,
The day was dry, no one was nigh,
The water smooth, the breezes calm.

The flowers sprung wanton by the burn;
Up through the glen the mavis sang;
I leaned me by yon birken bower,
And feared no ill from any man.

But by there came a blythesome youth,
That lightly tripped along the way;
His locks were like the raven's wing,
His look bespoke a bosom gay.

Soon as he spied me in the shade,
Upon his step he made a stand,
So wilily he looked at me,
And gently took me by the hand.

Said he, “Fair maid, the sun is high,
I've long wished for the cooling shade;—
I hope ye'll not offended be
At this small freedom I have made.

“May ill befall his cruel heart,
Such blooming beauty could trepan:
Be easy, dear, you need not fear,
I am no rakish Irishman.”

177

So sweet his looks—so smooth his tongue—
His graceful form so straight and tall;
He clasped my waist, my lips he prest;
Alas! my heart believèd all!

From Glasgow town he said he came,
That wealth and beauty doth comman';
'Twas then my ear—too late, I fear,
Perceived the roving Irishman.

My Mother wonders why I'm sad:
On May-day last I skipped and sang;
My sister says my bloom's decayed;
I sigh and sab the whole night lang.

The time's gone by he should been here;
My feeble hopes are near a stan':
Ye maids on Cree, be ruled by me—
Ne'er trust a roving Irishman!

CULLODEN.

[_]

Tune—“Oh! are ye sleepin', Maggie?”

The heath-cock crawed o'er muir and dale,
Red raise the sun, the sky was cloudy,
While mustering far, wi' distant yell,
The northern bands marched stern and steady.

Chorus.—

Oh! Duncan, Donald's ready!
Oh! Duncan, Donald's ready!
Wi' sword and targe he seeks the charge,
And frae his shouther flings the plaidie.

178

Nae mair we chase the fleet-foot roe,
O'er down and dale, o'er mountain flyin';
But rush like tempests on the foe,
Through mingled groans the war note cryin'.
Oh! Duncan, Donald's ready, &c.

A prince is come to claim his ain,
A stem o' Stewart, frien'less Charlie;
What Highlan' han' its blade would hain,
What Highlan' heart behint would tarry?
Oh! Duncan, Donald's ready, &c.

I see our hardy clans appear,
The sun back frae their blades is beamin';
The Southern trump falls on my ear,
Their bannered lions proudly streamin'.
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Within his hand he grasps his brand;
Fierce is the fray, the field is bluidy.

But lang shall Scotlan' rue the day
She saw her flag sae fiercely flyin';
Culloden's hills were hills o' wae;
Her honour lost, her warriors dyin'.
Duncan now nae mair is ready!
Duncan now nae mair is ready!
The brand is fa'n frae out his hand,
His bonnet blue lies stained and bluidy!

Fair Flora's gane her love to seek;
Lang may she wait for his returnin';
The midnight dews fa' on her cheek;
What han' shall dry her tears o' mournin'?
Duncan now nae mair is ready, &c.

179

THE BANKS OF DEE.

[_]

Tune—“Roof o' Straw.”

The purple morn o'erspread the sky,
The day-star shewed his head;
A reverend ruin nodded nigh,
With waters round it spread.
The bird of night had ceased her tale,
And fluttering fled from me;
As softly sighed the morning gale,
Along the banks of Dee.

The bended lilies lined the banks
Around the fishes' bed;
And trees in gay and motley ranks,
Sloped out the flowery glade.
The glossy blackbird on the bough,
Sang to his mate with glee;
And joined the lark, yet wet with dew,
Upon the banks of Dee.

Here rustic labour wets his scythe
And sets his edge with care;
The humming wild-bee leaves his hive,
To sip the flowerets fair.
The merry milkmaid gaily sang—
Her bosom light and free;
While listening echoes joined alang,
The winding banks of Dee.

180

Here, too, Dame Nature's handmaid, Art,
Had reared her arches gran',
Of bridges rare beyond compare,
On noblest Doric plan.
The shielded mansion half I viewed,
That pleased the passing e'e;
And clustering villages were strewed,
Along the banks of Dee.

Peace to your scenes, my native plains,
Where plenty ever spreads!
May truth and honour crown your swains,
And beauty grace your maids.
Let rural mirth and pity's sigh,
Still in your breasts agree;
And fellow-feeling still be nigh,
Around the banks of Dee.

SONG.

[Again the breeze blaws through the trees]

[_]

Tune—“Nae Dominies for me, Laddie.”

Again the breeze blaws through the trees;
The flowers bloom by the burn, Willie:
Gay Spring is seen in fairy green—
The year nae mair shall mourn, Willie.

The tender buds hang on the woods,
And lowly slaethorn tree, Willie;
Its blossom spreads, nor cauld blast dreads,
But may be nipt like me, Willie.

181

The frien'less hare is chased nae mair,
She whids alang the lea, Willie:
Through dewy showers the lav'rock towers,
And sings, but not for me, Willie.

When frae thy arms, a' nature's charms,
What pleasure can they gie, Willie?
My Spring is past, my sky o'ercast,
It's sleepless nights wi' me, Willie.

Silent and shy, they now gae by,
That used to speak wi' me, Willie;
Nae tale, nae sang, the hale day lang—
Its a' for lovin' thee, Willie.

Wi' wily art ye wan my heart—
That heart nae mair is free, Willie:
Then, oh! be kind, sin' now it's thine!
I had nae mair to gie, Willie.

But vain I've pled, for thou hast wed
A wealthier bride than me, Willie;
Now nought can heal the wound I feel,
But lay me down and die, Willie.

Fareweel ye braes, and happier days!
By crystal windin' Cree, Willie,
When o'er my grave the green grass waves,
Oh! wilt thou think on me, Willie?

182

THE BANKS OF TARF.

[_]

Tune—“Sin' my Uncle's dead, &c.”

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes,
Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;
And mony a greenwood cluster grows,
And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O.
Below a spreadin' hazel lee,
Fu' snugly hid where nane could see,
While blinkin' love beamed frae her e'e,
I met my bonnie Annie, O.

Her neck was o' the snawdrap hue,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;
But oh! her e'e o' azure blue,
Was past expression bonnie, O.
Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
That lightly wantoned wi' the air;
But vain were a' my rhymin' ware
To tell the charms o' Annie, O.

While smilin' in my arms she lay,
She whisperin', in my ear did say,
“Oh! how could I survive the day,
Should ye prove fause, my Tammie, O?”
“While spangled fish glide to the main,
While Scotland's braes shall wave wi' grain,
Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
I'll aye be true to Annie, O.”

The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,
And ripplin' raised the spray alang;

183

We cheerfu' sat and cheerfu' sang,
The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O.
Though sweet is spring, when young and gay,
And blythe the blinks o' summer's day;
I fear nae winter cauld and blae,
If blest wi' love and Annie, O.

DARK ROLLING DEE.

[_]

Tune—“Banks of the Devon.”

Dark rolling Dee, with thy heath-covered mountains,
Thy wild rugged rocks by yon black birken glen,
That claim'st thy supplies from the cold mossy fountains,
And minglest thy treasures with low-spreading Ken:

Scenes of my youth, where my wishes oft wander,
Where the traces of nature my bosom first warmed;
For low on thy banks, where thy waves sweet meander,
Spreads the low blushing rose that my fancy has charm'd.

How fain would I woo thee, sweet flower, to my bosom,
And sever thy stalk from its first native stole,
Where the kind breath of love should invite thee to blossom,
Though the chill blasts of winter around us should howl.

Beauty might fade in the days of December,
But the noon-tide of friendship around us should beam;
The fervour of youth I would fondly remember,
And shield thy sweet blossoms by Dee's winding stream.

184

THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.

[_]

Tune—“White Cockade.”

Oh! Lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
And leave thy frien's i' south countrie—
Thy former frien's and sweethearts' a',
And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?

Oh! Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,
And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;
There's lordly seats and livin's braw
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

There's stately woods on mony a brae,
Where burns and birds in concert play;
The waukrife echo answers a',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Oh! Gallowa' braes, &c.

The simmer shiel' I'll build for thee,
Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,
Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Oh! Gallowa' braes, &c.

When Autumn waves her flowin' horn,
And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,
I'll busk thee fine in pearlins braw,
To join the dance in Gallowa'.

Oh! Gallowa' braes, &c.

185

At e'en, when darkness shrouds the sight,
And lanely langsome is the night,
W' tentie care my pipes I'll thraw,
Play “A' the way to Gallowa'.”

Oh! Gallowa' braes, &c.

Should fickle fortune on us frown,
Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;
Content should shield our haddin sma',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Come, while the blossom's on the broom,
And heather-bells sae bonnie bloom;
Come, let us be the happiest twa
On a' the braes o' Gallowa'.

THE GHOST OF CRAZY JANE.

Dark and dismal was the evening;
Hoarse the raven croaked afar;
Drowsy bats flew round in clusters;
Faintly beamed the evening star.
Round yon mouldering tower the ivy,
Closely clasped, though faintly seen;
Highly perched, the night-owl screeching,
Sung the dirge of Crazy Jane.

Hark! the hollow vaults re-murmured!
Gusty blasts the turret shake:
Towers did totter on their bases;
Hungry graves did yawning gape:

186

When lo! a phantom by me glided,
Slowly shifting o'er the green,
Says, “Fear me not, thou timorous stranger,
I'm the Ghost of Crazy Jane!

“Nightly from this grave I wander,
To my Henry's lonely bed;
Warding off the evil genius,
Hovering round his lovely head.
Till that hour when death shall join us,
Never more to part again;
When by my side in this lone grave,
He'll repose with Crazy Jane!”

Fled was all that rosy colour,
Once adorned her lovely cheek;
Those winning smiles, and dimpling graces,
Those modest looks so softly sweet.
The lily neck, the heaving bosom,
The graceful and majestic mien—
A faded form, and shrouded spectre,
Was all remained of Crazy Jane.

Loud the cock sung out the morning,
Mild the sun beamed out the day;
Quick she started as affrighted—
Says, “Farewell, I must away!”
Swift she fled on wings of morning,
Gliding o'er the dewy scene:
But strong imagination painted
All the woes of Crazy Jane.

187

THE FAIRY DANCE.

'Twas one even' all alone, as the fold I lay tending,
When silence pervaded, and nature was still,
Save the night-raven's whirr where the broad oak was bending,
Or the voice of the fox, as he howled on the hill.
Beneath the grey hawthorn each care was confounded,
Where fancy presented the whimsical trance,
Of hundreds of elves that me quickly surrounded,
As they skimm'd o'er the moorlands to join the fairy dance.

Small was their form, and their motion was lightly,
Their beavers were white, and their vestments were green;
On their front rode a nymph, on a pied steed, so sightly,
Whose rod and deportment betokened their Queen.
Loose flowed her robes, as they shone like the polestreams
That shake o'er the sky with a quivering glance;
And bright shone her face like the silvery moon's mild beams,
While thus she addressed them, to join the fairy dance:

“Come, ye fleet elves, and ye spirits of ether,
Now is the time that our revels we keep,
Brushing the dew from the low-bending heather,
While the dull sons of earth lie involvèd in sleep.
Minstrels now meet, let your music be sounding;
Partners be clasping—in couples advance;
Hence with dull care; let your joys be abounding;
Trip to the moon-beam the gay fairy dance.”

188

Shrill sounds the pipe, still the low glens repeating,
Meet, joined the harp, with its melody low;
Now airy they wheel, and now lovingly meeting,
As gaily they flit on the light skiffing toe.
High beat my heart—how my fancy was cheered;
Methought that to meet them I forth did advance;
But the melody ceased, and the scene disappeared—
So fleeting's our joy, like the gay fairy dance!

SONG.

[Oh! will ye go to yon burn side]

[_]

Tune—“Will ye walk the woods with me?”

Oh! will ye go to yon burn side,
Amang the new made hay,
And sport upon the flowery swaird,
My ain dear May?

The sun blinks blythe on yon burn side,
Where lambkins lightly play,
The wild bird whistles to his mate,
My ain dear May.

The waving woods, wi' mantle green,
Shall shield us in the bower,
Where I'll pu' a posy for my May,
O' mony a bonny flower.

My father maws ayont the burn,
My mammy spins at hame;
And should they see thee here wi' me,
I'd better been my lane.

189

The lightsome lammie little kens
What troubles it await—
When ance the flush o' spring is o'er,
The fause bird lea'es its mate.

The flowers will fade, the woods decay,
And lose their bonny green;
The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,
Before that it be e'en.

Ilk thing is in its season sweet;
So love is, in its noon;
But cankering Time may foil the flower,
And spoil its bonny bloom.

Oh! come then while the summer shines,
And love is young and gay;
Ere age his withering, wintry blast
Blaws o'er me and my May.

For thee I'll tend the fleecy flocks,
Or haud the halesome plough,
And nightly clasp thee to my breast,
And prove aye leal and true.

The blush o'erspread her bonny face,
She had nae mair to say,
But ga'e her hand and walked alang,
The youthfu' bloomin' May.

190

PEGGY.

[_]

Tune—“Swaggering, Roaring Willie.”

When first I foregathered wi' Peggy,
My Peggy and I were young;
Sae blythe at the bught i' the gloamin'
My Peggy and I ha'e sung.
My Peggy and I ha'e sung,
Till the stars did blink sae hie;
Come weel or come woe to the beggin',
My Peggy was dear to me.

The stately aik stood on the mountain,
And towered o'er the green birken shaw;
Ilk glentin' wee flower on the meadow,
Seemed proud o' bein' buskit sae braw.
Seemed proud o' bein' buskit sae braw
When they saw their ain shape i' the Dee;
'Twas there that I courted my Peggy,
Till the kirk it fell foul o' me.

Though love it has little to look for
Frae the heart that is wedded to gear;
A wife without house or a hadden
Gars ane look right blate like and queer.
Gars ane baith look blate like and queer,
But queerer when twa turns to three;
Our friens they ha'e foughten and flyten,
But Peggy's aye dear to me.

191

It vexed me her sighin' and sabbin',
Now nought aniest marriage would do;
And though that our prospects were dreary,
What could I but e'en buckle to?
What could I but e'en buckle to,
And dight the saut tear frae her e'e?
The warl's a wearifu' wister;
But Peggy's aye dear to me.

THE BANKS OF FLEET.

[_]

Tune—“O'er the Muir amang the Heather.”

I sing the bonny banks o' Fleet,
Where Nature spreads her various treasure;
Frae fruits and flowers of every hue,
To berries blae, and craps o' heather.
Thy pebbled shores and sea-girt isles,
Thy far-famed woods and views sae mony;
Thy hills and towers where simmer smiles,
Thy strappin' lads, and lasses bonny.

Thy winding banks and flowery dells,
With bloomin' fields around in order;
Where commerce spreads her flowin' sails,
Auld Card'ness towers o'erlook thy border.
Upon thy banks a borough stands,
Sae feat and healthy, few's completer;
If search through Scotia's southern strands,
Nane's shieled sae biel', nor shows aught sweeter.

192

Castramon waves his leafy locks,
Amidst the meads where flowers are springing;
And shields wi' woods his furrowed rocks,
Where lightsome birds are blythely singing.
The Rusco ruins, nodding grey,
Where Gordons gay ance blythely ranted;
And wild woods spreading o'er the brae,
By nature's ruleless hand been planted.

At distance Cairnsmuir rears his form,
The hoary snaw his haffits wrappin';
His dark brows brave the wintry storm—
A blue mist bonnet co'ers his tappin'.
Fain would I sing each noble name,
Where kindness blends wi' wealth her traces;
But deeds surpass the poet's pen,
As native smiles do borrowed graces.

Fareweel, ye bonny banks o' Fleet,
Where nature spreads out a' her treasure;
Frae fruits and flowers o' every hue,
To berries blae, and craps o' heather.

THE TEAR HUNG IN HIS E'E.

[_]

Tune—“Logan Braes.”

Oh! pale, pale rose the April morn,
My sodger lad frae me was torn;
Then honour's name was hard to dree;
The parting tear hung in his e'e.

193

But loud the pealing trumpet sang,
And loud the warlike cymbals clang;
Then honour's fause name ruined me,
Although the love-tear blin't his e'e.

'Twas no' his locks of amber brown,
His manly limbs in armour bound;
His gracefu' snawie archèd brow,
His dimpled cheek sae sweet to view;
Nor buddin' lips that ga'e delight,
Half shieldin' teeth of ivory white;
But 'twas his glance that ruined me,
The lovely language o' his e'e.

Now he has found a foreign grave,
Far, far ayont the roaring wave,
Within yon luckless ravaged land,
Wi' thousands on Corunna's strand.
In fancying sleep, how aft I've seen
His rising grave that grows sae green,
Then starting, waked wi' tearfu' e'e;
For Oh! he's cauld and far frae me.

Nae mair the flowers in wreaths we'll twine,
Wi' which my brows he used to bin';
Nae gay attire my breast can ease;
Alas! there's nane I wish to please!
Though sair's my heart, I lo'e the pain
And sweet's the tear that's shed alane;
And dear's the pledge he ga'e to me,
That day the tear hung in his e'e.

194

ANNANDALE ROBIN.

[_]

Tune—“Woo'd and Married and a'.”

Young Robin had been at the market,
And hired himsel' wi' Craigfast;
Forbye the wee drap in his noddle,
Had got a' the wages he asked.
He wha had been touned out wi' tenants,
Would soon be head man to the laird—
A point at baith shearin' and mawin',
And bigg a' the ricks i' the yaird.

It's right aye for lads to live canty,
And lasses, till they get a man;
For fouks to be social and sober;
And aye as content as they can.

The moor-hags were wide—but he sten'd them,
He staptna for stick nor for stane;
Till down by the scroggs o' Congailly,
He met bonny Bet a' her lane.
A'e luck on the back o' anither:
He lang wished her kindness to seek;
Nae scene could be sweeter for wooin'
What time was he fitter to speak?