 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
38
THE HARPER OF MULL.
When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I!
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I played my harp cheery, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang.
But now I 'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me:
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I played my harp cheery, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang.
But now I 'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me:
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.
I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane.
Though Rosie is faithless, she 's no the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane.
Though Rosie is faithless, she 's no the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.
As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast.
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er!
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull,
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast.
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er!
Thou wak'dst me to tortures unequall'd before;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull,
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |