 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
40
THE SNOWSTORM.
“Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa':
I 'll tak you to my faither's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye 'll sink to rise nae mair.”
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa':
I 'll tak you to my faither's ha',
And shield you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw,
I fear ye 'll sink to rise nae mair.”
“Ah! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart
Now waits me on the western shore;
Wi' morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart
Now waits me on the western shore;
Wi' morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak' ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”
“Dear lassie, turn—'twill be your deid!
The dreary waste lies far and wide;
Abide till morn, and then ye 'll ha'e
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady,—na! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”
The dreary waste lies far and wide;
Abide till morn, and then ye 'll ha'e
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady,—na! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi' kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”
Ah! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart?
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see;
Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee.
Why beams wi' joy thy wistfu' e'e?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thou'lt never see;
41
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms,
A victim to her love for thee.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |