 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
80
I gang frae Thee.
1826.
[_]
[I was musing on Northumberland, and humming the air of Macneil's song of “The Way for to Woo,” when the last half stanza of the following lyric came spontaneously, as it were, and adapted itself to the music. I thought it good enough to deserve an introduction, which is correct in feeling, though not entirely so in fact.]
I gang frae thee, gang frae thee sadly,
Dear land where a bairnie I played;
I gang frae thee, gang frae thee sadly,
Dearland where my manhood has strayed.
And here in a last look—if tears will but let me—
I'll bear wi' me far a strang picture o' thee;
And go where I may, I will never forget thee,
The bonniest lands 'ill kythe barren to me.
Dear land where a bairnie I played;
I gang frae thee, gang frae thee sadly,
Dearland where my manhood has strayed.
And here in a last look—if tears will but let me—
I'll bear wi' me far a strang picture o' thee;
And go where I may, I will never forget thee,
The bonniest lands 'ill kythe barren to me.
Through vales where my fate bids me wander,
The streams may flow on wi' mair pride,
But nae charm will they hae, when I ponder,
The charms o' my ain Beaumont-Side.
When wave their green woods in the dews o'the morning,
I'll think o' the lang broom that yellows yon glen;
When they talk o' their high hills and brag o' them scorning,
I'll think o' the Cheviots, and scorn them again.
The streams may flow on wi' mair pride,
But nae charm will they hae, when I ponder,
The charms o' my ain Beaumont-Side.
When wave their green woods in the dews o'the morning,
I'll think o' the lang broom that yellows yon glen;
When they talk o' their high hills and brag o' them scorning,
I'll think o' the Cheviots, and scorn them again.
My heart has been lang cauld to beauty—
My first, only love lies in clay!
And I canna allow it a duty,
My breast that another should sway.
And yet, did I wander the wide warl' ever,
I should ne'er meet wi'forms nor wi'faces to peer
The clean cottage maids that ted hay by yon river,
Or lighten the hairst-field wi' laugh and wi' jeer.
My first, only love lies in clay!
And I canna allow it a duty,
My breast that another should sway.
And yet, did I wander the wide warl' ever,
I should ne'er meet wi'forms nor wi'faces to peer
The clean cottage maids that ted hay by yon river,
Or lighten the hairst-field wi' laugh and wi' jeer.
81
Fareweel to thee, land o' my childhood!
When far frae thy beauties I dee,
My last wish, dear land o' my childhood,
Shall rise for a blessing on thee—
“Healthy,” I'll cry, “gush thy streams frae their fountains,
Birds in thy broomy glens sing the lang day,
Lambs bleat alang the green sides o'thy mountains,
And lasses bleach claes by ilk bonnie burn-brae!”
When far frae thy beauties I dee,
My last wish, dear land o' my childhood,
Shall rise for a blessing on thee—
“Healthy,” I'll cry, “gush thy streams frae their fountains,
Birds in thy broomy glens sing the lang day,
Lambs bleat alang the green sides o'thy mountains,
And lasses bleach claes by ilk bonnie burn-brae!”
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |