 | The poetical remains |  |
119
SONGS.
123
The Maid of Oronsey.
Oh! stopna, bonny bird, that strain;
Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows;
Sweet bird, oh! warble it again,
Thou'st touched the string o' a' my woes;
Oh! lull me with it to repose,
I'll dream of her who's far away,
And fancy, as my eyelids close,
Will meet the Maid of Oronsey.
Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows;
Sweet bird, oh! warble it again,
Thou'st touched the string o' a' my woes;
Oh! lull me with it to repose,
I'll dream of her who's far away,
And fancy, as my eyelids close,
Will meet the Maid of Oronsey.
124
Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief
To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the dove,
Thou'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love
The bonny Maid of Oronsey.
Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief
To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the dove,
Thou'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love
The bonny Maid of Oronsey.
Well may I sigh and sairly weep,
The song sad recollections bring;
Oh! fly across the roaring deep,
And to my maiden sweetly sing;
'Twill to her faithless bosom fling
Remembrance of a sacred day;
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
And far's the isle of Oronsey.
The song sad recollections bring;
Oh! fly across the roaring deep,
And to my maiden sweetly sing;
'Twill to her faithless bosom fling
Remembrance of a sacred day;
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
And far's the isle of Oronsey.
Then, bonny bird, wi' mony a tear
I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here
Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
Then high on airy pinions borne,
Thou'lt chant a sang o' love and wae,
An' soothe me weeping at the scorn
Of the sweet Maid of Oronsey.
I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here
Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
125
Thou'lt chant a sang o' love and wae,
An' soothe me weeping at the scorn
Of the sweet Maid of Oronsey.
And when around my weary head,
Soft pillowed where my fathers lie,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
An' close for aye my tearfu' eye;
Perched on some bonny branch on high,
Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my “spirit, passing by”
To meet the Maid of Oronsey.
Soft pillowed where my fathers lie,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
An' close for aye my tearfu' eye;
Perched on some bonny branch on high,
Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my “spirit, passing by”
To meet the Maid of Oronsey.
Mary of Sweet Aberfoyle.
The sun hadna peeped frae behind the dark billow,
The slow-sinking moon half-illumined the scene,
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wandered to muse on the days that were gane.
Sweet hope seemed to smile o'er ideas romantic,
An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
But my eyes filled wi' tears as I viewed the Atlantic,
An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
The slow-sinking moon half-illumined the scene,
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wandered to muse on the days that were gane.
126
An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
But my eyes filled wi' tears as I viewed the Atlantic,
An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Though far frae my hame in a tropical wild-wood,
Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
Oh! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moon-beams are dwelling,
Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
Oh! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moon-beams are dwelling,
Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Now far in the east the sun slowly rising,
Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage-tree;
And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
As might have filled the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been sealed;
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage-tree;
And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
As might have filled the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
127
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been sealed;
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning,
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' a slave I'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' a slave I'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
Oh! then I'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden
(Like ane o' yoursel's, she is free frae a' guile),
Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
Oh! then I'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden
(Like ane o' yoursel's, she is free frae a' guile),
Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
142
Home.
What is't at times that makes me rave?
What is't that draws the heavy sigh?
What is't, while looking o'er the wave,
That brings the tear-drop in my eye?
It is because I'm doomed to roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
What is't that draws the heavy sigh?
What is't, while looking o'er the wave,
That brings the tear-drop in my eye?
It is because I'm doomed to roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
The Indian landscapes fair to view,
In wild majestic grandeur dressed,
Each flow'ret of the gaudiest hue
Blooms in this garden of the west;
But through these scenes I sadly roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
In wild majestic grandeur dressed,
Each flow'ret of the gaudiest hue
Blooms in this garden of the west;
But through these scenes I sadly roam,
And mourn my sweet, my native home.
The maids are gentle as the dove,
With locks of jet and cheeks of brown,
Their eyes ne'er dart but beams of love;
Their brows ne'er wrinkle with a frown.
Yet careless from them all I roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
With locks of jet and cheeks of brown,
Their eyes ne'er dart but beams of love;
Their brows ne'er wrinkle with a frown.
Yet careless from them all I roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
143
But why need I thus idly pine?
The storm of woe may soon be o'er;
Pleasure and joy again be mine,
And I may see my fields once more.
Again perhaps I need not roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
The storm of woe may soon be o'er;
Pleasure and joy again be mine,
And I may see my fields once more.
Again perhaps I need not roam,
To mourn my sweet, my native home.
Land of my fathers, I'll rejoice,
If I no more from thee will stray,
When on thy hills I raise my voice,
And trill to thee a Scottish lay:
For though I have been doomed to roam,
I love my sweet, my native home.
If I no more from thee will stray,
When on thy hills I raise my voice,
And trill to thee a Scottish lay:
For though I have been doomed to roam,
I love my sweet, my native home.
145
Mary Gray.
Once William swore the sacred oath,
That of my love he'd never weary,
And I gave him my virgin troth;
But now he's turned awa' frae Mary.
I thought his heart was linked to mine
So firm that it could never stray;
Yet, William, may that peace be thine
Which thou hast ta'en frae Mary Gray.
That of my love he'd never weary,
And I gave him my virgin troth;
But now he's turned awa' frae Mary.
I thought his heart was linked to mine
So firm that it could never stray;
Yet, William, may that peace be thine
Which thou hast ta'en frae Mary Gray.
146
I once was happy in his love;
No gloomy prospect made me dreary;
I thought that he would never rove,
But aye be faithfu' to his Mary.
Bright on me shone sweet pleasure's sun;
I sported in its gladdening ray;
But now the evening shades are come,
And soon will close round Mary Gray.
No gloomy prospect made me dreary;
I thought that he would never rove,
But aye be faithfu' to his Mary.
Bright on me shone sweet pleasure's sun;
I sported in its gladdening ray;
But now the evening shades are come,
And soon will close round Mary Gray.
Yet, William, may no gloomy thought
Of my love ever make thee dreary;
I've suffered much, 'twas dearly bought;
Peace now has fled frae wretched Mary.
And when some maid, more loved than me,
Thou lead'st to church on bridal day,
Perhaps the lowly grave you'll see
Of poor, neglected Mary Gray.
Of my love ever make thee dreary;
I've suffered much, 'twas dearly bought;
Peace now has fled frae wretched Mary.
And when some maid, more loved than me,
Thou lead'st to church on bridal day,
Perhaps the lowly grave you'll see
Of poor, neglected Mary Gray.
148
The Twa Sutors.
The wind roared up the Frith o' Forth,
Through continent and isle, man,
An' blew a lass frae Borro'ness
To bonny Aberfoyle, man.
Through continent and isle, man,
An' blew a lass frae Borro'ness
To bonny Aberfoyle, man.
A northern wind sometimes brings wae,
When young lambs feel its breath, man;
But this east wind, aweel a wat,
Has brought us muckle scaith, man.
When young lambs feel its breath, man;
But this east wind, aweel a wat,
Has brought us muckle scaith, man.
It's tined us o' our sutors baith,
In truth, we have but twa, man,
For ever since they've seen the lass
Nought have they done ava, man.
In truth, we have but twa, man,
For ever since they've seen the lass
Nought have they done ava, man.
They've quit their lingles an' their lasts,
Their awls an' rossin ends, man;
An' when we'll gang dry shod again,
The feint a body kens, man.
Their awls an' rossin ends, man;
An' when we'll gang dry shod again,
The feint a body kens, man.
149
Jamie does naething a' the day
But wander through the knowes, man,
An' seeks amang the deep peat hags
For a' the puir drooned ewes, man.
But wander through the knowes, man,
An' seeks amang the deep peat hags
For a' the puir drooned ewes, man.
Nae doot the love-lorn sutor sees
His emblem in the sheep, man,
Wha droons himsel' for sake o' love
In moss hags, dark and deep, man.
His emblem in the sheep, man,
Wha droons himsel' for sake o' love
In moss hags, dark and deep, man.
An' Robin roams frae tryste tae fair,
Where mony ane has bled, man,
An' cares nae if in Jean's behalf
His noblest blood be shed, man.
Where mony ane has bled, man,
An' cares nae if in Jean's behalf
His noblest blood be shed, man.
But I'll gang an' whisper in Jean's lug,
Sae tak' a gude advice, man,
An' toss a bawbee up for ane,
An' no be unco nice, man.
Sae tak' a gude advice, man,
An' toss a bawbee up for ane,
An' no be unco nice, man.
Then we'll get baith our sutors back,
When ilka thing's complete, man,
Sin' meet at Jeanie's wedding dance,
Wi' hail shoon on our feet, man.
When ilka thing's complete, man,
Sin' meet at Jeanie's wedding dance,
Wi' hail shoon on our feet, man.
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FINIS.
| The poetical remains | |