 | The poetical remains |  |
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.
| The poetical remains | |