The Lonely Isle A South-Sea Island Tale, In Three Cantos. By William Glen |
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| I. |
| II. |
THE FLOWERS OF CLYDESDALE. |
 | The Lonely Isle |  |
THE FLOWERS OF CLYDESDALE.
O! lovely is Clydesdale at dawn o' the morning,
Whare the river meanders alang the gay vale,
Whan the daisies and blue-bells the haughs are adorning,
And the black-bird is piping his notes in the dale;
But ne'er mair to me will they pleasure awaken,
My brave gallant Hero lies cauld in the clay,
And the lassies now wander alane and forsaken—
The sweet Flowers of Clydesdale are a' wede away.
Whare the river meanders alang the gay vale,
Whan the daisies and blue-bells the haughs are adorning,
And the black-bird is piping his notes in the dale;
But ne'er mair to me will they pleasure awaken,
My brave gallant Hero lies cauld in the clay,
And the lassies now wander alane and forsaken—
The sweet Flowers of Clydesdale are a' wede away.
56
At the fight of Vittoria, by thousands surrounded,
The proud band of warriors dealt death 'mid the foe,
Till a shriek of despair! and pale, bleeding, and wounded,
They saw their brave chieftain, my Henry , laid low!
“Bear me to yon height,” he exclaimed, “we're victorious!
And he smiled at the flight, till his life ebbed away!
Ye lassies, O! hear me, my Henry died glorious,
And the Flowerets of Clydesdale bloomed sweetly that day.
The proud band of warriors dealt death 'mid the foe,
Till a shriek of despair! and pale, bleeding, and wounded,
They saw their brave chieftain, my Henry , laid low!
“Bear me to yon height,” he exclaimed, “we're victorious!
And he smiled at the flight, till his life ebbed away!
Ye lassies, O! hear me, my Henry died glorious,
And the Flowerets of Clydesdale bloomed sweetly that day.
I'll gang to his grave, and I'll busk it wi' flowers,
I'll brave a' the dangers that dwell on the wave;
On the green sod that wraps him I'll spend my night hours,
And I'll wander all day 'mang the tombs o' the brave.
If the lassies o' Spain on a mourner tak pity,
They'll weep, as at eve wi' there lovers they stray;
While Vittoria's mountains re-echo the ditty,
The sweet Flowers of Clydesdale are a' wede away.
I'll brave a' the dangers that dwell on the wave;
On the green sod that wraps him I'll spend my night hours,
And I'll wander all day 'mang the tombs o' the brave.
If the lassies o' Spain on a mourner tak pity,
They'll weep, as at eve wi' there lovers they stray;
While Vittoria's mountains re-echo the ditty,
The sweet Flowers of Clydesdale are a' wede away.
| The Lonely Isle | |