FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE

LXXII

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE

(THOMAS PRINGLE)

OUR native land, our native vale,

A long, a last adieu; Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Cheviot's mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
Ye streams renown'd in song;
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell the blythesome broomy knowes
Where thyme and harebells grow;
Farewell the hoary haunted hows
O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell,

The martyr's grave and lover's bower
We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love, our fathers' home,
Land of the brave and free,

The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!

THE EVENING STAR

We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the western main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu;
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale

And Scotland's mountains blue!

LXXIII

THE EVENING STAR

(DR. JOHN LEYDEN)

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear;

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light-
Her rays can never vie with thine.

THE BONNIE WEE THING

Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh;
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain;

Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love

But sweeter to be loved again.

LXXIV

THE BONNIE WEE THING

(ROBERT BURNS)

BONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine;

I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine!
Wishfully I look an' languish
In that bonnie face of thine;
An' my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

ON THE WILD BRAES OF CALDER

Wit, an' grace, an' love, an' beauty,
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine!

LXXV

ON THE WILD BRAES OF CALDER

(JOHN STRUTHERS)

On the wild braes of Calder, I found a fair

lily,

All drooping with dew in the breath of the

morn,

A lily more fair never bloom'd in the valley, Nor rose, the gay garden of art to adorn. Sweet, sweet was the fragrance this lily diffused,

As blushing, all lonely, it rose on the

view,

But scanty its shelter, to reptiles exposed, And every chill blast from the cold north

that blew.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O

Beneath yon green hill, a small field I had planted,

Where the light leafy hazel hangs over the

burn;

And a flower such as this, to complete it, was wanted,

A flower that might mark the gay season's return.

Straight home to adorn it, I bore this fair

lily,

Where, at morn, and at even, I have watch'd it with care;

And blossoming still, it is queen of the valley, The glory of spring, and the pride of the year.

LXXVI

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O

(ROBERT BURNS)

WHEN o'er the hills the eastern star
Tells bughtin' time is near, my jo;
An' owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf an' weary, O;
Down by the burn, where sented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,

I'll meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.