HIGHLAND TAY WAS written on leaving one of the loveliest scenes in Athol, if not in the world, and one of the sweetest maidens; therefore the song is truly no fiction. It was so true, that a beloved female friend of mine could never endure to hear it sung. It was never published, that I remember of. It is to the air of "The Maid of Isla." WEAR away, ye hues of spring, Dear to me the day, the hour, When last her winding wave I saw, That lies aneath yon birken shaw. Aye we sat, and aye we sigh'd, For there was ane my arm within; Aye the restless stream we eyed, And heard its soft and soothing din. The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade, Forth peer'd the e'ening's modest gem, An' every little cloud that stray'd, Look'd gaudy in its gouden hem. The playful breeze across the plain An' play'd along the mellow grain I saw the drops of dew so clear That trembled in a lovely eye. When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind The spring-flush o' the blooming year; But O their parting leaves behind Something to memory ever dear! On Ettrick's fairy banks at eve, Though music melts the breeze away, The gloamin' fall could never leave A glow like that by Highland Tay. I'LL NO WAKE WI' ANNIE. I COMPOSED this pastoral ballad, as well as the air to which it is sung, whilst sailing one lovely day on St Mary's Loch; a pastime in which, above all others, I delighted, and of which I am now most shamefully deprived. Lord Napier never did so cruel a thing, not even on the high seas, as the interdicting of me from sailing on that beloved lake, which if I have not rendered classical, has not been my blame. But the credit will be his own,-that is some comfort.-The song was first harmonized by Mr Heather, London, and subsequently by Mr Dewar of Edinburgh; and is to be found in the Border Garland, last edition, published by Mr Purdie. O, MOTHER, tell the laird o't, Or sairly it will grieve me, O, And Annie's to gang wi' me, O. I'll wake the ewes my night about, I'll no wake, I'll no wake, I'll no wake wi' Annie, O; Nor sit my lane o'er night wi' ane Dear son, be wise an' warie, But never be unmanly, O; I've heard ye tell another tale Of young an' charming Annie, O. The ewes ye wake are fair enough, He'll no wake, he'll no wake, Nor sit his lane o'er night wi' ane P |