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A PASTORAL ballad, written expressly for the first Number of the Literary Journal, and published there.
AWAKE, my bonny Marion Graham,
And see this scene before it closes,
And a' besprinkled o’er wi' roses;
Here are the streaks of gowden light,
Fair as my Marion's locks o' yellow;
As smile within her ee sae mellow;
Her cheeks, young roses, even seem
Awake, my bonny Marion Graham,
Ye never saw sae bright adorning; I canna bear that my sweet dame
Should lose the pleasures o' this morning ; For what wad a' its beauties be
Without some likeness unto thee?
I see thee in the silver stream,
The budding rose, and gracefu’ willow; I see thee in yon morning beam,
And beauty of the glowing billow;
And could you trow it, lovely May,
I see thee in the hues of even, Thy virgin bed the milky way,
Thy coverlet the veil of heaven! There have I seen a vision dim Hush'd by an angel's holy hymn.
And, Marion, when this morn, above
The gates of heaven, I saw advancing
The morning's gem—the star of love,
My heart with rapture fell a-dancing ; Yet I in all its rays could see, And all its glories, only thee.
Ah! Marion Graham ! 'tis e'en ower true,
And Gude forgie my fond devotion ! In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean, The scene that brings nae mind o’ thee Has little beauty to my ee.
Get up, ye little wily knave!
I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering, You like to hear your lover rave, An' gar him trow ye
dinna hear him ; Yet weel this homage you'll repay,– Get up, my love, an' come away!
Was published in the Forest Minstrel, upwards of twenty years ago, and has been partially popular ever since.--It was beautifully barmonized to a Gaelic air, by Miss C. Forest, in a single sheet.
O SOFTLY blaw, thou biting blast,
O’er Yarrow's lonely dale,
Exposed to every gale!
Despairing to survive;
Still kept my flower alive.
One evening, when the sun was low,
Through yon lone dell I stray'd, While little birds from every bough
Their music wild convey'd.
The sunbeam lean'd across the shower,
The rainbow girt the glen, There first I saw my lovely flower
Far from the walks of men.
Her cheek was then the ruddy dawn,
Stole from the rising sun;
On her fair breast was dun.
Her mould of modest dignity
Was form’d the heart to win; The dewdrop glistning in her eye,
Show'd all was pure within.
But frost on cold misfortune borne,
Hath crush'd her in the clay ; And ruthless fate hath rudely torn
Each kindred branch away. That wounded stem will never close,
But bleeding still remain; Relentless winds, how can you blow,
And nip my flower again!