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But the snow was so deep,
That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep,
In the moorland so dreary.
Soft was the bed
She had made for her lover,
White were the sheets
And embroider'd the cover ; But his sheets are more white,
And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps
Where the hill foxes wander.
Alas, pretty maiden,
What sorrows attend you ! I see you sit shivering,
With lights at your window; But long may you wait
Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies,
With a wreath on his bosom!
How painful the task
The sad tidings to tell you ! An orphan you were
Ere this misery befell you; And far in yon wild,
Where the dead-tapers hover, So cold, cold and wan Lies the corpse
O, WHAT GART ME GREET?
Was written in 1810, on an affecting incident related to me by a lady. It was published in The Spy that year, and has never been set to music, but I have heard it chanted to “ Bonny Dundee,” an air of more general utility than any in Scotland.
O what gart me greet when I partit wi' Willie,
While at his gude fortune ilk ane was sae fain ? My neighbours they shamed me, an' said it was silly,
When I was sae soon to see Willie again.
For O he was aye a kind brother to me:
And saut was the tear-drop that smartit my ee.
It wasna the kiss that he gae me at parting,
Nor yet the kind pressure I felt o' my bandIt wasna the tear frae his blue ee was starting,
As slow they were shoving the boat frae the land.
The tear that I saw ower his bonny cheek straying,
It pleased me indeed, but it doubled my pain ; For something within me was constantly saying,
“ Ah, Jessie! ye'll never see Willie again!”
The bairn's unco wae to be taen frae its mother,
The wee bird is wae when bereaved o’ its young, But oh, to be reft of a dear only brother,
It canna be spoken—it canna be sung! I dream’d a' the night that my Willie was wi' me,
Sae kind to his Jessie—at meeting sae fain, An' just at the dawning a friend came to see me,
An' tauld me I never wad see him again!
I hae naebody now to look kind an’ caress me,
I look for a friend, but nae friend can I see; I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessie
Life has nae mair comfort or pleasure for me! Hard want may oppress me, an' sorrow harass me,
But dearest affection shall ever remain,
I'll lang for the day that shall meet us again!
A NATIONAL SONG OF TRIUMPH
The following song was written for, and sung at, a large social meeting of friends, who met by appointment at Young's tavern, to celebrate the entry of the Allies into Paris in 1814.
Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw
Look prouder o'er the marled main;
An' ne'er shall ee thy shores again
The struggle's past, the prize is won;
And turn his grey beard to the sun.
Lang hae I bragg’d o' thine an' thee,
Even when thy back was at the wa',
As lang as I hae breath to draw.