God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me.
Oh, soon to me may summer sun
Nae mair licht up the morn;
Nae mair to me the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave,
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave.
FAR lone amang the Highland hills,
'Midst nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are naught to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.
THE BLOOM HATH FLED
Yon mossy rosebud down the how
Just opening fresh and bonny,
It blinks beneath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony.
Sae sweet amidst her native hills
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie.
Now from the mountain's lofty brow
I view the distant ocean;
There avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.
Let Fortune pour her golden store,
Her laurell'd favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass o' Arranteenie.
(WILLIAM MOTHERWELL)
THE bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
As spring's rath blossoms die,
And sadness hath o'ershadow'd now
Thy once bright eye;
But, look on me, the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,
The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst did know;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell!
It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,
When murmur'd sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,
Discoursed my love, and told how loved
I was again.
Farewell!
'Twas not in cold and measur'd phrase
We gave our passion name:
Scorning such tedious eloquence,
Our heart's fond flame
And long imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came.
Farewell!
Would that our love had been the love
That merest worldlings know,
When passion's draught to our doom'd lips Turns utter woe,
And our poor dream of happiness
But in the wreck of all our hopes,
There's yet some touch of bliss,
Since fate robs not our wretchedness
Of this last kiss:
Despair, and love, and madness, meet
In this, in this.
Farewell!
I HAVE heard the mavis singing
His love song to the morn,
I have seen the dewdrop clinging
To the rose just newly born;
But a sweeter song has cheered me,
At the evening's gentle close,
And I've seen an eye still brighter
Than the dewdrop on the rose;
'Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,
And thine artless, winning smile,
That made this world an Eden,
Bonnie Mary of Argyle!
Tho' thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too,
Tho' thy step may lack its fleetness,
And thy hair its sunny hue;
Still to me wilt thou be dearer
Than all the world can own,
I have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone;
I have watch'd thy heart, dear Mary,
And its goodness was the wile,
That has made thee mine forever,
Bonnie Mary of Argyle.
O LASSIE I lo'e dearest,
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest;
How sweet to think o' thee!
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.
An' while the honied dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss't for sake o' thee;
|