Obrázky na stránke
PDF
ePub

Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hen! for somebody!

Oh-hey! for somebody!

I wad do-what wad I not?

For the sake o' somebody!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And ay the saut tear blins her e'e:
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see ;

And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.
VOL. XXXIX,

E

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

Tune, Finlayston House.'

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid :
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now, fond I bare my breast,

O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will ay remember.

And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that guid watch o'er them;
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
And here's to, &c.

0, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN?

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree :
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;

But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy ;

But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O, sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon;
A fairer than's in yon town,
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest is her form!
She has the truest, kindest heart.

A RED, RED ROSE.

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve !
And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

« PredošláPokračovať »