‘EASY IS MY BED, IT IS EASY,BUT IT IS NOT TO SLEEP THAT I INCLINE;THE WIND WHISTLES NORTHWARDS, NORTHWARDS,AND MY THOUGHTS MOVE WITH IT.More pleasant were it to be with theeIn the little glen of calves,Than to be counting of drovesIn the enclosures of Creiff.EASY IS MY BED, ETC.‘Great is my esteem of the maidenTowards whose dwelling the north wind blows;She is ever cheerful, sportive, kindly,Without folly, without vanity, without pride.True is her heart—were I under hiding,And fifty men in pursuit of my footsteps,I should find protection, when they surrounded me mostclosely,In the secret recess of that shieling.EASY IS MY BED, ETC.‘Oh for the day for turning my face homeward,That I may see the maiden of beauty—Joyful will it be to me to be with thee,Fair girl with the long heavy locks!Choice of all places for deer-huntingAre the brindled rock and the ridge!How sweet at evening to be dragging the slain deerDownwards along the piper’s cairn!EASY IS MY BED, ETC.‘Great is my esteem for the maidenWho parted from me by the west side of the enclosed field;Late yet again will she linger in that fold,Long after the kine are assembled.It is I myself who have taken no dislike to thee,Though far away from thee am I now.It is for the thought of thee that sleep flies from me;Great is the profit to me of thy parting kiss!EASY IS MY BED, ETC.‘Dear to me are the boundaries of the forest;Far from Creiff is my heart;My remembrance is of the hillocks of sheep,And the heath of many knolls.Oh for the red-streaked fissures of the rock,Where in spring time the fawns leap;Oh for the crags towards which the wind is blowing—Cheap would be my bed to be there!EASY IS MY BED, ETC.’
“The following describes Rob’s feelings on the first discovery of his damsel’s infidelity. The airs of both these pieces are his own, and, the Highland ladies say, very beautiful.
‘Heavy to me is the shieling, and the hum that is in it,Since the ear that was wont to listen is now no more on thewatch.Where is Isabel, the courteous, the conversable, a sister inkindness?Where is Anne, the slender-browed, the turret-breasted, whoseglossy hair pleased me when yet a boy?HEICH! WHAT AN HOUR WAS MY RETURNING!PAIN SUCH AS THAT SUNSET BROUGHT, WHAT AVAILETH ME TO TELL IT?‘I traversed the fold, and upward among the trees—Each place, far and near, wherein I was wont to salute mylove.When I looked down from the crag, and beheld the fair-hairedstranger dallying with his bride,I wished I had never revisited the glen of my dreams.SUCH THINGS CAME INTO MY HEART AS THAT SUN WAS GOING DOWN,A PAIN OF WHICH I SHALL NEVER BE RID, WHAT AVAILETH ME TO TELLIT?‘Since it has been heard that the carpenter had persuaded thee,My sleep is disturbed—busy is foolishness within me atmidnight.The kindness that has been between us, I cannot shake off thatmemory in visions;Thou callest me not to thy side; but love is to me for amessenger.THERE IS STRIFE WITHIN ME, AND I TOSS TO BE AT LIBERTY;AND EVER THE CLOSER IT CLINGS, AND THE DELUSION IS GROWING TOME AS A TREE.‘Anne, yellow-haired daughter of Donald, surely thou knowestnot how it is with me—That it is old love, unrepaid, which has worn down from me mystrength;That when far from thee, beyond many mountains, the wound inmy heart was throbbing,Stirring, and searching for ever, as when I sat beside thee onthe turf.NOW, THEN, HEAR ME THIS ONCE, IF FOR EVER I AM TO BE WITHOUTTHEE,MY SPIRIT IS BROKEN—GIVE ME ONE KISS ERE I LEAVE THIS LAND!‘Haughtily and scornfully the maid looked upon me:—Never will it be work for thy fingers to unloose the band frommy curls.Thou hast been absent a twelvemonth, and six were seeking mediligently;Was thy superiority so high that there should be no end ofabiding for thee?HA! HA! HA! HAST THOU AT LAST BECOME SICK?IS IT LOVE THAT IS TO GIVE DEATH TO THEE? SURELY THE ENEMYHAS BEEN IN NO HASTE.‘But how shall I hate thee, even though towards me thou hastbecome cold?When my discourse is most angry concerning thy name in thineabsence,Of sudden thine image, with its old dearness, comes visiblyinto my mind,And a secret voice whispers that love will yet prevail!AND I BECOME SURETY FOR IT ANEW, DARLING,AND IT SPRINGS UP AT THAT HOUR LOFTY AS A TOWER.’
“Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would of themselves justify Dr. Mackay (their Editor) in placing this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song.”—QUARTERLY REVIEW, NO. XC., JULY 1831.