On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd—"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair."Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn."But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever,Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me;No hope to support, and no friend to deliver,Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain."And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish,New poison does mix in my cup of affliction,For honour forbids (though without thee I languish)To make thee a partner of sorrow and want.""Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee,I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit;Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee,My portion is ample—that portion is thine."
On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd—
"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.
"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.
"But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever,Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me;No hope to support, and no friend to deliver,Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.
"And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish,New poison does mix in my cup of affliction,For honour forbids (though without thee I languish)To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."
"Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee,I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit;Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee,My portion is ample—that portion is thine."
Hark! the martial drums resound,Valiant brothers, welcome all,Crowd the royal standard round,'Tis your injured country's call.See, see, the robbers come,Ruin seize the ruthless foe;For your altars, for your homes,Heroes lay the tyrants low!He whom dastard fears abash,He was born to be a slave—Let him feel the despot's lash,And sink inglorious to the grave.See, see, &c.He who spurns a coward's life,He whose bosom freedom warms,Let him share the glorious strife,We 'll take the hero to our arms.See, see, &c.Spirits of the valiant dead,Who fought and bled at Freedom's call,In the path you dared to tread,We, your sons, will stand or fall.See, see, &c.Bending from your airy halls,Turn on us a guardian eye—Lead where Fame or Honour calls,And teach to conquer or to die!See, see, &c.
Hark! the martial drums resound,Valiant brothers, welcome all,Crowd the royal standard round,'Tis your injured country's call.See, see, the robbers come,Ruin seize the ruthless foe;For your altars, for your homes,Heroes lay the tyrants low!
He whom dastard fears abash,He was born to be a slave—Let him feel the despot's lash,And sink inglorious to the grave.See, see, &c.
He who spurns a coward's life,He whose bosom freedom warms,Let him share the glorious strife,We 'll take the hero to our arms.See, see, &c.
Spirits of the valiant dead,Who fought and bled at Freedom's call,In the path you dared to tread,We, your sons, will stand or fall.See, see, &c.
Bending from your airy halls,Turn on us a guardian eye—Lead where Fame or Honour calls,And teach to conquer or to die!See, see, &c.
Tune—"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."
Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,Love sincere and friendship true,Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance,Trembling in the midnight dew.Sad and lonely, sad and lonely,Musing on the tints decay,On the maid I love so dearly,And on pleasure's fleeting day.Bright the moonbeams, when we parted,Mark'd the solemn midnight hour,Clothing with a robe of silverHill, and dale, and shady bower.Then our mutual faith we plighted,Vows of true love to repeat,Lonely oft the pale orb watching,At this hour to lovers sweet.On thy silent face, with fondness,Let me gaze, fair queen of night,For my Annie's tears of sorrowSparkle in thy soften'd light.When I think my Annie views thee,Dearly do I love thy rays,For the distance that divides usSeems to vanish as I gaze.
Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,Love sincere and friendship true,Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance,Trembling in the midnight dew.
Sad and lonely, sad and lonely,Musing on the tints decay,On the maid I love so dearly,And on pleasure's fleeting day.
Bright the moonbeams, when we parted,Mark'd the solemn midnight hour,Clothing with a robe of silverHill, and dale, and shady bower.
Then our mutual faith we plighted,Vows of true love to repeat,Lonely oft the pale orb watching,At this hour to lovers sweet.
On thy silent face, with fondness,Let me gaze, fair queen of night,For my Annie's tears of sorrowSparkle in thy soften'd light.
When I think my Annie views thee,Dearly do I love thy rays,For the distance that divides usSeems to vanish as I gaze.
I ask no lordling's titled name,Nor miser's hoarded store;I ask to live with those I love,Contented though I 'm poor.From joyless pomp and heartless mirthI gladly will withdraw,And hide me in this lowly vale,Beneath my roof of straw.To hear my Nancy's lips pronounceA husband's cherish'd name,To press my children to my heartAre titles, wealth and fame.Let kings and conquerors delightTo hold the world in awe,Be mine to find content and peaceBeneath my roof of straw.When round the winters' warm firesideWe meet with social joy,The glance of love to every heartShall speak from every eye.More lovely far such such scenes of blissThan monarch ever saw,Even angels might delight to dwellBeneath my roof of straw.
I ask no lordling's titled name,Nor miser's hoarded store;I ask to live with those I love,Contented though I 'm poor.From joyless pomp and heartless mirthI gladly will withdraw,And hide me in this lowly vale,Beneath my roof of straw.
To hear my Nancy's lips pronounceA husband's cherish'd name,To press my children to my heartAre titles, wealth and fame.Let kings and conquerors delightTo hold the world in awe,Be mine to find content and peaceBeneath my roof of straw.
When round the winters' warm firesideWe meet with social joy,The glance of love to every heartShall speak from every eye.More lovely far such such scenes of blissThan monarch ever saw,Even angels might delight to dwellBeneath my roof of straw.
Tune—"Bonny Mary Hay."
Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal,Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek,And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek?For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane,Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb,My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee,For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold,The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old,And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay,As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done,But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon,Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?
Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal,Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?
Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek,And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek?For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane,Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.
But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb,My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee,For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.
The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold,The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old,And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay,As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.
We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done,But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon,Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?
Robert Allan was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. He followed the occupation of a muslin weaver in his native place, and composed many of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the "Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the "Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was published in 1836, under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution in Glasgow.
In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and benevolent dispositions, became peculiarly irritable; he fancied that his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends, he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passageonly six days; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841.
Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of Scottish song; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. Several of his lays are unsurpassed in genuine pathos.[92]
Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,Blink over the burn, love, to me;O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty,To get but a blink o' thine e'e.The birds are a' sporting around us,And sweetly they sing on the tree;But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty,I trow, is far dearer to me.The ringlets, my lovely young Betty,That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree,I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain,That blossom sae sweetly, like thee.Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty,Come over the burn, love, to me;O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty,To live in the blink o' thine e'e.
Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,Blink over the burn, love, to me;O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty,To get but a blink o' thine e'e.The birds are a' sporting around us,And sweetly they sing on the tree;But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty,I trow, is far dearer to me.
The ringlets, my lovely young Betty,That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree,I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain,That blossom sae sweetly, like thee.Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty,Come over the burn, love, to me;O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty,To live in the blink o' thine e'e.
Air—"Haud awa frae me, Donald."
Come awa, hie awa,Come and be mine ain, lassie;Row thee in my tartan plaid,An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie.A gowden brooch, an' siller belt,Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie,Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame,For Highland hills wi' me, lassie.Come awa, &c.A bonnie bower shall be thy hame,And drest in silken sheen, lassie.Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha',And gayest on the green, lassie.Come awa, &c.
Come awa, hie awa,Come and be mine ain, lassie;Row thee in my tartan plaid,An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie.A gowden brooch, an' siller belt,Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie,Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame,For Highland hills wi' me, lassie.Come awa, &c.
A bonnie bower shall be thy hame,And drest in silken sheen, lassie.Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha',And gayest on the green, lassie.Come awa, &c.
ANSWER.
Haud awa, bide awa,Haud awa frae me, Donald;What care I for a' your wealth,And a' that ye can gie, Donald?I wadna lea' my Lowland ladFor a' your gowd and gear, Donald;Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill,An' stay nae langer here, Donald.Haud awa, &c.My Jamie is a gallant youth,I lo'e but him alane, Donald,And in bonnie Scotland's isle,Like him there is nane, Donald;Haud awa, &c.He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose,Nor garters at his knee, Donald;But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart,And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.Sae haud awa, bide awa,Come nae mair at e'en, Donald;I wadna break my Jamie's heart,To be a Highland Queen, Donald.
Haud awa, bide awa,Haud awa frae me, Donald;What care I for a' your wealth,And a' that ye can gie, Donald?
I wadna lea' my Lowland ladFor a' your gowd and gear, Donald;Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill,An' stay nae langer here, Donald.Haud awa, &c.
My Jamie is a gallant youth,I lo'e but him alane, Donald,And in bonnie Scotland's isle,Like him there is nane, Donald;Haud awa, &c.
He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose,Nor garters at his knee, Donald;But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart,And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.
Sae haud awa, bide awa,Come nae mair at e'en, Donald;I wadna break my Jamie's heart,To be a Highland Queen, Donald.
Air—"In yon garden fine and gay."
On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,While straying was the moon's pale beam;At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep,I see thy form in fancy's dream.I see thee in the rosy morn,Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen;The morning smiles, but thou art lost,Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.Still fancy fondly dwells on thee,And adds another day of care;What bliss were mine could fancy paintThee true, as she can paint thee fair!O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams!Ye silken cords that bind the heart;—Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine,And smile and triumph in the smart?
On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,While straying was the moon's pale beam;At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep,I see thy form in fancy's dream.
I see thee in the rosy morn,Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen;The morning smiles, but thou art lost,Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.
Still fancy fondly dwells on thee,And adds another day of care;What bliss were mine could fancy paintThee true, as she can paint thee fair!
O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams!Ye silken cords that bind the heart;—Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine,And smile and triumph in the smart?
Air—"M'Gilchrist's Lament."
Chaunt no more thy roundelay,Lovely minstrel of the grove,Charm no more the hours away,With thine artless tale of love;Chaunt no more thy roundelay,Sad it steals upon mine ear;Leave, O leave thy leafy spray,Till the smiling morn appear.Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song,As the welkin's shadows low'r;Whilst the beetle wheels along,Humming to the twilight hour.Not like thee I quit the scene,To enjoy night's balmy dream;Not like thee I wake again,Smiling with the morning beam.
Chaunt no more thy roundelay,Lovely minstrel of the grove,Charm no more the hours away,With thine artless tale of love;Chaunt no more thy roundelay,Sad it steals upon mine ear;Leave, O leave thy leafy spray,Till the smiling morn appear.
Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song,As the welkin's shadows low'r;Whilst the beetle wheels along,Humming to the twilight hour.Not like thee I quit the scene,To enjoy night's balmy dream;Not like thee I wake again,Smiling with the morning beam.
Air—"The Banks of Eswal."
The primrose is bonnie in spring,And the rose it is sweet in June;It 's bonnie where leaves are green,I' the sunny afternoon.It 's bonny when the sun gaes down,An' glints on the hoary knowe;It 's bonnie to see the cloudSae red in the dazzling lowe.When the night is a' sae calm,An' comes the sweet twilight gloom,Oh! it cheers my heart to meetMy lassie amang the broom,When the birds in bush and brake,Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang;Oh! what an hour to sitThe gay gowden links amang.
The primrose is bonnie in spring,And the rose it is sweet in June;It 's bonnie where leaves are green,I' the sunny afternoon.It 's bonny when the sun gaes down,An' glints on the hoary knowe;It 's bonnie to see the cloudSae red in the dazzling lowe.
When the night is a' sae calm,An' comes the sweet twilight gloom,Oh! it cheers my heart to meetMy lassie amang the broom,When the birds in bush and brake,Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang;Oh! what an hour to sitThe gay gowden links amang.
Air—"Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'."
The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw,But sweeter far on Woodhouselee,And dear I like his setting beamFor sake o' ane sae dear to me.It was na simmer's fairy scenes,In a' their charming luxury,But Beauty's sel' that won my heart,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile,Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e,Sae sairly wounded was my heart,That had na wist sic ills to dree;In vain I strave in beauty's chains,I cou'd na keep my fancy free,She gat my heart sae in her thrall,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a',Where aft is heard the hum of bee,The meadow green, and breezy hill,Where lambkins sport sae merrilie,May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain,When e'enin' sun dips in the sea,But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn,Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn,And dew-clad gowans on the lea,The water-lily on the lake,Are but sweet emblems a' of thee;And while in simmer smiles they bloom,Sae lovely, and sae fair to see,I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw,But sweeter far on Woodhouselee,And dear I like his setting beamFor sake o' ane sae dear to me.It was na simmer's fairy scenes,In a' their charming luxury,But Beauty's sel' that won my heart,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile,Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e,Sae sairly wounded was my heart,That had na wist sic ills to dree;In vain I strave in beauty's chains,I cou'd na keep my fancy free,She gat my heart sae in her thrall,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a',Where aft is heard the hum of bee,The meadow green, and breezy hill,Where lambkins sport sae merrilie,May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain,When e'enin' sun dips in the sea,But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn,Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.
The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn,And dew-clad gowans on the lea,The water-lily on the lake,Are but sweet emblems a' of thee;And while in simmer smiles they bloom,Sae lovely, and sae fair to see,I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake,The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.Doun yon glen ye never will weary,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.The water is wimpling by fu' clearly,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Doun yon glen ye never will weary,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
The water is wimpling by fu' clearly,The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie,And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Gaelic Air.
Her hair was like the Cromla mist,When evening sun beams from the west,Bright was the eye of Morna;When beauty wept the warrior's fall,Then low and dark was Fingal's hall,Sad was the lovely Morna.O! lovely was the blue-eyed maidThat sung peace to the warrior's shade,But none so fair as Morna.The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,That waved beside dark Orna's lake,Where wander'd lovely Morna.Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,That died the rustling heath among,Where sat the lovely Morna;It slumber'd on the placid wave,It echoed through the warrior's cave,And sigh'd again to Morna.The hero's plumes were lowly laid;In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maidSang peace and rest to Morna;The harp's wild strain was past and gone,No more it whisper'd to the moanOf lovely, dying Morna.
Her hair was like the Cromla mist,When evening sun beams from the west,Bright was the eye of Morna;When beauty wept the warrior's fall,Then low and dark was Fingal's hall,Sad was the lovely Morna.
O! lovely was the blue-eyed maidThat sung peace to the warrior's shade,But none so fair as Morna.The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,That waved beside dark Orna's lake,Where wander'd lovely Morna.
Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,That died the rustling heath among,Where sat the lovely Morna;It slumber'd on the placid wave,It echoed through the warrior's cave,And sigh'd again to Morna.
The hero's plumes were lowly laid;In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maidSang peace and rest to Morna;The harp's wild strain was past and gone,No more it whisper'd to the moanOf lovely, dying Morna.
Air—"Hodgart's Delight."
O leeze me on the bonnie lassThat I lo'e best o' a';O leeze me on my Marion,The pride o' Lockershaw.O weel I like my Marion,For love blinks in her e'e,And she has vow'd a solemn vow,She lo'es na ane but me.The flowers grow bonnie on the bank,Where doun the waters fa';The birds sing bonnie in the bower,Where red, red roses blaw.An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart,When day has closed his e'e,I wander wi' my Marion,Wha lo'es na ane but me.Sic luve as mine an' Marion's,O, may it never fa'!But blume aye like the fairest flower,That grows in Lockershaw.My Marion I will ne'er forgetUntil the day I dee,For she has vow'd a solemn vow,She lo'es na ane but me.
O leeze me on the bonnie lassThat I lo'e best o' a';O leeze me on my Marion,The pride o' Lockershaw.O weel I like my Marion,For love blinks in her e'e,And she has vow'd a solemn vow,She lo'es na ane but me.
The flowers grow bonnie on the bank,Where doun the waters fa';The birds sing bonnie in the bower,Where red, red roses blaw.An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart,When day has closed his e'e,I wander wi' my Marion,Wha lo'es na ane but me.
Sic luve as mine an' Marion's,O, may it never fa'!But blume aye like the fairest flower,That grows in Lockershaw.My Marion I will ne'er forgetUntil the day I dee,For she has vow'd a solemn vow,She lo'es na ane but me.
Highland Boat-air.
Put off, put off, and row with speed,For now 's the time, and the hour of need!To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!Yon light that plays round the castle's moatIs only the warder's random shot!Put off, put off, and row with speed,For now is the time, and the hour of need!Those pond'rous keys[93]shall the kelpies keep,And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,For now is the time, and the hour of need!Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,And the warder's voice hath treason sung;The echoes to the falconet's roar,Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!
Put off, put off, and row with speed,For now 's the time, and the hour of need!To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!Yon light that plays round the castle's moatIs only the warder's random shot!Put off, put off, and row with speed,For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Those pond'rous keys[93]shall the kelpies keep,And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,And the warder's voice hath treason sung;The echoes to the falconet's roar,Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!
Air—"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."
When Charlie to the Highlands came,It was a' joy and gladness,We trow'd na that our hearts sae soonWad broken be wi' sadness.Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown,And break our hearts wi' sorrow;Oh! it will never smile again,And bring a gladsome morrow!Our dwellings, and our outlay gear,Lie smoking, and in ruin;Our bravest youths, like mountain deer,The foe is oft pursuing.Our home is now the barren rock,As if by Heaven forsaken;Our shelter and our canopy,The heather and the bracken.Oh! we maun wander far and near,And foreign lands maun hide in;Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear,We daurna langer bide in.
When Charlie to the Highlands came,It was a' joy and gladness,We trow'd na that our hearts sae soonWad broken be wi' sadness.
Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown,And break our hearts wi' sorrow;Oh! it will never smile again,And bring a gladsome morrow!
Our dwellings, and our outlay gear,Lie smoking, and in ruin;Our bravest youths, like mountain deer,The foe is oft pursuing.
Our home is now the barren rock,As if by Heaven forsaken;Our shelter and our canopy,The heather and the bracken.
Oh! we maun wander far and near,And foreign lands maun hide in;Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear,We daurna langer bide in.
Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,When the moon was in her wane;Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour,And to her bower is gane.He saftly stept in his sandal shoon,And saftly laid him doun;"It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore,"Sin ye maun wauken soon."Lord Ronald, stay till the early cockShall flap his siller wing,An' saftly ye maun ope the gate,An' loose the silken string.""O Ellenore, my fairest fair,O Ellenore, my bride!How can ye fear when my merry men a'Are on the mountain side."The moon was hid, the night was sped,But Ellenore's heart was wae;She heard the cock flap his siller wing,An' she watched the morning ray:"Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear,The mornin' opes its e'e;Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower,And safe, safe may thou be."But there was a page, a little fause page,Lord Ronald did espy,An' he has told his baron all,Where the hind and hart did lie."It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald,Thy father's deeds o' weir;But since the hind has come to my faul',His blood shall dim my spear."Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore,And press'd her lily hand;Sic a comely knight and comely dameNe'er met in wedlock's band:But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch,And kiss'd again his bride;And with his spear, in deadly ire,He pierced Lord Ronald's side.The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek,She look'd all wan and ghast;She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side,An' the blood was rinnin' fast:She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue,But his life she cou'dna stay;Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb,An' their spirits baith fled away.
Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,When the moon was in her wane;Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour,And to her bower is gane.He saftly stept in his sandal shoon,And saftly laid him doun;"It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore,"Sin ye maun wauken soon.
"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cockShall flap his siller wing,An' saftly ye maun ope the gate,An' loose the silken string.""O Ellenore, my fairest fair,O Ellenore, my bride!How can ye fear when my merry men a'Are on the mountain side."
The moon was hid, the night was sped,But Ellenore's heart was wae;She heard the cock flap his siller wing,An' she watched the morning ray:"Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear,The mornin' opes its e'e;Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower,And safe, safe may thou be."
But there was a page, a little fause page,Lord Ronald did espy,An' he has told his baron all,Where the hind and hart did lie."It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald,Thy father's deeds o' weir;But since the hind has come to my faul',His blood shall dim my spear."
Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore,And press'd her lily hand;Sic a comely knight and comely dameNe'er met in wedlock's band:But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch,And kiss'd again his bride;And with his spear, in deadly ire,He pierced Lord Ronald's side.
The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek,She look'd all wan and ghast;She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side,An' the blood was rinnin' fast:She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue,But his life she cou'dna stay;Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb,An' their spirits baith fled away.
Air—"Highland Lassie."
When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,To blaze upon the western wave;When peace and love possess the grove,And echo sleeps within the cave;Led by love's soft endearing charms,I stray the pathless winding vale,And hail the hour that gives to meThe lovely maid of Ormadale.Her eyes outshine the star of night,Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue;And pure as flower in summer shade,Low bending in the pearly dew:Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure,Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail;As angel-smile she aye will beDear to the bowers of Ormadale.Let fortune soothe the heart of care,And wealth to all its votaries give;Be mine the rosy smile of love,And in its blissful arms to live.I would resign fair India's wealth,And sweet Arabia's spicy gale,For balmy eve and Scotian bower,With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.
When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,To blaze upon the western wave;When peace and love possess the grove,And echo sleeps within the cave;Led by love's soft endearing charms,I stray the pathless winding vale,And hail the hour that gives to meThe lovely maid of Ormadale.
Her eyes outshine the star of night,Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue;And pure as flower in summer shade,Low bending in the pearly dew:Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure,Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail;As angel-smile she aye will beDear to the bowers of Ormadale.
Let fortune soothe the heart of care,And wealth to all its votaries give;Be mine the rosy smile of love,And in its blissful arms to live.I would resign fair India's wealth,And sweet Arabia's spicy gale,For balmy eve and Scotian bower,With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.
A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,An' low she curtsied doun;She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see,Then a' our ladies roun'.Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?An' whare may your dwelling be?But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie—I haena a hame, nor ha';Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,For the night begins to fa'.I took her into our tapestry ha',An' we drank the ruddy wine;An' aye I strave, but fand my heartFast bound wi' Love's silken twine.I ween'd she might be the fairies' queenShe was sae jimp and sma';And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'eFell ower twa heaps o' snaw.Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?An' whare may your dwelling be?Can the winter's rain an' the winter's windBlaw cauld on sic as ye?I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie—I haena a ha' nor hame;My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,An' him I daurna name.Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,Frae this ye mauna gae;An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain,Nae marrow ye shall hae.Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,Sae fu' o' the damask wine,An' press it to your cherrie lip,For ye shall aye be mine.An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,An' a' your kin sae dear;Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'eWi' mony a saut, saut tear.
A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,An' low she curtsied doun;She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see,Then a' our ladies roun'.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?An' whare may your dwelling be?But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie—I haena a hame, nor ha';Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,For the night begins to fa'.
I took her into our tapestry ha',An' we drank the ruddy wine;An' aye I strave, but fand my heartFast bound wi' Love's silken twine.
I ween'd she might be the fairies' queenShe was sae jimp and sma';And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'eFell ower twa heaps o' snaw.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?An' whare may your dwelling be?Can the winter's rain an' the winter's windBlaw cauld on sic as ye?
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie—I haena a ha' nor hame;My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,An' him I daurna name.
Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,Frae this ye mauna gae;An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain,Nae marrow ye shall hae.
Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,Sae fu' o' the damask wine,An' press it to your cherrie lip,For ye shall aye be mine.
An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,An' a' your kin sae dear;Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'eWi' mony a saut, saut tear.
There grew in bonnie ScotlandA thistle and a brier,And aye they twined and clasp'd,Like sisters, kind and dear.The rose it was sae bonnie,It could ilk bosom charm;The thistle spread its thorny leaf,To keep the rose frae harm.A bonnie laddie tendedThe rose baith ear' and late;He water'd it, and fann'd it,And wove it with his fate;And the leal hearts of ScotlandPray'd it might never fa',The thistle was sae bonny green,The rose sae like the snaw.But the weird sisters satWhere Hope's fair emblems grew;They drapt a drap upon the roseO' bitter, blasting dew;And aye they twined the mystic thread,—But ere their task was done,The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,And wither'd in the sun!A bonnie laddie tendedThe rose baith ear' an' late;He water'd it, and fann'd it,And wove it with his fate;But the thistle tap it wither'd,Winds bore it far awa',And Scotland's heart was broken,For the rose sae like the snaw!
There grew in bonnie ScotlandA thistle and a brier,And aye they twined and clasp'd,Like sisters, kind and dear.The rose it was sae bonnie,It could ilk bosom charm;The thistle spread its thorny leaf,To keep the rose frae harm.
A bonnie laddie tendedThe rose baith ear' and late;He water'd it, and fann'd it,And wove it with his fate;And the leal hearts of ScotlandPray'd it might never fa',The thistle was sae bonny green,The rose sae like the snaw.
But the weird sisters satWhere Hope's fair emblems grew;They drapt a drap upon the roseO' bitter, blasting dew;And aye they twined the mystic thread,—But ere their task was done,The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,And wither'd in the sun!
A bonnie laddie tendedThe rose baith ear' an' late;He water'd it, and fann'd it,And wove it with his fate;But the thistle tap it wither'd,Winds bore it far awa',And Scotland's heart was broken,For the rose sae like the snaw!
Tune—"The Martyr's Grave."
There 's nae Covenant now, lassie!There 's nae Covenant now!The Solemn League and CovenantAre a' broken through!There 's nae Renwick now, lassie,There 's nae gude Cargill,Nor holy Sabbath preachingUpon the Martyrs' Hill!It 's naething but a sword, lassie!A bluidy, bluidy ane!Waving owre poor Scotland,For her rebellious sin.Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie,Scotland 's a' wrang—It 's neither to the hill nor glen,Lassie, we daur gang.The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken,In simmer's dusk sae calm;There 's nae gathering now, lassie,To sing the e'ening psalm!But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,Aboon the warrior's cairn;An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,Aneath the waving fern!
There 's nae Covenant now, lassie!There 's nae Covenant now!The Solemn League and CovenantAre a' broken through!There 's nae Renwick now, lassie,There 's nae gude Cargill,Nor holy Sabbath preachingUpon the Martyrs' Hill!
It 's naething but a sword, lassie!A bluidy, bluidy ane!Waving owre poor Scotland,For her rebellious sin.Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie,Scotland 's a' wrang—It 's neither to the hill nor glen,Lassie, we daur gang.
The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken,In simmer's dusk sae calm;There 's nae gathering now, lassie,To sing the e'ening psalm!But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,Aboon the warrior's cairn;An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,Aneath the waving fern!
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,Ye hae stown my heart frae me.Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,Let me love, nor love in vain;Fate shall never fond hearts sever,Hearts still bound by true love's chain.Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,Shall each day life's feast renew;Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,Still to live and love more true.Mirth and folly, joys unholy,Never shall our thoughts employ;Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,Love and bliss without alloy.Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,Let me love, nor love in vain;Fate shall never fond hearts sever,Hearts still bound by true love's chain.
Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,Shall each day life's feast renew;Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,Still to live and love more true.
Mirth and folly, joys unholy,Never shall our thoughts employ;Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,Love and bliss without alloy.
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the United Secession Church. He became a student in the University of Edinburgh, in 1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Robert Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell; he also numbered among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts; and he endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled theNorth British Magazinewas originated and supported by his friends, on his behalf; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he was engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In 1828, he published a "History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume; and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled "Summer Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and scholarship, he lacked industry and steadiness of application. His latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the 11th of June 1842, in his 67th year.