Oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare,And we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair,And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see,Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree.It 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green,For simmer sairs it little now—it's no what it has been,Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea,And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree.It 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit,For we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit;Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning gleeSae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree.But there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart,Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part,And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing gleeWe 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree.For we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn,Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern,And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free;Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree?We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green,To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en;And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae weeAtween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree.And we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threwOut o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew,And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e,When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree.Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel,And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal!Where are they? where my childhood's hearth—those hearts sae kind and free,—When a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree?
Oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare,And we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair,And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see,Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree.
It 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green,For simmer sairs it little now—it's no what it has been,Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea,And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree.
It 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit,For we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit;Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning gleeSae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree.
But there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart,Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part,And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing gleeWe 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree.
For we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn,Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern,And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free;Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree?
We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green,To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en;And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae weeAtween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree.
And we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threwOut o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew,And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e,When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree.
Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel,And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal!Where are they? where my childhood's hearth—those hearts sae kind and free,—When a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree?
A man of elegant and varied accomplishments, and one of the most eloquent public-speakers of the age, James Dodds was born in 1815, in the county of Roxburgh. He was at first intended by some influential friends for the Church, and proceeded through part of the College curriculum, but some changes occurring, he ultimately devoted himself to the study of law. Probably his ambition was for the Bar; but overruling circumstances led him, about twelve years ago, to enter on the profession of parliamentary solicitor in London, in which he has met with much success.
From his youth a devoted student, he has, amidst the exigencies of business, sedulously kept up his literary pursuits. He has produced no independent work, but has largely contributed, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. Among these contributions, a series of poems, chiefly ballads on incidents connected with the times of the Covenant, which appeared in several of the Edinburgh magazines, about thirteen years since, attracted much attention. One of these lays we have transferred to the present work. Mr Dodds has lately prepared a series of lectures on the fifty years' struggle of the Covenanters, which will probably be presented to the public. He has evinced a deep interest in the cause of raising a national monument to Sir William Wallace, and has, under the auspices of the Central Committee, addressed public meetings on the subject in many of the principal towns.
'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast,And vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast,Before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stoodThat patriot chief of high renown, the noble Jervieswoode.The hand of death is on him press'd—the seal of death is there!Oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare!Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly traceThe shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face.These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain,Long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain;For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year,No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer;His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep,And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.Yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls,Like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls;The light of calm and noble thoughts is bright within his eye,And, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high.Nor is he left alone—a sister faithful to him clungWith woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue;There in that Golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign—Fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest shine.The court is met, the assize are set: the robes of state look brave,Yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave—Blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds—For swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds.What though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of Jervieswoode,Shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good?So wise—so good—so loved of all, though weak and worn with care,Though death comes fast he is the last whom Antichrist would spare!For his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage,The glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age;The soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain—A heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain,Whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword;For he would see all nations free in Christ who is their Lord.And once, with England's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd,He had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west—To breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod,And where the broad Savannah rolls in peace to worship God!These are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried;But though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied.Woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace!Shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base!Unroll your parchments black with lies—shut fast your coward doors—And brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors:When truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lackWith secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack!There is an hour for every power—an hour of darkness this!Spur on, ye slaves of Antichrist! or ye the goal may miss!His strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high,And fixes on Mackenzie[15]a clear and searching eye:"How canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring,That I have been a man of strife in plots against the king?I hate the way of violence—the anarchist I spurn;Who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn.In my degree I have been bold to guard the nation's right,And keep alive within these realms the lamp of Gospel light:But in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me,And solemnly avow that I from wicked plots was free?How canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay,And all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?"The whole assembled multitude full on Mackenzie turn'd,That even his harden'd countenance with shame and anger burn'd:"True, Jervieswoode, I told thee so, as my own private view—Here I discharge the functions which to the crown are due.""If thou hast a conscience for thyself, and another for this place,I leave thee to the God of heaven and His all pardoning grace!My lords, I add no more—proceed—right well I know my doom:Death hath no terrors for my soul—the grave it hath no gloom!"'Tis one from old Saint Giles! The blasts of midnight shake the hall,Hoarse sounding like a demon's voice, which the stoutest hearts appal!His doom is utter'd!—"Twelve hours hence thy traitorous head shall fall,And for a terror be exposed upon the city wall;Thy limbs shall quarter'd be, and hung, all mutilate and bare,At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr;That all good subjects thence may learn obedience to the State,Their duty to our gracious king, and bloody treason's fate."A horror seizes every breast—a stifled cry of dread:"Who sheds the blood of innocence, the blood on his own head!"That pack'd and perjured jury shrink in conscience-struck dismay,And wish their hands as clear of guilt as they were yesterday.Mackenzie's cold and flinty face is quivering like a leaf,Whilst with quick and throbbing finger he turns o'er and o'er his brief;And the misnamed judges vainly try their rankling thoughts to hideBeneath an outward painted mask of loftiness and pride.Even she, the sweet heroic one! aye watchful at his side,Whose courage ne'er hath blanch'd as yet, though sorely, sharply tried—Even she is crush'd beneath the weight of this last and deadly blow,And sinks upon her brother's neck, o'erwhelm'd in speechless woe.He, he alone, is calm of soul! Powers of no mortal birthAre gently loosening every tie that links him to the earth;And inward faith gives outward force—strong is his deep dark eye—And his brow and lip are beautiful as in the days gone by.Meekly he rises to depart, but pauses for a space,And looks upon his cowering foes with calm and saintly grace:"The time is short, the sentence sharp—your malice I forgive;For God hath made me fit to die, as ye, my lords, to live!"And meekly he departs! his toils, his work, and warfare done—And his martyr chariot waits him, and his triumphs are begun!And twelve hours thence, upon the block, his reverend head did fall,And for a terror was exposed upon the city wall;His limbs were quarter'd, and were hung, all mutilate and bare,At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr:And thus through all broad Scotland these martyr'd relics go,Like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow!The ancient halls of Jervieswoode are desolate and gray,And its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay;These are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not,But a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot.To him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given,For the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven;And through all succeeding ages, amongst the wise and good,Enshrined shall be the memory of the noble Jervieswoode.
'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast,And vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast,Before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stoodThat patriot chief of high renown, the noble Jervieswoode.
The hand of death is on him press'd—the seal of death is there!Oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare!Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly traceThe shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face.These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain,Long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain;For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year,No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer;His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep,And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.
Yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls,Like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls;The light of calm and noble thoughts is bright within his eye,And, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high.Nor is he left alone—a sister faithful to him clungWith woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue;There in that Golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign—Fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest shine.
The court is met, the assize are set: the robes of state look brave,Yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave—Blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds—For swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds.What though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of Jervieswoode,Shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good?So wise—so good—so loved of all, though weak and worn with care,Though death comes fast he is the last whom Antichrist would spare!For his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage,The glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age;The soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain—A heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain,Whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword;For he would see all nations free in Christ who is their Lord.
And once, with England's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd,He had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west—To breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod,And where the broad Savannah rolls in peace to worship God!These are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried;But though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied.Woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace!Shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base!
Unroll your parchments black with lies—shut fast your coward doors—And brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors:When truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lackWith secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack!There is an hour for every power—an hour of darkness this!Spur on, ye slaves of Antichrist! or ye the goal may miss!
His strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high,And fixes on Mackenzie[15]a clear and searching eye:"How canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring,That I have been a man of strife in plots against the king?I hate the way of violence—the anarchist I spurn;Who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn.In my degree I have been bold to guard the nation's right,And keep alive within these realms the lamp of Gospel light:But in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me,And solemnly avow that I from wicked plots was free?How canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay,And all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?"
The whole assembled multitude full on Mackenzie turn'd,That even his harden'd countenance with shame and anger burn'd:"True, Jervieswoode, I told thee so, as my own private view—Here I discharge the functions which to the crown are due.""If thou hast a conscience for thyself, and another for this place,I leave thee to the God of heaven and His all pardoning grace!My lords, I add no more—proceed—right well I know my doom:Death hath no terrors for my soul—the grave it hath no gloom!"
'Tis one from old Saint Giles! The blasts of midnight shake the hall,Hoarse sounding like a demon's voice, which the stoutest hearts appal!His doom is utter'd!—"Twelve hours hence thy traitorous head shall fall,And for a terror be exposed upon the city wall;Thy limbs shall quarter'd be, and hung, all mutilate and bare,At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr;That all good subjects thence may learn obedience to the State,Their duty to our gracious king, and bloody treason's fate."A horror seizes every breast—a stifled cry of dread:"Who sheds the blood of innocence, the blood on his own head!"That pack'd and perjured jury shrink in conscience-struck dismay,And wish their hands as clear of guilt as they were yesterday.Mackenzie's cold and flinty face is quivering like a leaf,Whilst with quick and throbbing finger he turns o'er and o'er his brief;And the misnamed judges vainly try their rankling thoughts to hideBeneath an outward painted mask of loftiness and pride.Even she, the sweet heroic one! aye watchful at his side,Whose courage ne'er hath blanch'd as yet, though sorely, sharply tried—Even she is crush'd beneath the weight of this last and deadly blow,And sinks upon her brother's neck, o'erwhelm'd in speechless woe.
He, he alone, is calm of soul! Powers of no mortal birthAre gently loosening every tie that links him to the earth;And inward faith gives outward force—strong is his deep dark eye—And his brow and lip are beautiful as in the days gone by.Meekly he rises to depart, but pauses for a space,And looks upon his cowering foes with calm and saintly grace:"The time is short, the sentence sharp—your malice I forgive;For God hath made me fit to die, as ye, my lords, to live!"
And meekly he departs! his toils, his work, and warfare done—And his martyr chariot waits him, and his triumphs are begun!
And twelve hours thence, upon the block, his reverend head did fall,And for a terror was exposed upon the city wall;His limbs were quarter'd, and were hung, all mutilate and bare,At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr:And thus through all broad Scotland these martyr'd relics go,Like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow!
The ancient halls of Jervieswoode are desolate and gray,And its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay;These are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not,But a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot.To him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given,For the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven;And through all succeeding ages, amongst the wise and good,Enshrined shall be the memory of the noble Jervieswoode.
Duncan Macfarlan was a native of Rannoch, in Perthshire. He was born in 1750, and became, early in life, chaplain to one of the Highland regiments. He was subsequently admitted to the pastoral charge of the Gaelic Church, Perth. He executed some of the translations of Ossianic remains published by H. & J. M'Callum in 1816, under the auspices of the Highland Society of London. He died about the year 1834. Our translator remembers him as a venerable old gentleman, of polished manners and intelligent conversation. The following specimen of his poetical compositions is, in the original, extremely popular among the Gael.
My beauty of the shieling,Thy graceful air, like arrow-shaft,A fiery flame concealing,Has left me to the marrow chaf'd.So winsome is thy smiling,Thy love-craft so beguiling,It binds me like the wilding,And I yield, in dule and sorrow left.Thy brown locks rank'd in order,So spiral, rich, and clustering!Thy face, of flowers a border,'Neath feather'd eyebrows mustering!Two drops of dewy splendourThose lids of beauty under!And that kiss—a fragrant wonder,As fruits of India Western!
My beauty of the shieling,Thy graceful air, like arrow-shaft,A fiery flame concealing,Has left me to the marrow chaf'd.So winsome is thy smiling,Thy love-craft so beguiling,It binds me like the wilding,And I yield, in dule and sorrow left.
Thy brown locks rank'd in order,So spiral, rich, and clustering!Thy face, of flowers a border,'Neath feather'd eyebrows mustering!Two drops of dewy splendourThose lids of beauty under!And that kiss—a fragrant wonder,As fruits of India Western!
John Munro was born in 1791, in the parish of Criech, Sutherlandshire. His father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. On the premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to Glasgow, where the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. In 1827, the poet commenced business as an accountant. The hours of relaxation from business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially poetry. He produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly of a devotional character. He died in 1837, and his remains were consigned to the Necropolis of the city. Admiring friends reared an appropriate monument over his grave.
"My dearest, wilt thou follow,And mount with me the billow?Wilt thou with me pass o'er the seaTo the land of hill and hollow?""No, Highlandman! I leave notMy kindred for another,Nor go with thee across the seaFrom the children of my mother."No, Highlandman! I will not flyMy own beloved border;For poortith dwells and famine palesIn your Highlands of disorder."I will not wed a Gael—His house is but a shieling;Oh, best unborn, than all forlornMid your crags to have my dwelling!""The house I call mine own house,A better was not born in;And land and sea will smile on thee,In the Highlands of thy scorning."I do not boast the wheaten wealthOf our glens and hills, my dearie!But enow is health, and grass is wealth,In the land of mead and dairy."I 've store of kine, my darling,Nor any lilting sweeterThine ear can know, than is their low,And the music of the bleater."I have no ship on oceanWith merchant treasure sailing;But my tight boat, and trusty net,Whole loads of fish are trailing."And, for dress, is none, my beauty,Than the tartan plaiding warmer,For its colours bright, oh, what delightTo see them deck my charmer!"And ne'er was Highland welcomeMore hearty than thy greeting,Each day, the rein, and courteous swain,Thy pleasure will be meeting."And thou shalt wear the healthy hueThat give the Highland breezes,And not a bird but will be heardTo sing the song that pleases."No summer morn is blyther,With all its burst of glory,Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd,Pined—shall, caress'd, adore thee.""Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand,My vow and all I render,A Highland lay has won the day,And I will hie me yonder."
"My dearest, wilt thou follow,And mount with me the billow?Wilt thou with me pass o'er the seaTo the land of hill and hollow?"
"No, Highlandman! I leave notMy kindred for another,Nor go with thee across the seaFrom the children of my mother.
"No, Highlandman! I will not flyMy own beloved border;For poortith dwells and famine palesIn your Highlands of disorder.
"I will not wed a Gael—His house is but a shieling;Oh, best unborn, than all forlornMid your crags to have my dwelling!"
"The house I call mine own house,A better was not born in;And land and sea will smile on thee,In the Highlands of thy scorning.
"I do not boast the wheaten wealthOf our glens and hills, my dearie!But enow is health, and grass is wealth,In the land of mead and dairy.
"I 've store of kine, my darling,Nor any lilting sweeterThine ear can know, than is their low,And the music of the bleater.
"I have no ship on oceanWith merchant treasure sailing;But my tight boat, and trusty net,Whole loads of fish are trailing.
"And, for dress, is none, my beauty,Than the tartan plaiding warmer,For its colours bright, oh, what delightTo see them deck my charmer!
"And ne'er was Highland welcomeMore hearty than thy greeting,Each day, the rein, and courteous swain,Thy pleasure will be meeting.
"And thou shalt wear the healthy hueThat give the Highland breezes,And not a bird but will be heardTo sing the song that pleases.
"No summer morn is blyther,With all its burst of glory,Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd,Pined—shall, caress'd, adore thee."
"Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand,My vow and all I render,A Highland lay has won the day,And I will hie me yonder."
John Macdonald, author of the following song, is described in "Mackenzie's Collection" as having rented the farm of Scoraig, Lochbroom, and subsequently fixed his residence in the island of Lewis. The present translation is from the pen of Mr D. Macpherson of London.
Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray,When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May;And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade,Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight,On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light;On her bosom, purer than the silver tide,Fairer than thecanaon the mountain side.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men,To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing,There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.What were all the splendour of the proud and great,To the simple pleasures of our green retreat?From the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale,Rosy health does court us on the mountain gale.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields,All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields,With the countless riches of her subject seas,I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.
Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.
Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray,When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May;And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade,Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight,On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light;On her bosom, purer than the silver tide,Fairer than thecanaon the mountain side.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men,To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing,There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
What were all the splendour of the proud and great,To the simple pleasures of our green retreat?From the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale,Rosy health does court us on the mountain gale.Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields,All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields,With the countless riches of her subject seas,I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.
She died—as die the rosesOn the ruddy clouds of dawn,When the envious sun disclosesHis flame, and morning 's gone.She died—like waves of sun-glowFast by the shadows chased:She died—like heaven's rainbowBy gushing showers effaced.She died—like flakes appearingOn the shore beside the sea;Thy snow as bright! but, nearing,The ground-swell broke on thee.She died—as dies the gloryOf music's sweetest swell:She died—as dies the storyWhen the best is still to tell.She died—as dies moon-beamingWhen scowls the rayless wave:She died—like sweetest dreaming,That hastens to its grave.She died—and died she early:Heaven wearied for its own.As the dipping sun, my Mary,Thy morning ray went down!
She died—as die the rosesOn the ruddy clouds of dawn,When the envious sun disclosesHis flame, and morning 's gone.
She died—like waves of sun-glowFast by the shadows chased:She died—like heaven's rainbowBy gushing showers effaced.
She died—like flakes appearingOn the shore beside the sea;Thy snow as bright! but, nearing,The ground-swell broke on thee.
She died—as dies the gloryOf music's sweetest swell:She died—as dies the storyWhen the best is still to tell.
She died—as dies moon-beamingWhen scowls the rayless wave:She died—like sweetest dreaming,That hastens to its grave.
She died—and died she early:Heaven wearied for its own.As the dipping sun, my Mary,Thy morning ray went down!