Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

My doughtie laddie is handsome and brave,
And can as a soger and lover behave ;
True to his country, to love he is steady;
There's few to compare with my soger laddie.

Shield him, ye angels, frae death in alarms,
Return him with laurels to my longing arms.
Syne frae all my care ye'll pleasantly free me,
When back to my wishes my soger ye gie me.

O soon may his honours bloom fair on his brow,
As quickly they must, if he gets his due:
For in noble actions his courage is ready,
Which makes me delight in my soger laddie.*

AMBITION AND LOVE.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, OF MINTO, BART.

TUNE-My apron, dearie.

My sheep I neglected-I lost my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!
Oh, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well-founded, a passion so true!

* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine:
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.*

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

BURNS.

TUNE-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat ower the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green
shaw;
But to me it's delightless-my Nannie's awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw!
They mind me o' Nannie-and Nannie's awa.

Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking dawn;
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa';
Give over for pity-my Nannie's awa.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and
grey,
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay:
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me-my Nannie's awa.

* First printed in Herd's Collection, 1776.

R

THE BROADSWORDS OF OLD
SCOTLAND.

J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ.

TUNE-The Kail-brose of Old Scotland.

Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea,

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords!

Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the braveLet him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,

Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave. Oh, the broadswords, &c.

Though he died not like him amid victory's roar, Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore,

Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.

Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim, We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name, The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham, All the broadswords, &c.

Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth,

Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north,

Then

go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,

All the broadswords, &c.

The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,

For the private is brother in blood to his grace.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.

Then sacred to each and to all let it be,

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !

SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST.

BURNS.

TUNE-I had a horse, I had nae mair.

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The muircock springs on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather.

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains ;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains.
Through lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus every kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;

Some social join, and leagues combine ;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;

The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry,
The fluttering, gory pinion.

But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms o' nature,
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't,
And swear I love thee dearly.
Not vernal showers to budding flowers,
Not autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer!

THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly.

No churchman am I, for to rail and to write;
No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight;
No sly man of business, contriving a snare;
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy-I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;

« AnteriorContinuar »