These court indeed, I maun confess, Affection than your tongue, sir, CXXX. TOMB OF MY FATHERS. Subdu'd by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain, But the home of my fathers no longer was mine. The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone; 'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead, The falling to crush, and the humble to spurn; But I staid not his scorn,-from his mansion I fled, And my beating heart vow'd never more to return. When home' shall receive me, one home yet I know, 'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey moisten'd walls, Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear, CXXXI. AND CAN THY BOSOM BEAR THE THOUGHT. AIR-Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes. And can thy bosom bear the thought Can'st thou forget the midnight hour, You'd ne'er loe ane but me, laddie. Aft hae ye roos'd my rosy cheek, That beats for love, and thee, laddie. You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair, Will sharper be than mine, laddie. Broken vows will vex and grieve me, Will be love and thine, laddie. CXXXII. OH! THIS WEARY, WEARY WARL". (In the Cumberland dialect.) Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits, "Oh! this weary, weary warl!" * Such will be the exclamation of every one who has lived to that period of life, when the powers of sensation are blunted, when worldly objects no longer attach the heart, and when those amusements which gave rapture to youth, can no longer please. Weighed down with infirmities and sorrow, and standing on the stage of life as a friendless, forlorn, insulated individu. al, the burden of an old man's song must ever be, "Oh! this weary, weary warl!" Yence Marget was as lish a lass Then at a murry-neet or fair, Her beauty made the young fowk stare; Now wrinkl'd is that feace wi' careOh! this weary, weary warl! Yence Marget she had dowters twee, Now nowther kith nor kin has she- The eldest wi' a soldier gay Ran frae her heame ae luckless day, And e'en lies buried far away Oh! this weary, weary warl! The youngest she did nought but whine, And for the lads wad fret and pine, Till hurried off by a decline Frae this weary, weary warl! Auld Andrew toil'd reet sair for bread; Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead, Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's headOh! this weary, weary warl! |