Lonely in the deep glen straying, Wildly to the rude blast playing, On my hapless fate I ponder, Whilst thy name on fav'rite tree, Grav'd, where once we us'd to wander, Turns my thoughts, false nymph, to thee. Tho' the love was false that bound thee, Now my dreams of bliss are over, LXII. MARY. 'Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er, The war of pride and love, And, Mary, now we meet no more, Too well thou know'st how much I lov'd, Thoù knew'st my hopes-how fair! They point but to despair. Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love, I haste to India's shore; For here how can I longer stay, And call thee mine no more! Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er, Yet, Mary, here we meet no more, འ་་ LXIII. KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. Robin is my only jo, Robin has the art to lo'e, So to his suit I mean to bow, Because I ken he lo'es me. And kend that Robin lo'ed me. They speak of napkins, speak of rings, To gifts as lang's a plaiden wob, He's tall and sonsey, frank and free, My titty, Mary, said to me, But little kends she what has been, Kind Robin is that lo'es me. When, "join your hands," Mess John shall say, And mak him mine that lo'es me. Till then, let every chance unite, Who doubt that Robin lo'es me. O hey, Robin, quo' she, Kind Robin lo'es me. LXIV. HELEN, THE PRIDE OF MONTROSE. AIR-The flower of Dumblane. While some seek the mountain, and some seek the valley, Give me the lone walks where the Esk proudly flows; For there I meet Helen a-wand'ring so gaily, Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. The eye hangs delighted as fondly it traces, 'Tis charming to stray by the clear winding river, Where thro' the tall arches it pleasantly flows; While love's gentle wishes I pause to discover, To Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. Tho' mine were the wealth of the eastern mountains, Where Ganges broad rolling o'er golden bed flows, I'd pine like the Arab in search of his fountains, And sigh for sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. 'Tis long since she held her empire in my bosom, My hopes and my fears with enjoyment shall close, When I live but to love the sweet soul of my wishes, Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. LXV. MY SOUL IS DARK. My soul is dark-oh! quickly string And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurks a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. |