Volume Ii Part 107 (2/2)

Oh! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town, And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down?

A poor, unhappy Scottish youth;--if more you wish to know.

His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!

She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have known-- The primrose of Ireland--all blooming here alone-- The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoe'er I go, The only one entices me is Irish Molly O!

When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more.

He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so-- ”I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!”

MacDonald heard the heavy news, and grievously did say-- ”Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!

”There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine: But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine, Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!

”And now that I am dying, this one request I crave, To place a marble tombstone above my humble grave!

And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so-- ”'MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly O!'”

Unknown

SONG

At setting day and rising morn, Wi' soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask o' Heaven thy safe return, Wi' a' that can improve thee.

I'll visit aft the birken bush Where first thou kindly tauld me Sweet tales o' love, and hid my blush, Whilst round thou didst infauld me.

To a' our haunts I will repair, By greenwood, shaw, or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share Wi' thee upon yon mountain: There will I tell the trees an' flooers, From thoughts unfeigned an' tender; By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]

LOCHABER NO MORE

Farewell to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean, Where heartsome wi' thee I hae mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more!

We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!

These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, An' no for the dangers attending on weir, Though borne on rough seas to a far b.l.o.o.d.y sh.o.r.e, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind, They'll ne'er mak' a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the sh.o.r.e.

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave, An' I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?

Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, An' without thy favor I'd better not be, I gae, then, my la.s.s, to win honor an' fame, An' if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er, An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more.

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